Cult

2: Lady Killers Ω

*3 days ago*

I am sitting at the crystalline dining table, precisely between the two people that share absolutely nothing in common— except raising me.

My mother is seated to my far right, adding a spoonful of unsweetened sugar to her green tea. My father is at the opposite end of the sparkling table, gripping the politics section of the Connecticut Quarterly to his squared face. They avoid eye contact at all costs.

The phrase: "Lady Killers," flashes on the T.V. screen  in the living room. The image of two men passes too quickly for me to make sense of them, let alone remember them. A digit does stick in my mind, though: seven women dead.

Before I can register what I've read, my mother clears her throat loudly. She brings the porcelain cup to her glossed, peachy lips, puckering when the hot liquid touches her tongue.

Despite the heat, my mother doesn’t flinch and takes several sips. Her sharp, cat-like hazel eyes dart toward my father, who barely notices her presence. My mother is used to the tea's burning sensation; she has long convinced herself that the meager coating of sugar would alleviate or at least mask the pain. But it never does.

"Police report the migration of three world-renown men, a cult of serial killers from the United Kingdom. They have crossed into our borders and are roaming somewhere between Connecticut and Massachusetts," the reporter's dull voice echoes through the living room.

I drop my spoon. My mother scolds me, oblivious to the reporter's announcement.

I adjust my glasses and fold my hands in my lap, making sure my white pleated skirt covers my knobby knees. I glance at the T.V., trying to catch an earful of the reporter's news on the dead women. I live in a relatively gated community and the only crimes I have heard of are snobby housewives stealing Gucci bags or failing to go to Church. 

“Finish up your breakfast or else we’ll be late for the dress fitting,” she urges, nodding at my food. I tear my eyes from the T.V. screen. Did he just say 'serial killers?'

"Katarina," mother presses, raising her dark brows. "Please say grace."

"Dear Lord, thank you for blessing my beloved family with this delicious and nutritional food. May you keep us safe from the dark and sinister acts of those who have gone astray from your path. Amen," I finish. That was the strangest grace I've ever said. Mother pats my shoulder.

I reach for a new fork. My petal pink, polished fingers fidget in my lap. I stare down at my breakfast: oatmeal and blueberries, a sliver of turkey bacon, and a symmetrically sliced orange, arranged in a manner to resemble the sun. I am terribly hungry, but my mother always orders our maid, Sonya, to suck the living flavor and taste out of the food she prepares for me because I am a size six. And a size six is supposedly unacceptable.

I do not believe I need to lose weight; I am content with my figure, but I am merely more conservative. Just because I do not flaunt my body does not mean I am insecure.

The T.V. sounds again. The commercials have ended and the reporter comes back onto the screen. The reporter steadies his hands as he continues to announce the headline story about the murderers.

"All three killers are young men, between the ages of 20 and 21, but their unreasonable charm and handsome appearances are the cause of concern. The women they killed willingly walked into their arms, lured by their looks, but surprised by their cruelty," the report continues.

An unsettling feeling lurks in my chest as I ponder the thought of sociopaths in my neighborhood. There is no possible way the reporter stated that three serial killers are on the loose. The police system is highly skilled and technology is far more advanced now than decades before, when the likes of Ted Bundy and Jeff Dahmer were rampaging through the U.S. The police can find fingerprints and track the killers' phones. They will find them in no time.