FratHouse BoxBoy: Whipping Boy
Z2 used as a whipping boy for pledges being drilled during Hell Week. Tyler goes too far and Dominic is Not Happy About It. As witnessed by new pledge Stephen.
***
Stephen feels like a prisoner of war, and Hell Week is full of enthusiastic jailers. Last night the pledges had been told to strip and face the basement wall. He’d pressed his forehead to the damp concrete while the brothers screamed obscene insults and smashed bottles next to the pledges faces.
He reminded himself that this was all for show, it wasn’t real… and before he knew it he’d be in the same Fraternity his big brother had been in, and they could all laugh about it.
The second night starts off stranger. Four of them have been assigned a “whipping boy”, some poor fuck who looks like he hasn’t slept in a week. He’s wearing a leather collar around his neck, which raises eyebrows, but it’s the look in his eyes that makes Stephen glance twice. There’s something truly wrong, and not just the annoyed humiliation he sees in the eyes of other pledges.
“Quiz time, gentlemen.” Tyler waves a thin wooden cane like a conductor’s wand. “All punishment is deferred to our resident BoxBoy here, Z2. Anything you fuck up?” He slaps the cane in the palm of his hand. “He will feel the repercussions of.”
Ah. A BoxBoy. He’s their live-in prisoner.
“What does he think of that?” One of the bolder pledges asks.
Tyler sighs, whacks the BoxBoy unexpectedly between his shoulder blades with the cane so he stiffens, eyebrows knitting in worry and pain. “Speaking out of turn. One strike.”
This feels different than anything the brothers have done to them as pledges, Stephen thinks. This boy looks truly terrified.
It devolves from there. Tyler makes the boy take his shirt off, and then his pants so he’s standing there in socks and underwear, looking miserable. The number of times he is hit with the cane goes up every time one of them gets a question wrong, sneezes, looks at Tyler the wrong way. Anything is an excuse. Each thwack to the BoxBoy makes the pledges wince, as if it’s them being hit.
Soon the boy is holding himself about the shoulders and trembling, skin bright red in the spots Tyler has hit most frequently. Stephen can’t believe he hasn’t cried out yet. Hell, he’s pretty sure he would’ve hollered out by now, embarrassed himself by begging it to stop.
“When was the Chapter founded?” Tyler points the cane at one of the pledges.
1962, idiot.Get it right and give this kid a break.
“19…uhhhh. 62!”
Thank God.
“I know it was 1962, dipshit. When exactly?”
“Uhm…”
Z2 glances up at them hopefully, praying they give Tyler the right answer. Stephen wants to take his own shirt off his back and go give it to him.
“September?”
Stephen groans. May. May 23, 1962.
“You guys really don’t give a fuck about little Z2 here, huh?” Tyler asks. He grabs the boy by his hair and yanks his head back. Z2 tenses like he’s fully expecting Tyler to hit him in the face. “Doesn’t he look like he’s had enough of your wrong fuckin’ answers?”
“You’re the one beating him, asshole.” Stephen grumbles. Immediately, he regrets it. Tyler marches Z2 to the wall, shoving him against it.
He holds the back of the boy’s collar with one hand and hits the back of his legs with the cane, pulling back as hard as he can, putting his whole body into it so they rain down over his naked calves, the backs of his thighs, his backside. This time the boy screams. The sound wrenches Stephen’s gut, makes him queasy.
He almost rushes forward to help, but something stops him. For a long time, when he is alone with his thoughts he will return to that moment and remember how he did nothing, how all four of them did nothing. For what? For status? For a couple of Greek letters on their shirts?
Again and again he beats him, biting his lip in exertion and concentration. Their BoxBoy screams in fear and pain, legs shaking and knees nearly buckling.
Everyone in the room has stopped what they are doing, people have come in from the kitchen and upstairs to investigate the source of such anguished screams.
Blood is dripping out of split welts by the time Tyler pauses and turns back to his pledges, a little out of breath. Already the marks are rising like wasp stings, turning purple. Someone pushes through the gawking onlookers. It’s Dominic, one of the seniors. Stephen recognizes Dominic from watching college football. He stares a moment, feeling a bit like he’s gawking at a minor celebrity.
“What the fuck did you do?”
Dominic grabs Tyler by the shirt and shoves him, pushes him again when he stumbles so he falls onto the floor. Stephen’s adrenaline spikes, ready for the fight to break out.
“Who the fuck do you think you are?!”
Tyler is shocked, a little scared. “Dom, I… I was doing the thing where we use him as…as—”
“Z2. C’mon. C’mere.” He eyes the angy welts on the boy’s shaking legs, shoots Tyler a venomous look.
Z2 flinches when Dom tries to touch him. Those haunted eyes are even further away now, hazy with pain, his breath coming short and shallow. Dom tries again, and Z swipes blindly at him, trying to fight him off. "Zee. Look at me. Hey…it’s me, man, it’s Dominic.*
“No!” Z2 gasps hoarsely before dissolving into sobs. “Nonono,” He fights with a surprising reserve of strength but Dom grabs his arms and forces them to his side easily, spins him around and hugs him tightly from behind. He sobs incoherently in the other boy’s arms, shaking all over.
“Shhh,” Dominic hushes in his ear. “Shhh. Okay. Okay, Zee. It’s done. No more hitting.”
Brothers and pledges alike look on in silence as the boy slowly stops struggling, taking big, shuddering gasps, face wet with tears. Dom holds him tight, whispering something in his ear that Stephen doesn’t catch.
The pledge to Stephens right leans closer. “Yo… this is fucked.”
Dominic lets go of their BoxBoy slowly, careful that he doesn’t start his panicked thrashing again. He spins him around and holds his face, thumbing at his tears. “All done.” He reassures. “You did good. C’mon, Z. C’mon.”
He looks out at their blank faces and raises his voice. “The fuck you looking at? Huh? Useless, all of y'all.“
Stephen drops his eyes as Dom leads their BoxBoy past them, limping and shivering.
***
"Alex!” Dominic calls, knocking on his bedroom door. “Al!”
Z2’s feeling woozy from climbing the stairs. Dom practically carried him, but his heart is pounding and he can feel it pushing more wam blood from the cuts on his legs.
“Dom…”
“Is he home this weekend? On Hell week?” Dominic pulls his phone out of his pocket, holds it to his ear. “Pick up, asshole.”
“Dom…” Z2 holds his stomach and doubles over, heaving onto the carpet. He thinks for a moment Dominic is angry when he curses. He feels a hand on his back.
“Shit. It’s okay.”
“Msorry…” Z apologizes for the mess, looking woefully at the carpet. Luckily it’s mostly water and stomach bile. But he will be the one cleaning it up.
“It’s okay. Listen. Al isn’t home. C'mon. I was just trying for some backup but it’s okay, I can take care of you. C'mon Zee. Can you stand?”
Z2s vision tunnels and he staggers. Dom catches him, lifting him up in a way that stretches his cuts horribly and he tries to scream but can only make a strangled noise of despair and the world tilts and darkens.
holyyyy shit :O Z2,,,, honey,,,, omg
