Cult

3: Tattoo Ω

Serial killers, as in the type that not only murder people at whim, but mercilessly and ritualistically torture them to death?

"Here, honey," Sonya whispers. I blink, trying to clear my train of depressing thoughts. Sonya hands me a plate with two strips of turkey bacon. "Eat up before the devil-- I mean your mother catches you," she snickers. I laugh quietly with her.

I chew the pieces quickly. I am not sure when the next time I will have meat will be. Well, it will most likely be with Z—

“THAT’S IT! YOU’RE HAVING A TWO HOUR LUNCH DATE WITH ZAYN TODAY!” my mother screams from outside. I run to the door, shaking so horribly, I feel as though electricity is vibrating in my veins.

“I-I’m coming!” I call back, but my voice quivers. My father glances at me momentarily. Then he snaps his fingers and Sonya  refills his coffee. He takes a sip, eyeing the news with great fascination, but not a lick of fear.

I tug my flats on, staring at my father all the while, silently begging him to react somehow so he could calm my racing thoughts.

He places his coffee on the table and rests his right leg over his other knee. “Juvenile delinquency...So strange. So interesting,” he mumbles to himself as he stares at the blank T.V. screen. Then he turns to me.

“Good luck with the fitting,” he offers. Then he leans closer. “And dealing with your mother,” he adds with a snicker. I try to smile.

My mother is outside, by the Range Rover, ranting about my tardiness to our chauffeur. The old man, Marty, hardly blinks, let alone speaks, unlike my mother who can barely keep her botoxed lips shut.

I unwrap a piece of gum and chew it quickly, trying to mask the delicious scent of crisp bacon from my lips. Then I sit down next to my mother in our black Range Rover. She continues to ramble, but I tune her out and watch her face. Every feature has received one lift or tuck of sorts.

I never understood why my mother underwent such extravagant surgeries in order to look like a Barbie. In pictures from her own Debutante, she was exceptionally beautiful with her natural, curly brown hair and electric, hazel eyes. She had a petite, frail figure, but as soon as she married my dad and had me, she began getting small procedures done to maintain her weight.

When I turned thirteen, I could hardly recognize her anymore. The surgeries slowly but surely increased her interest in frivolous things, things that she devotes all her emotional interest in.

“Katarina, you know how I feel about tardiness,” she rolls her heavily lidded eyes. I nod, patting my skirt as I sit down next to her. She has a saying: cover your knees and cover your sneeze.

At my all-girls Catholic Academy of St. Bartholomew, I never need a reminder to dress conservatively. I do it on my own whim. I’ve always enjoyed how bland and loose my uniform is. I dread being noticed for my appearance, let alone displayed in front of others, as an ideal, a prize.

“You have events and meetings lined up for every hour and every day, leading to your Debbie, which is in three days,” mother reminds me, pulling out her I phone.

My stomach grows queasy as I stare down at my jam packed schedule. I quite enjoy having schedules to keep everything neat and orderly, but they still overwhelm me at times, especially this week.

But after the debutante, I will be free— to some extent. There will be no dance lessons, no prepatory tea parties. Nothing. Nothing except smiling and kissing whatever man bids the highest for me at the ball.

“And this is absolutely the worst week to be late for anything,” my mother flicks her hand in the air.

“Then cancel my lunch with Zayn,” I squeak. I want to beg her to cancel the fitting, cancel the dance lessons, cancel the etiquette lessons, cancel the whole ball. For God’s sake, just cancel the ball.