by Adam Dark
"To your feet," he said to number six.
The boy didn't move fast enough, so Simon yanked him by the arm. He lifted him with such force that I heard his shoulder pop.
"Remove your clothes," Simon said.
Number six didn't move fast enough again. This got him a smack across the face. Dazed, number six slowly began to remove his clothing. He tossed his shirt and trousers to the ground. He paused at his skivvies.
"Everything," Simon said.
Number six reluctantly removed his underwear and tossed it to the pile of wet clothes. The moment the boy was naked, Simon secured number six’s hand to the pole and kicked his feet apart. Next, he reached into the bucket he had retrieved from the barn and drew out a brush. He rubbed its sharp bristles along number six’s body.
Number six's skin glowed as Simon smeared the Vaseline on his skin. Simon coated his entire body from head to foot in the sticky gel. Usually Simon would make us wear a thick jacket to prevent any scarring and bruising, but this was new. The jacket was thick enough to protect against the rubber pellets on the end of the whip that would soon follow, but thin enough to allow you to feel the full pain of the blow.
Number two and Bobby stood huddled next to each other a few feet from the pole. Bobby looked like he was going to pass out. He was as pale as the white snow that had fallen three days earlier. Number two was equally terrified, but his muscular face shielded most of the terror in his eyes. Number six and number two were bigger than the rest of us. Number two actually was the same size as Simon. Perhaps he thought he'd be able to stand up against Simon this time. I hoped he didn't. That would be the last thing he'd ever do.
Simon finished lathering up number six with Vaseline and scooped up the whip off the ground and took position five feet away.
"Wait, I can explain," number six said.
"It's too late for that," Simon said.
"But we were just going after him. He's the one that tried to run away. We just went after him to bring him back," number six said.
He pointed to Bobby.
"I don't care. You went beyond the boundary line when you were not instructed to do so. Now you must be punished," Simon said.
It was liberating and terrifying to see a big boy cry. Number six squirmed against the pole, whimpering and pleading with Simon to let him go. But his cries for mercy were no use. Simon stretched his right arm and took a loose grip on the handle of the whip. Without warning, he gave it a twirl and sent it flying toward number six's back. Just before the end of the whip reached the boy’s back, Simon jerked his hand back, sending the rubber pellets and dangling threads whipping through the air.
Number six stumbled against the pole at the first strike. He had four more to go. Simon took his time with each strike, making sure each blow was maximized to its fullest efficiency. The first time I had seen the reaping, as I called it, I had thought that Simon had enjoyed it. But now I could see Simon was just as pained as number six. The second blow hit flesh. Number six fell to his knees. The next three blows came in quick succession, Simon gaining momentum and delivering those final blows before number six had a chance to catch his breath.
Number six was crumpled over with his head cocked to the side. His body was trembling with red marks all along his back, thighs, and torso. The red marks would go away within a few hours. While the Vaseline prevented open wounds from bleeding too much, they also offered an added lubrication to the skin to reflect each blow, marginally.
Simon removed the rope from number six's hands and shoved him to the side. Number two was next. His macho bravado crumpled like a stack of dominoes the moment Simon turned to him.
"We were just getting your toy back. We don't deserve this," number two said. "You should be thanking us."
Number two was lucky that Simon didn't crack him over the skull with the handle of the whip. Number two continued to argue with Simon, but Simon did not respond. He shoved number two to the pole. He ordered him to do the same as he had number six. Number two refused to remove his clothing and puffed up his chest in rebellion against Simon.
What happened next was almost too unbelievable. Had I not been there to witness it with my own eyes, I would've thought the other boys were making it up. Number two was seventeen and well on his way to leaving the orphanage on his eighteenth birthday. He was also one of the biggest of the boys. He had strong broad shoulders and was at least an inch taller than Simon. Number two obviously was thinking the same thing, otherwise he wouldn't have bucked up to Simon like he had.
