Lambs

by Michael Louis Calvillo

  At home she microwaved him a can of raviolis and sat with him as he ate it. He burnt the roof of his mouth and she got him some ice water just as the phone rang. After the call she set Connor up in front of the TV and took off—another night of running the streets. He fell asleep basking within the Technicolor glow until she came home with a group of riotous, rude, blitzed idiots. One of the fools kicked him off the couch and made him spend the rest of the night in a kitchen cabinet. Connor’s peaceful day collapsed in on itself and he imagined blowing them all to pieces with sticks of dynamite.

  The cool blue nestling within withered to gray, to angry red, and it was back to square one. But that day. The beach. The Ferris wheel. Oh, that day. A prize. A rare jewel buried within miles and miles of corroded memory. He didn’t think about fire once.

  * * *

  Connor’s chest and back made thinking about anything beyond the searing hurt unfeasible.

  When they finished, the Robes put the knife and the template on the metal folding table alongside the grenade and his clothes. They returned to the cabinet and then back to Connor where they resumed their places, Mr. Merciful behind, Mr. Cruelty in front. This time Cruelty had another knife, a smaller, silver-bladed knife with a black hilt in his right hand and a gold bowl in his left. He kneeled before Connor and placed the bowl on the ground at his feet. Merciful wrapped his arms around Connor’s bird-thin chest and held him in a restraining bear hug. The freshly carved flesh ached at the pressure.

  Mr. Merciful commanded, “Make it quick.”

  “Awww, but this is the best part.”

  “Quickly.”

  Cruelty nodded and then jabbed at his groin. The knife sliced Connor’s scrotum.

  The Flame exploded.

  * * *

  Connor became the room. Its walls glowed bright orange and heat waves warped the air. The Robes didn’t even have time to scream. From the soles of their boots to the tops of their hoods they melted into pools of liquefied flesh and dissolved bone. Their remnants sizzled on the broiling stones.

  * * *

  Cruelty didn’t cut much. Just a swift surface incision. Just enough to bleed a little ball blood into the gold bowl.

  Both Robes had a good laugh and they whacked Connor on the back (despite his bleeding flesh) as if to say “Got ya!” as if to say “We weren’t really going to cut your balls off you idiot!”

  Fuckers!

  They put the bowl and the small knife on the table and then went for the hose. Mr. Cruelty unwound it and took his requisite place in front. Connor could still see his sharp chin and smiling mouth. What he wouldn’t give to smash his fucking teeth in.

  Mr. Merciful turned a knob and highly pressurized water blasted forth. Cruelty pelted Connor clean, laughing all the while.

  * * *

  They wrapped him in a black robe of his own (no hood), brought him to a small cell a few doors down from the torture chamber and bound him to a chair with cloth straps.

  Mr. Merciful produced a handful of handy wipes from beneath his garment and then proceeded to wipe the sweat, grime and stubborn blood from the crevices of his face that the hose had missed. He sat in a chair across from him and did so gently, with care. Connor could see his lips tighten and relax with concentration as he scrubbed. When he was finished his lips asked, “Are you all right?”

  Connor didn’t know what to say to this. After everything—was he all right?

  After hanging him by his feeble, little arms?

  After carving him up like a Christmas ham?

  After slicing his ball sack?

  The Flame raged within and roared. A deafening thunder crackled in his head and screeching screams tore from his little throat. The sound startled Merciful and he stood up and backed away from the chair. Before he could get any farther, Connor seized upon the mucus generated by the throaty scream and hawked the biggest loogie, blood-run with slimy snot and spit. It arched just right and blasted the fucker’s exposed chin. Merciful made a retching sound and went to wipe it as Mr. Cruelty knocked the chair out of the way and lunged forward with an open hand ready to smack the shit out of Connor. Merciful stepped in front of Cruelty’s slap. “It’s okay Charles,” he continued wiping the phlegm from his chin.

  Cruelty protested, “The hell it is Bill, this punk needs—”

  “He’s had enough,” Merciful cut in. He wiped the loogie on his robe. It left a white-yellow smear. “Let’s go.” He motioned to the door.

  Cruelty’s sharp chin snapped around. He righted the chair and then stomped out of the room. Merciful followed and then paused at the door. “It’s almost over kid. Hang in there.” His chin nodded at him like they were buddies and then he disappeared behind the closing door.

  * * *

  More tears. Connor felt like a little bitch. He hadn’t cried so much in his entire life, but try as he could he couldn’t stop the torrent.

  * * *

  Another million hours passed. Connor fought with his restraints to no avail. He gave up and sat despondent, aching from the inside out. The crying wore him down (the torture too).

  They were going to kill him.

  They couldn’t just torture someone like that and then let them go.

  How did that prayer go—”A soul, a sacrifice, the church bleeds anew.” He was a sacrifice. More tears, but not, his ducts were too sore to produce. He dry-sobbed anyway.

  Where was The Flame when he needed it?

  Connor didn’t want to die. He had never been afraid of death. The majority of the schemes unfurling in his head involved him going out in a glorious ball of fire. Incinerating the world would require sacrifice. He was prepared for as much. But going out like this was awful. It woke a tide of dread within and overwhelmed him with worry.

