Read One of Many for Free Online Page A

constant breeze that eases across the prairies in a more or less constant motion.
    I close my eyes, trying to forget how that same swing and tree were sometimes the only solace from the nightmare of my childhood.
    My fists bunch at the thought of this new wife.
    This wife that Weston wants to fuck and can never get pregnant.
    The foundation of The Community is to pass on the genes of the oracle that Father Weston pretends to be.
    I absently stroke the scar on my arm and drop my hand when I realize I'm doing it.
    The hell with this . I'll run this fucked-up introspection out. Work the body until I'm too tired to want Audrey. I need to get a handle on my bullshit so I can see vengeance through.
    I clench my eyes shut. Her face rises like a phoenix at the memory of our surprise encounter at the side yard. I had only meant to observe her from the shadows.
    After finishing my cigarette, I'd been rubbing it underneath my boot when she'd exited the side door.
    Her face looked frightened. Her big blue eyes were jumping around at the gardens carefully tended by the wives.
    After several heaving breaths, Audrey had apparently begun to notice the flowers.
    Couldn't have her taking any joy at the debauchery in this place.
    I had to intrude.
    The other wives made themselves up like whores for Father, but Audrey didn't need makeup. Her beauty hurt my dick.
    Wounded my mind.
    When I look at Audrey, I want to be in her. Today when she spoke, I saw her lips move but didn't hear what she said.
    I was too busy drowning in the blue of her eyes. Innocence wrapped in the body of Venus.
    Her hair is some mix of black and brown. I want to wrap my fist in it while I drive myself into her from behind.
    I blink slowly, trying my damnedest to vaporize the mental porn.
    But there she still stood, her lips slightly parted, light pink spreading across her high cheekbones as though she could see what I was thinking.
    As though she could see me.
    I told her to go be with the other wives, when what I really wanted to do was take her into the closest bedroom and hammer her against whatever surface was available.
    Love her with my body but never my mind.
    I need to exercise Audrey like the demons Weston always preaches about.
    I stalk to my room, taking the wide, antique wooden steps two at a time. I don't look left or right but move to the door and punch it open with the flat of my palm. I kick it shut behind me and scan the dim interior of my childhood bedroom.
    Mattress on the floor.
    Check.
    Coins on the bare-bones dresser. Check.
    Smokes to the right.
    There.
    My gaze strokes my pathetic belongings like a token of reality. They stray to the free weights, sad time spent fashioning my body into something that can kick Weston's ass when the time comes. Or that of anyone who needs a new perspective.
    I trail fingertips over my scar.
    Stop.
    Scrub my hand over my hair with an angry swipe.
    Gotta get out of here.
    I kick off my boot with the toe of my other one, then the remaining boot flops with a thud, landing upside down. I grab my running shoes and change into black athletic pants and a sleeveless black second-skin shirt.
    I move to the door and slam it behind me. It self-locks.
    The wives understand to never enter my room. They're terrified of me.
    Weston's told them enough to cause them to stay away.
    I've done enough that they sense my willingness to do harm. I'd never hurt a chick.
    But I do nothing to belie the rep.
    It's okay if the wives fear me. The real monster shares their beds, but they feel better thinking the monster is me. A sick justification is better than none.
    I hurl myself down the stairs and jog out the front door.
    Six miles will be enough. It smells like rain.
    And Audrey.
     
    *
     
    The rain lashes at me as I race through the darkening streets.
    A John Deere motors past, the driver giving a wave as he passes me on the shoulder.
    A line of cars follows in a slow procession.
    I blink the water out of my lashes and pour on the last bit