Number two went horizontal a second later. Simon had kicked his legs out from under him and shoved him to the ground. His head snapped when it made contact with the earth and he remained still. Simon ripped the boy's clothes off and didn't bother smearing on the Vaseline. Number two would experience the full brunt of Simon's rage and punishment. I did not envy him.
Number two received an additional two lashings for his stunt. He didn't cry out like number six had. Not because he was tougher but due to the fact that he was unconscious. He was the lucky one of the three. Simon had Bobby wear the jacket before he received his lashings. I know I wasn't the only one who picked up on the favoritism.
When Simon had finished with Bobby, he had the two other boys get dressed and stay in the room. They would not eat dinner that night.
As they entered the house, limping and their heads hanging low, Simon addressed the rest of us.
"We have a guest tonight. Simon wants the downstairs spotless and you bathed and sitting at the table in two hours," Simon said.
He stormed inside and slammed his bedroom door closed. The rest of us looked to each other. We weren't sure what to think. Things could and should have gone much worse. I could tell the other boys were thinking the same thing. Was Simon going soft?
I was the first to go inside. The other boys soon followed suit. The cleaning supplies were in the downstairs closet near the spare bathroom. Number two and I grabbed the buckets and mops. The others worked on clearing off the countertops in the kitchen and the tables and wiping down all the furniture in the living room. There wasn't much to wipe down so the dusting wasn't the problem. The floors were always the biggest concern. Simon liked to see his reflection in the shine.
We finished in under an hour. There was only one bathroom upstairs, so we had to all share and take turns. I let the other boys go first. Seeing as they had been the ones out in the yard and I had just been sitting on the porch, it made more sense.
While this was the excuse I gave them, there was another reason. With Simon downstairs preoccupied with whatever he was doing in his room and the boys taking turns getting cleaned, I set my thoughts on the Black Room.
I don't know why I couldn't stop thinking about the Black Room. It was as if the room was magnetized and I was a chunk of metal being drawn toward it. I waited for the next two boys to go into the bathroom before I made my way across the hall. I glanced behind me and down the stairs to make sure Simon was not out of his room, then I opened the door to squeeze inside.
Just then, number five came out of the bedroom. He saw me standing by the Black Room door and stopped in his tracks.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"I thought I heard something," I lied.
"If Simon catches you in there, it'll be all our heads," number five said.
I stepped away from the Black Room and pretended to walk down the stairs. Number five's eyes followed me halfway before he entered the bathroom. I heard him yell for the others to stop hogging the hot water.
I ran back up when he had closed the door. I glanced to the Black Room, the itch in my mind increasing. But I decided it was too risky during the day. With the boys going in and out of the bathroom and the likely chance that Simon would come up to tell them they were being too loud, I'd have to wait to investigate.
I would have to wait until everyone was asleep that night before I went back in. I sat on the edge of my bed until the shower was free. The water was ice cold when it was finally my turn.
The scrapes on my back had healed over the last few days, but the skin was still raw. I soaped up quickly and jumped out.
Simon came for us thirty minutes later. He sat us all down at the table and gave us the same speech he always gave us when a potential adoptive family was coming over. We were to be on our best behavior. If anyone acted out, they’d have a visit to the Black Room.
Usually this worked but tonight the boys were extra feisty. I hoped none of them did something stupid. The knock came at the door ten minutes later. The sound of smiling faces filled the home as Simon opened the door and welcomed them inside.
On cue, we all stood, one-by-one, and entered the living room to greet our guests. Simon hadn’t told us whom the family was here to see. Whenever a family came, they usually didn’t come for a specific boy. Just to see what there was to offer and whether it matched their predetermined wants.
Oakwood Valley Home for Boys didn’t get many visitors. Most families adopted children out of other more prestigious schools and foster care. Plus, we were all well over the optimal lottery age. Like I said before, we were just too old to catch anyone’s eye.
