Boy Toy

by R. R. Banks

  I take another sip of champagne and ponder what she's saying. I like to think I'm a pretty self-aware man. I know my strengths and my weaknesses. I know everything about myself there is to know.

  Or at least, I thought I did.

  I know I can be a bit cold at times. But I've always chalked it up to me not being the most social person on the planet. Never have been. I've always been more at ease on my own. Somebody who's comfortable enough in my own skin to not need to be around people.

  Which made Lara's dissection of my personality – interesting.

  “I almost feel like there's a piece of the puzzle inside of you missing,” she says. “And I know that I'm not the right person to help you find it. Just like you're not the right person to find what's missing in me. That's not what we are to each other, Eric. And there's nothing wrong with that. What we have is special and unique all on its own.”

  I give her a small smile. “True. I enjoy what we have.”

  Laying a hand on my cheek, she smiles. “As do I,” she says softly. “And there's no need to complicate it.”

  After a moment, I nod. “You're right,” I say. “You're exactly right.”

  And she is right. There isn't any need to complicate what we have. It's something we both enjoy, get something out of, and best of all, it's not bogged down with emotions neither of us want or need to deal with right now.

  Even knowing all of that, I still can't help but feel a little bit stung by her words. It's ridiculous, but then, most emotions are. Which is why I try to avoid relationships that have emotional entanglements.

  “Miss Weathers?”

  We turn and find her assistant Adam in the doorway to the ballroom?

  “Yes?” she asks.

  “We're ready to begin.”

  “Thank you, Adam,” she says.

  He steps back into the ballroom, closing the doors softly behind him. Lara turns to me and smiles, straightens my bowtie and hands me back my jacket.

  “Well,” she says. “Ready to go have your ego stroked?”

  I give her a salacious little smile. “I'd rather have something else stroked.”

  “Put on a good show up there for me,” she says, giving me a flirty smile of her own, “and we might be able to work something out later.”

  “Well then, lead the way,” I say. “Play the music and I'll dance to it.”

  She laughs as we walk back into the ballroom. All the while though, I can't help but think about the supposed darkness and missing puzzle pieces she thinks are inside of me.

  Chapter Four

  Calee

  I wake up feeling like death warmed over. Staring at the ceiling, I'm doing all I can to fight off the wave of nausea that's rolling through me. I groan and roll over in my bed, clutching my stomach and do everything I can to not throw up.

  “You okay?”

  I look up and find Ruth staring down at me, a look of concern on her face.

  “Yeah, just not feeling well this morning,” I say. “Something I ate last night must not be agreeing with me.”

  She laughs. “You sure you're not pregnant?”

  “It would be ironic,” I say and roll my eyes.

  Ruth, like me, is one of the “Fruitless” – wives of Raymond and the elders who, for whatever reason, have been unable to bear children. The whole thing is ridiculous. I'm only twenty-seven years old, so it's not like I'm past my peak child bearing years. But Raymond and the other elders have a taste for younger women. Much younger.

  My parents married me off to Raymond when I was thirteen years old. Thirteen. And try as I might, I'll never be able to forget the horror that was my wedding night. It was the most painful, degrading, and humiliating experience I've ever had to endure. I hope that I never have to feel anything close to that ever again in my life.

  For so long, I felt disgusting. Worthless. Like somebody whose only value to the world was as a womb Raymond could continue trying to fill with his seed. More times than I can remember, I swore to myself that if I ever ended up pregnant by him, I would find a way to abort the pregnancy – or just kill myself.

  There was no way in hell I would ever allow myself to bear Raymond a child. Ever.

  Eventually, I turned twenty-five and was deemed to be one of the Fruitless. Raymond set me aside as his wife and I was moved into the dorm at the back of the compound – home of the Fruitless. Unfortunately for them, most of the child brides Raymond and the elders had taken had been able to give them what they wanted – children.

  And among those children, very likely, will be the next generation of child brides for Raymond and the sick bastards at the top of the sect's food chain.

