Cost of Penance

Chapter One

My mother leans forward to turn up the sound on our rinky-dink TV. Her voluptuous butt blocking the glow of the screen. I just wish her big ass could muffle the sound, too.

"Turn that shit down," I say. She turns and nearly knocks the TV stand down with her wide hips.

"Mindy," She scolds, "Be a lady, I don't want your use of vulgar language to dirty the family name your great-great-great-great grandfather worked so hard to make." Her hand placed unceremoniously over a bulging chest.

My mother loved to pride herself on the fact that my great (times four) grandpa was one of the first people to build a crappy shack in this small and unremarkable town. The little house he built wasn't as astounding as she'd make it sound, since at that same time people were building manors around his wanna-be house.

"Besides," she continues, turning back to the screen. "This is relevant to you, sugar blossom. All these girls turning up dead, so close to your age. It worries me, you working on those estates when something so awful going on." My mom is referring to my job, a certified Metal Head. That's what I call myself, I go around on all the big homesteads and collect all the scrap metal and coins I can find with my metal detector and the grounds owners pay me for it. Most girls my age are working at Dairy Queen, but I think my line of work is just fine. "The poor families of these girls." She clucks her tongue. I roll my eyes, and go back to stirring around the Lucky Charms in my bowl. I know she is trying to be heartfelt, but right now her southern accent makes her sound like an asshole. Like rather than feeling bad, she is worried the dead bodies will clog up the drainage system. And it's really hard to take her seriously because when she says 'estates' she pronounces it as 'esteets'.

"You know I'm safe, Mom. And I don't think anyone will try anything on a girl who's holding a twenty pound beeping machine."

"Yeah, yeah. But, I just want you to be aware of what's going on around us. I mean these girls were your age, and went to high school everyday, just like you and all it took was one maniac to snuff out the flame of their life. I know that no one in our town directly has been killed, but the killer is getting closer and closer."

I push my bowl away, suddenly full on the morbidity of her little talk. I still have twenty minutes to spare until the bus reaches my house, so I watch the TV with the news channel blaring so the neighbor can hear. "In light of recent events, a county wide warning has been issued that the girls of our beautiful city should be on high alert. Another innocent victim has fallen to the devious grip of our own serial killer." I feel sick at the way the news anchor says it like it's our own, like we wanted them. Like it's something to be proud of. It's disgusting. But, I instinctively scoot forward in my stool to see the photo that pops up on the screen. "This is young Abigail Gabbins, known as Gabby to most. She was an aspiring violinist, and was working hard to achieve her goal to be in a philharmonic. She was just a mere sixteen when she was slain earlier this week, only to be found and identified yesterday morning." An image of a girl pops up on the screen. Gentle features, and the tell-tale brown hair that the killer has been using as his MO. I finger the ends of my own chestnut locks, and attempt to block out the near insane muttering my mom is issuing. The news anchor with the rich lipstick and uninterested look continues with her speel, but I am too caught up in the realization that if the killer is in fact working his way down to my small town of Perennial, I am his type. Fifteen years old, brown hair, and plays some type of instrument. I turn to my viola case that lays near my feet with an incredulous look. "Fuck." I mutter to myself, just what I need. To be murdered.