That’s also why the family’s sudden appearance at the house was shocking. It was a younger couple in their mid-30s to early 40s. The man was balding around the temples and wore a black vest. The woman had her hair slicked back and wore business attire. She looked like she had just come from the office while he from the golf course. Simon shook both of their hands and ushered them inside.
We all stood huddled together in the living room. The couple were momentarily startled when they turned around and saw us all standing there. The woman's face went from shock to a forced smile.
"You scared me," she said. "I didn't see you all standing there."
Greetings were always the most uncomfortable. I think more for us than it was for them. We had to pretend that we cared. The truth was, none of us wanted to be adopted. It was a death sentence being adopted or being sent into the foster system. The best thing any of us could hope for was to stay right where we were.
But no matter how hard we tried to be undesirable and unadaptable, some families just could not resist. It was so with this couple. They had not come to look at the wares, but rather, had come with a deliberate intent.
This soon became apparent when they redirected their attention to Bobby.
"You're even more handsome in person," the woman said when she saw Bobby standing near the front. Her eyes lit up with sparkles and the man seemed to smile too.
"Hi Bobby, my name is Samantha Rogers," the woman said. "It's so nice to meet you."
Bobby did not respond. He was locked in that thousand-yard stare he always had. His eyes seemed to pierce through the couple and continue on for miles beyond where they stood. His face was contorted into a tight frown.
Simon intervened.
"Bobby, the Rogers are speaking to you," Simon said.
"It's nice to meet you too," Bobby said with such a dry, non-charismatic tone that I had to do a double take to make sure he was breathing.
His face was paler than usual. He was a light-skinned boy by nature, but even his translucent skin looked too white. The Rogers didn’t seem to notice and smiled all the more.
“The Rogers have come a long way to meet you,” Simon said.
“Thank you,” Bobby said.
If he got any more monotone the house would crack. Even I wanted to pop him over the head and tell him to liven up and act like he cared. He had a family who wanted him for God’s sake. Each of us would have killed for an opportunity like that, if we were honest.
It wasn’t so much that Simon would prevent us from being adopted, but it was more the fear of not being adopted or being sent back after a trial run that we were troubled. It was the retaliation and repercussions of a failed transition that Simon would bestow upon us. Our adoption was important to him as he put it. He wanted us to have long, prosperous lives with a family who loved us.
We each liked the idea of being adopted, but it never seemed worth the effort. I felt bad for the boys who had been fostered only to be sent back to Oakwood Valley. Simon welcomed them back with open arms but not without a cost the moment the doors closed and no one was looking. He claimed the beatings and punishments of not eating dinner for three nights straight or being tied to the pole outside in the middle of a thunderstorm or chained to a doghouse built character. “The world won’t give you any handouts,” he would say. “You must be tougher than metal to survive. You only have yourselves to count on.”
There was truth to everything he said but it wasn’t what a young boy needed to hear. Under our piped-up bravado hid a little boy who just wanted to be loved. Simon loved us, but it was different. His love came with conditions.
Dinner proved even more awkward that evening. The Rogers were nice people, but they obviously had their own quirks about them. While Mrs. Rogers went on about her elaborate parties she’d throw and all of the friends Bobby would have, the husband talked about how successful he was as a real-estate broker and the sports clubs he was affiliated with. Bobby didn’t look amused or impressed. Neither did Simon.
Simon had a permanent sneer on his face through it all, but the Rogers didn’t seem to notice. They were infatuated and completely enamored with Bobby. The meal finally came to a close and the Rogers were leaving. They gave Bobby a hug and kiss and told him they’d be by in the morning to pick him up.
I think we all sighed the moment Simon closed the door. Simon held his hand on the door and watched through the window until the couple headed down the hill.
“Clean the dishes and get to bed,” Simon said.
He went to his room. This time the door didn’t slam closed, but remained ajar. We groaned and dragged our feet the whole way but we did as Simon asked. We all headed to bed twenty minutes later.