  Truth be told, I'm glad to have been set aside by Raymond. I'm glad to be away from him. To not having him touching me. To not having him doing the terrible things he made do when he had sex with me. I don't know if I'll ever be able to wash away the feeling of his hands and mouth on me. The feeling of having him inside of me.

  I don't know if I'll ever be able to wash away the memories of the vile and demeaning acts he made me perform.

  And honestly, it's only been over the last couple of years – mainly, since I found Danny, really – that I've started to rediscover my sense of self-worth. I still bear horrible scars – and probably will my entire life – but Danny is showing me that all of the things I came to believe about myself because of Raymond and the abuse I suffered at his hands aren't true. That I'm not worthless. That I'm not disgusting. That I have value to this world.

  Some days are easier than others and there are still times I find myself mired in a deep, abiding, dark depression – but those days are beginning to become fewer and farther between.

  “You better hide those. You never know when the Shepherds are going to have a surprise inspection,” she says, pointing to the stack of books beneath my bed. “And you know how Raymond feels about an educated woman.”

  “Yeah, can't go getting too uppity,” I say.

  “Uppity will get you twenty lashes out in the yard,” she replies. “But reading forbidden books will get you even more.”

  And that's true. Anything that displeases Raymond and the elders – meaning anything they deem uppity, discourteous, or ungodly – earns you lashes. It's barbaric and yet, they will quote from Scripture to defend the practice. Actually, they quote from Scripture to defend everything they do out here on the Ark.

  Ruth and I are currently, the only occupants in the dorm. I've been teaching Ruth to read and sharing some of the educational lessons Danny has given me with her. We have our duties out on the compound, of course. We have chores we are forced to do to “earn our keep” and help keep the Ark running.

  But after dinner each night, we're expected to be back in our dorm, locked away from the rest of the sect – as if our childlessness is a contagious disease that can be caught. But being Fruitless meant we were exiled. We were banished from the sect. And yet – we were forbidden to leave the Ark.

  All of that means that Ruth and I have a lot of time to ourselves. The isolation is impacting her far more than it impacts me. She craves the social interaction. Needs it. Wants it. And maybe it's because I have nothing but contempt and disgust for Raymond and his true believers – or maybe it's because I have Danny – but I'm happy to be isolated from them. Happy to not have to interact with their brand of lunacy.

  But I can also understand Ruth's sense of loneliness. I haven't told her about Danny. I won't tell her about Danny. As much as I like Ruth – and I consider her my only real friend right now – I don't know if I can trust her. Not with something that big. If Raymond ever found out that I was sleeping with somebody from town, it would mean my death. No question about it.

  “You really don't look too good,” Ruth says.

  “I feel like I'm going to throw up.”

  “It's going to make getting your chores done today a problem.”

  “Maybe if I throw up all over the laundry, they'll grant me mercy.”

  Ruth lau
ghs. “Right. Because they're big on mercy.”

  The bells at the small church begin to toll and it sends a charge of adrenaline through me. Ruth and I share a look, a sense of dread welling up within me. The bells only toll when we're called to chapel – and it's not a chapel day. Which means that somebody is set to be punished in the yard.

  “Wonder who it is?” Ruth asks.

  I shrug. “Does it matter?”

  “Not really, I suppose.”

  The only thing that does matter is that we are in attendance to bear witness. Everybody living on the Ark is required to be in the yard when punishment is doled out. Raymond believes it cleanses all of our souls and acts as a deterrent to bad behavior. Personally, I just think he gets off on making us all watch him display his power as the leader of the sect.

  I sigh and put on the veil we're forced to wear. Ruth puts hers on and together, we step out of our cabin and into the bright light of the Wyoming morning.

  Chapter Five

  The morning air is cool and feels nice upon my skin. Overhead, the sky is blue and filled with thick puffs of cloud. A lone hawk circles in the air above us. And in that moment, I wish more than anything, that I could be up there alongside him, flying far, far away from this place.

