Cult

8: The Ball Ω

My mother motions for me to follow her to the dressing room beside the main ballroom. It is a nice sapphire color that suprisingly took very little time to find or fit to my body in a modest, but still mature way.

My mother grips it in her hands as though it was a precious jewel, something that holds great weight in changing the future, my future.

She hands it to me silently. I stand patiently as Chloé helps me into the gown. My mother turns away from me, patting her fingers against her elbow.

Surprisingly, I don’t need to suck in my breath or squeeze my thighs together. The dress slides on me seamlessly, hugging my body precisely where it needs affection. The back is cut low and hugs my waist, emphasizing the roundness of my backside, the angle of my hips and the slope of my shoulders. The dress has small straps, clinging to the side of my shoulder, sort of like Princess Belle's yellow gown.

The material is long and is made of fine, soothing silk and clungs to the contour of my curves, while leaving enough up to the imagination. There is a long slit up my left leg. I look down at my flats.

"Put these babies on," Chloé winks. She hands me a matching pair of black stiletto heels, then she tugs at my bun until my hair drapes over my bare shoulders.

I take a deep breath and walk slowly in the new heels. My flats were much more comfortable. Girlhood and my school girl days were much more comfortable, safe, secure, but I am 18 now. I am going to university in the Fall. I'm entering a darker, stranger world where my mother won't nag me about what to eat for breakfast, or tell me that my thighs are chubby. I will make my own decisions based on what I want.

I press my hand to Zayn's necklace. It feels heavy over my neck, weighing down on me as though forcing me to accept Zayn's presence in my life. I can't say I forgive Zayn for all the times he has been rude to me in my life, but I can't lie and act as though I don't have some feelings for him.

My mother steps turns around and steps toward me, staring at me.

She gasps.

I clasp my hands together, expecting her to roll her eyes and point at my large bum or thunder thighs or semi-flat chest, but she does no such thing.

She covers her mouth with her hands and stares up at me. Her eyes are watering. I cough nervously. I've never ever seen my mother cry. 

“You look stunning, Kitty Kat,” she whispers. Her voice breaks.

She called me Kitty Kat. She hasn’t called me Kitty Kat, since I was a little girl.

“Thank you,” I nod. My mother dabs at the corner of her eyes, then she claps her hands together as if trying to regain composure. She takes a deep breath and all signs of her tears are gone.

I turn to see myself in the mirror, eager to see why my mother reacted so boldly. My eyes scan upward, starting from my heels, up the long slit along my leg and thigh, to my chest and my face. 

The deep, aquatic shade of blue glitters and sparkles with an enchanting simplicity. I smile shyly at myself, completely baffled by the fact that the girl-- woman-- in the reflection is actually me. Me. Katarina Von Dette, the tall, redheaded girl who paints in her backyard.  

I look into my reflection. For the first time since I was a child, I truly feel beautiful.

My mother smiles at me again and it is a genuine, kind smile. I look down at her black gown and notice just how beautiful it looks on her. Sure she has more silicon in her body than a store full of I phone cases, but that's beside the point. My mother's dress is similar to mine with respect to the sleeve cut and the way it hugs her waist. It is more modest than my dress, but tonight is my night. She wants me to shine, to glow like a star.