  How were they going to kill him?

  Would it hurt?

  Would it be slow and agonizing?

  And there was that ever-nagging idea of heaven. It was easy to laugh off as human-born fantasy when alive and safe, but nearing possible death added a little weight to the concept. What if there was a system in place? What if the religious wackos were right?

  It was too late to make amends. Connor didn’t think planning and scheming were punishable offenses. He would expect the divine to understand—look at the hand he was dealt, if anyone had the right to bitch and complain about the world and its plethora of death-deserving assholes it was him. But a few hours ago (or longer, time was lost in this hell hole) he had killed Leon. Murder was no joke. If there were a heaven or a hell he feared he was fit for burning. Leon’s head aflame sealed the deal.

  Could it be any worse than life?

  Could hell really be so bad?

  What would they do to him? Hobble him some more? Cripple him some more? Trade his stutter for complete speechlessness?

  And if there was a heaven and the good lord above was willing to make exceptions given the tumultuous life he suffered, how much better could it really be? Maybe he could talk normal and he would be taller and his shakes would still. Which would be nice, but what else? Peace and love everlasting? He hated people. Peace and love implied perfect interactions, harmony, communal bliss. No thanks. Pass. Bring on the fire. If heaven meant being left alone, or if heaven manifested itself as your own personal idea of heaven, then Connor regretted killing Leon and robbing himself of the opportunity to play video games and eat pizza all day long.

  It was all bullshit anyhow.

  There was nothing. Nothing. Like stupid, fucking life, empty and pointless. All of this Thinking was nothing more than a cruel joke.

  But still, the dread and the worry radiated, a lump in his throat, a nervous buzz in his stomach. Connor fought with his bonds some more. On the verge of giving up he gave one last, spastic freak out just as the tiny, stone cell’s only door opened inward.

  Though it mattered not (there were bigger things to worry about), Connor was embarrassed. Another robed figure, hood up, entered the cell and shut the door. Connor got his breath and settle
d down. He must have looked like quite the doofus what with his futile spazzing and foolish wrestling. Malformed, Shaky Boy vs. The Chair. Humiliation doubled when the Robe pushed back her hood to reveal none other than Melanie.

  Her robe was almost the same as Merciful’s and Cruelty’s, but it was daintier and had a ribbon of red embroidery running down each arm. The symbol carved into Connor’s chest and back hung on an emblem dangling from a thin chain around her neck. When she pushed back her hood, her brilliant blonde hair spilled out like glorious rays of light. She kept her eyes down, took the chair opposite Connor and scooted close, close, closer until their knees were practically touching.

  On top of the aches and pains and soul sucking disdain, Connor felt like he couldn’t breathe. She made him queasy-nervous.

  There was a few long seconds of silently staring at the ground until she took a deep breath and looked up from the floor and into his eyes. It made Connor feel like a monster, like she couldn’t bear to look at him without mustering up the courage first. The dread and worry clogging up his esophagus thickened.

  It was clear to see that she had been crying. Her eyes looked raw and tear-stained.

  Connor wanted to say a million things. He only managed to get out her name, “M-M-M-Melanie?”

  Melanie closed her eyes and mumbled something that sounded a lot like Mr. Cruelty’s and Mr. Merciful’s greatest hits.

  She was one of them. The robe and the emblem signified as much, but Connor didn’t want to believe it. The weird chant made it impossible to pretend. The moronic prayer died off and she put her hands on his knees. (Imagined) Electricity hummed between her fingertips and his bare skin. Connor’s heart leapt into his throat to join the dread, worry and embarrassment already gathered there.

  “I’m sorry Connor.” Her eyes pierced his. The veneer of sadness that clouded them seconds before was gone. They were strong, bold, and as blue as the sky on a perfect spring day. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  “U-U-Untie m-m-me t-t-then!” A reasonable request.

  “I can’t. I want to but I can’t.” Her eyes widened slightly and looked even bluer, even steelier, stunning.

  “B-B-But—”

  She leaned in closer and her hands slid up from his knees to his thighs. Her face hovered inches away from his. “I can’t.” She sighed heavily as she said it and then leaned back in her chair. Her hands broke the connection and the buzz within ebbed away. Connor felt like a dead battery.

  “I can’t my sweet, sweet Connor, but what I can do is be straight with you. You deserve that much so I’m not going to bullshit you and maybe you’ll find a way to understand what has to be done.”

  “Are y-y-you g-g-oing to—”

  “Yes. Within the hour I am going to sacrifice you to the Lord Father.” Her eyes were unwavering.

  Connor started to thrash a little. Dried-up tears returned. “Please, p-p-please!” He didn’t want to beg. If these nutjobs were going to kill him he didn’t want to give them the satisfaction, but he was only fifteen and there was no way to stop the tears.

  Melanie put her hands back on his knees. “It has already been written Connor. I know it’s hard, but what you’re doing is the most noble and selfless thing any human being could ever do. Your life will mean so much to so many. You will take your place in the fires with the others and the Lord Father will drink from you for all eternity. Do you have any idea what kind of honor this is?”