  “Brothers and sisters,” Raymond calls out, his voice echoing around the compound. “We must once again gather to bear witness.”

  Tied to a rough wooden pole in the middle of the yard is a girl. A young girl, of course. She can't be more than fifteen or sixteen. I don't remember her being brought in, but then, surprisingly, a lot of people came to the Ark to join Noah's Children. The lost. The lonely. Those who just need to find a place where they fit in and feel like they belong.

  It took me a long time to see it, but Raymond preys on the desperate and the needy. Those who have no other place to go. And while we girls are forced to stay at the Ark – even the Fruitless – others are free to leave when they choose to. Those – like my parents – who Raymond deems have no value to our community. Which is Raymond-speak for those who either can't sleep with him or provide him with a daughter he can sleep with.

  From behind my veil, I look at the crowd gathered around the center of the yard. The faces in the crowd I see around us are frightening. Zealots. True believers. They want to see the pain inflicted upon this young girl. They want to hear her scream. See her blood. They want to see her suffer.

  Except of course, for some of the young girls who are being victimized by Raymond and his men – their “wives.” While some of the “wives” definitely fall into the true believer category, I can see in their faces that some of them obviously don't.

  Like me, some of these girls have been dropped off by drug-addicted parents who sold their little girl as they chased the next high. I recognize the all-too-familiar shadows upon the faces of those girls.

  The eyes of those girls are downcast and the expression on all of their faces is a mixture of fear and sadness. Perhaps, they believed that the girl tied to the pole would escape. That they saw her as a beacon of hope that maybe one day they too would find the courage to try and escape within themselves.

  And maybe seeing the girl tied to the post, waiting to receive her punishment dimmed those hopes. Snuffed them out. Maybe seeing the girl, dragged back by the Shepherds, killed their hope of ever getting out of the hell they are being forced to live in.

  “Brothers and sisters,” Raymond addresses the crowd. “This young woman, wife to Elder Arnold, doesn't seem to think much of us or the life we've built for ourselves out here.”

  The crowd responds with boos, hisses, and cries of outrage. Raymond – although it's the exact reaction he wants – looks suitably grim. Maybe even a little sad about the situation. I've come to learn that Raymond is quite a talented performer. He's a chameleon – able to blend into any situation. He's able to be all things to all people – and yet, manages to convince them that he's genuine and sincere.

  It took me a long time to see through his lies and deceit, but with the help of some of the books on psychology Danny had given me – not to mention a lot of long conversations with him – I finally see Raymond for what he is. He's a predator. A deviant who preys on people – especially young girls. He belongs in prison.

  “This young woman ran away from the Ark,” Raymond says. “Ran away from us. But most of all, she ran away from her husband.”

  The crowd responded with more hisses and jeers – much to Raymond's delight. Beneath the dirt that cakes the girl's face are bruises and cuts. The Shepherds had roughed her up a little before bringing her home. And knowing those bastards the way I do, I don't doubt they had their way with her as well.

  Tears cut streaks through the dirt and grime on her face and her body trembles as she cries. My heart goes out to her and I want to help her, but I know I'd be inviting my own beating if I did. And as one of the Fruitless, I know what my punishment will entail. As much as I want to help her, my sense of self-preservation is greater. I was used and violated every day for years with Raymond and have no desire to let myself ever feel that sense of violation again.

  “God's law demands that this Hannah be punished for her sins,” he says. “For her transgressions against us all.”

  The crowd around us cheers wildly and I feel the knots in my stomach tightening. The bloodlust and desires for vengeance that saturates the air around us is thick. Raymond is whipping the mob into a frenzy – a mob that is demanding blood to atone for this made up sin.

  I wish, not for the first time, that I had the strength to put a stop to this. That I had the courage to step in. But I don't. And I'm ashamed of myself for it.

