Mine

 To be a Boneman is to know loyalty. Respect. It’s knowing when to act and when to stand by. It’s about control and power and of course, money. The Order takes care of us as long as we take care of it.   Born into this, I’m naturally pretty important around here. I have everything I could ever want. Money. Power. Respect.   The Order dabbles in many areas of business, the most intriguing being the buying and selling of s*x. Today, I’m overseeing the newest of Hiram’s personal order of women. Every so often, he gets new ones once he’s run through the ones he had.   Sometimes they die. Sometimes he gets bored of them and passes them on to someone else under him. Sometimes, I’m the one who chooses where they go. Often against my will, however, a person can only be waterboarded so much before the messages sticks.   Out there, to the world, I’m Tate Loren. Famous architect and designer. In here? In here, I’m Tate Loren, Hiram’s right-hand man. Hiram’s most loyal Boneman. I belong to them. I belong to him.   A Boneman’s life is not his own. We don’t get to feel anything and we certainly don’t get to decide anything. Our homes, our careers, and our lives are basically chosen for us from the day we’re born.   There are others that are part of The Order, sure. But only someone born into it can be a Boneman.   I work in Studio 89; the same as my number in The Order. Using numbers keeps everything uniform and secure. No emotion. No favorites. 89 is the year I was born, and subsequently, my identifier. When I was six, they tattooed it to the part of my wrist just under my right thumb.   I remember the pain vividly, and the man who’d they’d hired to do it. He had a thin face and pockmarks scattered along his cheeks. He didn’t dare look at me, and he didn’t talk. Not once.   Hiram sat next to me, ten at the time. His father clapped him on the shoulder as he watched, his fellow Bonemen holding me down as I writhed in pain, trying to get loose.   I remember the look on Hiram’s face; like he was sorry, like he didn’t want to be a part of it, but he didn’t stop them either. In my head, I can reason now that he couldn’t have possibly done anything to stop them then, but it still lives in the back of my mind.   This was the day everything changed for me. It’s the first day I can remember ever vowing revenge on someone. However, you get killed if you go against The Order; against your brothers.   So I stay doing what they ask of me and planning my revenge. I mean, the benefits aren’t so bad—for now. Up until recently, I’ve been their puppet, but the time is coming for me to show them just who Tate Loren really is.   The shipment of girls comes in monthly, along with various other paraphernalia that Hiram orders, but that’s overseen by other Bonemen. I pull on my black leather gloves as the truck backs in, the beeping having been silenced by the driver. I put my hand up to signal him to stop when he reaches the edge of the stone landing.   He jumped out of the wide cab, extinguishing his cigarette on the tire as he passed it, approaching me.   “This bunch is going to be Hiram’s new favorite, I can assure you that.” He grunts in lieu of a greeting as he tosses me an envelope fit to burst.   I open it and thumb through the hundreds. It’s impossible to count them all right now, but after so long of doing this, you know what a stack of money should feel like. Gustav has never shorted us before, and the possibilities of what his punishment would be are enough to ensure he’s honest.   “Hello to you, too.” I huff, tucking the thick paper into my leather jacket.   “I don’t do pleasantries, you should know that by now.”   The sound of the steel door lifting almost drowns him out completely as it hits the top of the truck. Inside are girls, chained to the walls. The smell of vomit and feces hit us like a brick wall.   “Christ!”   “Listen man, they’re animals! What can I say?” He laughs, jumping into the back of the truck.   My eyes find the source of the smell, paint buckets nailed to the floor.    “Are these their toilets?” I let the disgust come through in my tone.   “What else do you want me to do, guy? I’m not exactly blessed with time, here. You fuckers like your girls hot and quick. I have to get here as soon as I can.” He shrugs as he drops the heavy chains off one of the girls.   Sure, Hiram’s an animal with his women, but I’ve never personally seen them arrive in this condition. By the time I get them, they are usually washed, dressed, and ready for his event.   “Hiram won’t like this.”   He pays my comments no mind as he unhooks the others. The girl closest to me tilts her head back. The only brunette in the truck.   “The blindfolds help.” He offers, shrugging.   I carefully unclamp the carabiner that holds her chain to the steel planting in the wall. Her body is covered in bruises and her wrists have cuts where the cuffs are tight and heavy against her skin.   “Get them inside.” I snarl, throwing the chain down and storming in myself.   “Hiram!” I yell, my voice bouncing through the echoing halls once I’m on his floor.   The Morgue used to be just that; a morgue. However, our predecessors made it into an actual building. The only thing still original on the place is the front entrance. The rest of the buildings here were placed after the fact.   Although old, the buildings are updated every six months with the best of the best. Not a single amenity was missed when they designed our homes.   The complex is big enough to house as many as one hundred and fifty families. There are bigger ones in other places, but I moved out here, to this one in Buffalo when I was finally chosen. Behind every black door is a two-story condo, tailored to your likes and needs. High ceilings, smart thermostats, full kitchens, beautiful views. Everything updated and maintained.   Every Boneman is chosen by their Monarch. Handpicked and often curated by them throughout their lives. Hiram always chose me. Always.   One of his other Bonemen greeted me at the door, saving my need to kick the thing down in rage.   “Hiram!” I shout again, walking into his marble-themed condo.   Hiram liked minimal. Clean. White. Never trust a guy in a white suit. They have an ego; a god-complex. That alone described everything you’d need to know about Hiram Pagan. Two steps into his condo and you get a real sense of who he is. The place is immaculate, it looks like no one lives here.   “This way.” His right hand, Kirk, points to Hiram’s office.   I shoulder past him, not bothering to nod or thank him. We’re equal and the way I see it, I owe him nothing.    Hiram’s office sits behind two giant oak doors with golden handles. The antique wood is painted black, a fire roaring behind him as he jots something down in a black book in front of him; a Boneman to either side of him.   He doesn’t look up as I stop in front of his desk, my shoes sinking into the plush white carpet. He signals them to leave and once the door clicks close behind me, he shuts his work and folds his hands over the top of it, waiting for me to begin.   “Hiram, these girls are being treated inhumanely.”   “I don’t have control over how they are shipped, Tate. You’ve never cared before?”   “I’ve never seen them before!” I shout.   All pleasantries go from his face and his demeanor. He looks down at his hands and gestures for me to take a seat in one of his leather wing-backed chairs. I reluctantly do.   “Listen, Tate. These girls are purchased by The Order. You know as well as I do that they come from dirty lives. These are my girls. I clean them up, I treat the ones that are deserving nice.”   I trace the porcelain skin of his mouth with my eyes as Hiram spews lies. He and I both know how he treats his girls. The ones he doesn’t sell for profits, he keeps. Some never leave these walls again and some eventually do. I’ve helped him dispose of the ones that weren’t worthy, a task we will never speak out loud of.   “As my abuela would say, no tienes que preocuparte.”   I stare at him blankly.   “You don’t need to worry, Tate.” He explains.      If only it were that easy.