• Yes, I am still here at the police station, getting offered soda after soda, water after water, nasty coffee after nasty coffee. Answering the same questions asked different ways, with the same answer give or take a word. “No, I don’t know where she is. No I don’t know if she is one of the bodies. No I don’t want anything to drink.”

    I should have seen signs, maybe thought something was wrong, maybe got a weird feeling as a kid, they told me.

    But I didn’t, so they are confused, angry and convinced I’m going to want to join them.
    Her.

    Either by the way everyone else did, or by the old fashion night reconnaissance laughing at everyone.

    Nope.
    I start to walk around the station.

    You know the wall of the victim’s photos? And the crime scene photos? All lined up on the wall, held up with pushpins of different colors, as if a blue one will make you forget the picture if of a dead person? Well, I’m looking at my house, and some of my friends.
    They are wearing orange or purple pajama like outfits. At home, I have an orange top and a pair of purple bottoms, at night they are cozy. Their eyes are closed, and hands together.

    A cop walks in and just watches me.

    I turn my attention back to the wall, now my eyes reaching the perp side. Their photographed eyes are able to leer upon the people they victimized, and then ultimately will be put all together, once they are caught, forever staying with them in a folder only a few people will see.

    No surprise, I see Yellow, the recently made infamous cult leader that just convinced 124, or was it 142? Any way, Yellow, the recently made infamous cult leader that just convinced 120+ people to kill themselves. Next to her is her kid, that the media found and is trying to get all the details, before that psycho decides to "claim the title as leader" as they put. And some different shots of them, with different hair, and different weight.

    I turn and shrug a bit; I’ve been expecting something like this since I was a kid, not surprised.

    Asked if I wish I was there.

    No, does the cop.

    No, but she isn’t his mother.

    Well, it isn’t my cult.

    My mom looks horrible as a blonde, even though she calls herself Yellow.

    And yep, I'm that psycho-to-be, cult product, next in line, kid.

    I see my mom, me, and some other family members that aren't really main characters, but they play the supporting roles very well. I look back at the victim wall, my mom is looking at our house after the fire. I'm looking at my friends holding hands, laying down in a circle.

    Both of us smiling.

    The supporting cast is looking very energetic, and is looking at the other damage caused from that night about a week, or is it two weeks ago, its hard to tell now...their photographed smiles aimed at what they did.

    My photographed smile at the bodies of my dead friends.

    And my mom's photographed smile at the house where more than 120 people died.

    Or maybe just the first house she owned without mortgage.
    __

    A psychologist wants to talk to me. I can tell he just wants to make a name for himself, the one who got through to the cult product. No charge to me. Free. Fine. Why not? What could harm could it do?
    __