  “Brothers and sisters,” Raymond calls. “Hannah must be held to account for her actions. But as God's law demands, it is her husband who must first hold her accountable to him.”

  Elder Arnold stepped forward, an ugly sneer on his face and a whip in his hand. My eyes well with tears and I open my mouth to speak – to put a stop to this madness – but then close it again without saying a word. I lower my eyes and shake my head, disgusted with myself for not being a good enough person to say something – anything – to stop this.

  Like he's encouraging the crowd at a football game to cheer, Raymond walks around the yard, whipping them into a frenzy. That's what this is to Raymond – a show. This is his arena and his fans are this bloodthirsty mob and he exhorts them to cheer, to blindly allow this young girl to be beaten. Bloodied. He is giving them what they think they want.

  This is nothing more than theater for Raymond. Theater that blinds the people to what it really is – Raymond exerting his control over their minds.

  The crack of the whip and a split-second later, the sound of the girl's ear-piercing shriek make me jump and set my heart racing. I look over and see an expression of excruciating pain upon her face and blood already staining the back of her shirt. Elder Arnold reaches back again and I avert my eyes, not wanting to witness Raymond's perverse display of “justice.”

  Again and again, the crack of the whip echoes throughout the yard. The crowd has quieted, but the look of zealotry in their eyes hasn't lessened. The girl's shrieks have stopped, and she hangs limply from the pole, the back of her shirt flayed open, bloody gashes from the bite of the whip criss-crossing her flesh.

  “Enough,” Raymond finally says. “God's justice has been served. Well done, Elder Arnold. Take Hannah to the Reflection Room where she can ponder her misdeeds and ask for God's forgiveness.”

  The two Shepherds who'd brought her in, untie the girl and drag her limp, seemingly lifeless body, away. Raymond stands in the center of the yard, looking around at the crowd, shoulders back and chin high, as if daring anybody to challenge him.

  Like anybody would. Everybody in that yard knows all about what happens to those who challenge Raymond. Some end up being lashed until their spirit is broken. And others just – disappear. Raymond's control over Noah's Children is absolute and he rules with an iron fist. He does not tolerate dissent or
those he deems to be non-believers or who aren't pious enough – meaning, those who do not bow and scrape at his feet and worship him.

  The smile that crosses his face is almost reptilian and even from where I'm standing, I can tell that he's aroused. It's all I can do to keep from throwing up – which would be sure to earn me a few lashings of my own.

  He beckons to a blonde girl – Cassandra, I think her name is. She can't be more than sixteen herself, but is one of his “wives.” She happily bounces across the yard to him and takes his hand, looking up at him as if he is Christ himself. A memory of being her age floats through my mind and makes me shudder. I fight back the wave of nausea and focus on the dirt beneath my feet instead.

  “Brothers and sisters,” Raymond calls out. “Let us take the rest of the day to reflect on what we have just witnessed. Let us think about how we can better watch out for one another. How we can help cleanse some of the – weaker – in our community of these impure and unnatural impulses they have. We can discuss it in chapel tomorrow.”

  He turns and puts his arm around Cassandra, leading her back to his cabin. As they step inside, he turns around and looks straight at me. A slow, greasy smile crosses his face and he winks at me as he closes the door behind him. No doubt, to inflict some form of horror upon the girl.

  Ashamed of myself for feeling the way I do, I walk back to my cabin, glad that I'm not the one in Raymond's cabin with him.

  Chapter Six

  Eric

  The heat was unbearable. It always was. I crouched down in a bombed-out building, huddled among the chunks of concrete, random debris, and blood that seemed to be everywhere in this God forsaken place. I'd only been in-country for a month, but I already knew why the other soldiers in my unit called it the Shit – capital S.

  I felt the sweat rolling down my back underneath my fatigues and flak jacket and wanted nothing more than to strip it all off and take a long, cold shower. But I knew from experience that it would be refreshing for a moment, but I'd be back to sweating like a pig ninety seconds after getting out of the shower.