Cult

4: Perversion Ω

I suck in a breath and turn away. Who was that woman? Why was she in that abandoned house? I rub my eyes and adjust my glasses. Maybe I was just daydreaming and the woman was part of my reverie...

Neither my mother nor Chloé notice my little episode. Instead, they help me out of the gown and stuff me into another one, then another, and another. The last time I came here, I had already chosen my first dress: it was simple and white dress and came up to my knees. It had a sweetheart neckline and hugged my chest nicely while the skirt jutted out like a blossoming white rose.

A shy seamstress helps Chloé and my mother adjust the white dress. My mother notices that it’s a bit tight. There are two dresses to be worn at the ball: one for cocktail hour, which is meant to be more girly, while the finale dress supposed to stun all and steal glances.

“We can have it altered,” Chloé offers, letting her hands drop to her sides. She turns and scavenges through the remaining stack of dresses.

“Take it off,” my mother tells me stiffly. I nod and tug at the zipper, shimmying it down half way. 

“I’m so sorry we weren’t able to find the finale dress,” Chloé apologizes, resting her hand at my mother’s shoulder. My mother merely grits her jaw.

“It’s not your fault, Chloé,” she shakes her head, then she turns to me.

We leave the shop promptly after I finish changing into my gym attire. We head to the gym and my mother forces me to follow the strict exercise regime she has planned. I complete every push-up, curl-up and stretch known to man.

“Ten more, Katarina, ten more,” my Mother urges. I shut my eyes and complete the last few lunges before my legs give way.

The T.V. sounds from the corner of the room. The reporter from this morning stands stiffly at the center of the screen. The reporter looks young. His sandy brown hair is swept to the side, revealing his large, dark blue eyes. 

“Police and doctors have autopsied the victims' bodies and found signs of bruises from harsh sexual activity. The killers have a special code of conduct, a sexual perversion in which they incorporate bondage and degrees of BDSM into the way they torture their victims. And when a girl fails to submit her body to the cult, she is punished..."

I cross my arms over my chest and kiss my finger, praying briefly for those poor girls.

My mother turns the T.V. off even though other people in the gym are watching it. “Concentrate!” she urges. “We don’t have all day.”

I sigh loudly and return my attention to the ab glider machine. After about half an hour of my mother yelling at me to push harder and faster, my mother dismisses me.

“That was satisfactory,” my mother nods stiffly. Not a smile. Not a hug. Nothing. Just a mere nod. I take a deep breath and head to the shower, making sure to take a closed stall. Showering next to strangers is far too awkward.

The water feels soothing along my sweat-glazed skin. I rub the citrus scented soap along my neck. My hands slid down my body seamlessly, gliding in the direction of the soap and water. I add a dollop of shampoo to my palm and sifted my fingers through my hair. When I feel adequately clean, I step out and wrap my towel around me briskly.

My mother and I head back to the Range Rover. Marty drives us to our last stop, my dance studio. There’s not a single bone in my body that can follow a rhythm, but my mother is forcing me to take a dance class to prepare for The Ball.

Mother pulls out a plain grey summery dress from her bag.  It is long and cottony, with a slit along one leg and spaghetti straps.

“Your dance instructor wants you and the other girls to dress in uniform,” my mother explains. I walk to the bathroom and slip it on. It’s quite comfortable and cloaks my figure. It’s not that I am unsatisfied with my body or appearance, it’s more that I don’t like being judged my others— particularly my mother. I am quite content with my average looks, but it is my mother that expects more and more out of me.