  His crying veered into hysterics, a last wild scream for freedom, before they petered out into quiet sobs. Between hitching breaths he murmured, “Fucking bitch.” It came out stutter free and crystal clear.

  “I love you Connor. I know you don’t believe it, but I do. With all my heart. We’ve only just met but I’ve been watching you, I’ve seen you at school, around Arthur, and my heart knows this is right. You need love, all the love and mercy I can give you. I don’t want to do this but you need it as much as I do. It’s for the best.” Melanie reached out and took his face between her hands. He fought, but she forced it in place and through clenched teeth repeated the dysfunctional sentiment, “I love you Connor.”

  “Fucking bitch!” Again with clarity. If Connor had time to be impressed with himself he would have been, instead his mind reeled. “W-W-Where’s Art-th—”

  “He’s one of us.” A half-smile softened her rigid, focused face.

  The tears came heavy then, blurring his vision, washing away the physical world. Through the vapor Melanie’s face burned hazy, like the countenance of an angel in some long forgotten dream.

  9. THE SUBSTITUTE

  The Face to Face went well. Much better than expected. Melanie propped up her blood pillow (named so for its color and tradition, not because it was filled with blood) and kneeled in the center of the Rumination Chamber. It was by far the smallest room in the entire underground complex. Its stone walls were covered, floor to ceiling with mirrors. Both the ceiling and the floor were tiled with exquisitely carved bloodstones which were in turn arranged into dual pentagrams. Four candles, one placed in each corner of the tiny room, cast a warm, weak glow and bathed Melanie’s nude body in soft, flattering light. The flickering flames went on into infinity within their encompassing reflections and made it seem as if she weren’t kneeling in the center of the room, but floating in a starlight void.

  While on her knees, back straight, head held high, poised in the center of the power symbol embedded in the floor, Melanie had barely three feet of space between her and the surrounding mirrored walls. She wondered how men and big girls made it the duration of their twelve-hour stint in such a confined space. The dimensions of the Rumination Chamber were so cramped it was the only room in the complex with a door that swung outward (as there was no room for it to open in).

  Claustrophobia hounded her for the first hour, but once she got deep, hardcore meditation soothing her soul, it passed and the confining room whisked away. By the time they came to get her for the Face to Face she was in another world, lost to the reflecting walls and the pain that cramped her body into a statuesque pose. Eleven hours had passed. After the Face to Face she had to return and endure one more round—a final sixty six minutes and six seconds to prepare for the moment of truth.

  * * *

  When they took Arthur away she felt like she was going crazy.

  Literally.

  This time of the year, almost a full week into the Blood Rites, no sleep, school all day, night after crazy night filled with intensive rituals, it didn’t take much. Every little thing set her on edge. And more so this year than any other—the pressure was on, she and she alone was the show and she couldn’t fuck it up.

  Arthur’s brand raised a ruckus. Brother Hanlon and Brother Pickett dragged him to a holding cell while Melanie fluttered around madly. “He’s marked!” aloud, He’s marked within. Excitement spun her exhaustion-fueled brain in pleasant, loopy circles.

  Once the Sentinels had him secure, they escorted her back to her preparatory room. Melanie protested—it was her Sacrifice and she wanted to be present when the Diviner made a decision. It was her right. But, argue as she might, the Torture Twins made a quick phone call and heard it from the Diviner himself that she was to carry on as if nothing were wrong. The preparations leading up to the ceremony were just as important as the actual sacrifice and needed to be honored. The Elders would get to the bottom of the mystery mark soon enough, in the meantime, she had to stay focused. The tomes had been laid out and her customary gowns—one for prayer, one for her walk to the Rumination Chamber, one for her Face to Face and one for the Sacrifice—were arranged on a hanging rack near her kneeling alter.

  She was supposed to change out of her street clothes and into her prayer gown, but the excitement bandying about her heart made it way too difficult to settle in.

  He was one of them.

  Holy fuck, the boy she loved was one of them and she didn’t have to drive a dagger through his heart after all.

  Her insides thump-thumped and flipp
ed and she wanted to scream and giggle and dance and a part of her did, but another part, the spiritual side tied to a lifetime (sixteen years anyway) of ritual and tomes and condition shuddered with fear. The Lord Father was the way, the light, but a benevolent God he was not. There were stories of acolytes being cursed, burned, gashed, slashed, disemboweled and worse for breaking form or screwing up a ritual.

  This wasn’t her fault—would the Lord Father understand?

  She brought in Connor (a lucky mistake)—would he suffice as a substitute?

  Since birth she had been told that she had to love her Sacrifice. The act, driving the knife home, had to hurt her more than it hurt the poor soul she was delivering. She felt what she was supposed to feel for Arthur, but she barely even knew Connor. She couldn’t pretend to love someone, not on the inside where lies were laid bare. Sure, she could tell her dad and the rest of the Elders that she was emotionally bound to him, but Satan knew that her heart belonged to Arthur and if the wives’ tales were true she would be punished (gruesomely so) for her deception.

  Her father arrived soon after the Torture Twins reported the situation. Melanie wasn’t sure how he would take any of this. He had a reputation to uphold and she didn’t want to embarrass him by screwing up.