13
I laid awake in my bed waiting for the last stragglers to fall asleep. The moment I heard number five snoring, I slid my feet out of the blankets and snuck to the door. I paused to make sure everyone was in fact sleeping before I crept out.
The downstairs was dark except for the candle that Simon had let burn when the couple had left. He probably had forgotten it was even lit. I contemplated blowing it out but didn’t want to waste the time.
I turned my attention to the task at hand. The Black Room’s door stood seven feet tall, made out of steel. Well, it was just wood painted black, but it might as well have been a steel door protecting the Fountain of Youth. The floorboards creaked as I strode to the Black Room. I pressed my ear against the door and listened for a long time before giving the knob a twist.
It was locked.
I cursed under my breath. I should have known Simon would lock it if he had company over. He wouldn’t risk them accidentally stumbling upon his closet of demons. A surge of energy rushed through my body at the thought. The voices had already picked up and were resuming their onslaught before I made it three feet.
Their cries were louder now as if they could taste their next meal just on the other side of the door. Me. This should have deterred me, but my curiosity was too intoxicating to listen to reason. I should have given up on the Black Room and unveiling its mysteries. Should have listened to my instinct to leave it alone, to walk away, and pretend it didn’t exist. But I couldn’t and I didn’t.
I gave the knob another twist and pushed. To my surprise, the door swung inward. The knob was locked, but it hadn’t latched. I drug my toes along the floor to keep from tumbling forward. I eased the door closed and waited for my eyes to adjust to the darkness.
The pressure of the room grew tenfold the moment I crossed the threshold as if I was submerged under a million cubic tons of water. This must have been what it felt like for the animals at the aquarium. No wonder they always seemed sad.
I strolled straight for the armoire the moment my vision adjusted. With each step, the room seemed to close around me. I could feel eyes watching me but pushed this aside as anxiety and adrenal
ine. I knew what would happen to me if Simon caught me. That was all it was. The fear and rush of rebellion. If only it had been innocent.
I found the copper key where I had left it and didn’t waste any time inserting it into the lock and releasing the latch. I tossed the lock on the bed along with the chains. I couldn’t risk it clanging on the floorboards, alerting Simon to my intent. I had my fingers inside the two doors and pulled.
The voices grew to the sound of a broken dam. I couldn’t even feel my own pounding heartbeat in my ears. I thrust the doors aside and flinched, fully expecting some wild animal to jump out at me. That did not happen. In fact, nothing did. The armoire was completely empty except for a large chest. It had a keyhole but no key.
I tried the same copper key but it failed to engage. I searched the vacant shelves in the closet, as well as the rest of the room to no avail. The key wasn’t here. Frustration welled up as my fantasy faded fast. I stood there perplexed, weighing my options.
“Throw it down the stairs,” the voices said. “Shatter it to a million pieces.”
The light bulb went off in my head. I reached for the handles and tugged. The chest was heavy and didn’t budge. I heaved a second, then a third time. It barely moved two inches. My arms strained and I pushed with my legs but it refused to budge.
I fell to my haunches against the side of the bed gasping for air. It was harder to catch my breath in the Black Room. My shirt clung to my back with sweat.
“Use the hammer...in the drawer...open it,” the voices said.
Their voices played in my head as my own thoughts. I glanced to the left. The desk was in the corner. It had a lopsided stool scooted underneath with a single notepad, pencil, self-wound clock, and a tiny drawer near the bottom.
It too was locked, but I found a hammer sitting on the floor and used it to pry open the drawer. It flung open with a crash. My body fell backward and skidded along the floor. I froze and waited for the sound of rushing feet. Nothing. I was still good. Safe.
I clamored to my feet and rummaged through the drawer. There were manila folders with each of our names on the bill. I passed over mine and was briefly tempted to look through it. But the voices told me to keep digging. I found the gold key at the bottom, underneath and buried below the folders, papers, passports, and legal filings. I was surprised by its weight.
