by Huss, JA
Then she does the sign for moon again, pointing to it.
Calendar? I ask.
She throws her arms wide, frustrated. And I’m thinking, Yeah. Me too, babe. Me too.
Then I get it. How long?
She sighs and nods.
How long will we be here? I lie back and point to the moon, then hold up three fingers.
It’s not what she’s looking for. This is the number of days we’ve been here, not how many we have left. But that’s one of the rules too.
Never think about how much time you have left in Hell.
Only congratulate yourself for time served.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN - ANYA
I think about four things after he turns his back to me for the final time.
One. That kiss. Jesus. That kiss. I’m pretty sure he didn’t enjoy it the way I did, because I have a sneaking suspicion he was checking for my tongue again. And that means he’s probably irritated with me for the silence. But it was so unexpected and so—well, nice—that the feeling of his mouth on mine lingers long into the night.
Two. His name. There is something about the heart part, but I don’t know what it is. I drew in the air and that made some kind of sense to him, because he went into that anatomy explanation. But I’m not sure if he just thinks I’m too stupid to understand that was the sign for ‘heart,’ or if there was a much bigger, more involved explanation to it.
Three. He’s not very patient. I mean, he has signs of patience at times. But that comes and goes in bursts. He was patient for a while down on the mat. But once he felt I had the moves down, he went back to his own business. And even though he showed me some signs tonight, the role of teacher tired him out pretty quick.
Four. He’s frustrated that I’m not talking. Like I’m a lot of effort and he’s short on effort right now. Plus, I think that visit from Udulf means something bad. I’m not staying with Cort after we leave here, that was pretty clear. And I’m not saying this bothers him—the part about me, anyway. But something about that is bothering him.
So his frustration concerns me. Am I a liability?
I don’t want to be a liability. And he’s clearly not interested in anything sexual. I suspect that Sick Heart here isn’t into strangers. Maybe if his friends were here, he might think about another sexual encounter. But only because of them, not me.
My stomach grumbles. And this is no ordinary grumble. I’m in a serious calorie deficit right now. I know all about this. It might’ve been years since they used starvation as a punishment, but when I first came to Lazar’s estate, there was another girl there, several years older than me. She knew the ropes and taught me, much the same way I taught Bexxie when she first came to live with us. Her name was Diona and she was the one who showed me how to track the hunger pangs so I knew how much food I could go without. Not how much I needed to survive, but how much I could afford to give up. She was a rebellious girl who thrived in high-drama situations. So she was always looking for a way to beat Lazar and the older woman who controlled us on the day-to-day.
Diona disappeared shortly before I turned eight and after that I told myself, Do not be like Diona. Just exist, Anya. Do what they tell you, and live. Buck the system and you’ll end up like all the other girls who got too old to meet Lazar’s sick, twisted desires.
My stomach rumbles again. And it feels like I’m eating myself from the inside out. Technically, you can go a very long time without food. But you become too weak to do much after only a week. And I’m on the tail end of day three. Did I even eat that night of the fight?
No. Not that day, either. I was too nervous.
I need more food. But it’s pretty clear that I wasn’t supposed to come here with Cort. And whatever food he has, it’s only enough for him.
He has to be as hungry as I am. He’s much bigger, he’s been training hard since we arrived, and his food ration was as meager as my own. He’s been splitting it equally. But he had that extra ration that I went without when I was locked on the lower level.
He could—hell, if he was smart, he would—lock me down there again and keep my food ration for himself.
He could also start feeding me every other day. Or every third day. Feed me just enough to stay alive, but not much else.
I do not like the pain of hunger. It’s a gnawing, biting, burning feeling that hollows you out. I need to be nice to him. And I was trying tonight. I tried to get him more interested in me.
He would prefer me to talk, even if he himself doesn’t say a word. I’m in his world. I should bend to his rules.
I should talk. I know this is the easiest way to stay safe. But… I don’t know what I would say.
Or, rather, I’m afraid I do know what to say. I’m afraid that if I open my mouth and utter any words at all, they will be all the wrong ones. And I know what happens to girls who say the wrong things.
And anyway, how do I know that Cort won’t just tell everyone? I don’t.
And if Udulf figures out I talked to Cort, then he will expect me to talk to him as well. And once I talk to him, I’m positively sure everything will begin to unravel.
I’ve been holding things together with my silence for a long time now.
More than ten years.
But everything seems to be changing at once and this is a very dangerous thing.
Deciding to talk now would be a fatal mistake.
So no. I will not be talking to Cort.
What I will do is be nice. I’ll be pleasant. Submissive. Demure. Get him to see me as a sexual thing again. Take his mind off my limitations and play up my assets.
This pacifies both my anxiety and my growing hunger pangs. And I settle into sleep with thoughts of that kiss.
Because that’s how I will take control of my future.
The kiss was just the start.
When I wake up in the morning Cort’s mat has been picked up and I am surrounded by curious birds. Mostly gulls pecking at my hair, like they might pull it out of my head and use it for their nests, but a few albatrosses linger in my vicinity. They are huge birds, so massive, they look fake. When I stand up, their heads are well above my waist. And when I take a step forward to go down to the training level and find Cort, hopeful that we will have breakfast this morning, one of them extends its wings and flaps at me.
That wingspan is so wide, I have to take seven steps to get safely around it.
I take my mat down to the training level and find Cort already jumping rope, his back to me as he does that fancy footwork, traveling down the length of the bare concrete. But when he turns to find me watching him, he stops abruptly and points to the building behind me.
Is he pointing to the kitchen? Hope surges inside me. Did he make breakfast?
My stomach growls so loud just thinking these thoughts, if he wasn’t all the way across the platform, he would’ve heard it. That rumble comes with a dull, gnawing pain.
But when I turn, I realize he was pointing to that small chalkboard mounted on the wall of the kitchen building. My name is still written in white chalk across the top and underneath that, it says, Jump rope. Underneath that it says, Practice drills one, two, and three.
Not one word about breakfast.
Or lunch. As if.
Or dinner.
I sigh, then glance over my shoulder to see if Cort is watching me. He’s not. He’s got his back to me. Just jumping his way back down the platform.
I don’t know if I can do jump rope today. I don’t know if I can do any of this today. I know it’s only been four days since I last had a nice meal, but my stomach hurts. Bad.
Rally, Anya, the survivor’s voice inside my head says. Rally and do what you’re told. That’s how you get out of here intact.
But then what? What happens to me when we leave this rig?
Nothing good, that’s the only thing I know. There is nothing good in my future.
Stick to the plan, Anya. Make him see you as an asset, not a liability.
I’m not sure
it will work, but I don’t have any other options. I haven’t seen a boat around here, so it’s not like I can escape. And even though I can see lights off in the distance at night, they are tens of miles away There is no hope of swimming anywhere. I don’t even know what country I’m in. Or if this rig is considered part of a country. Perhaps Udulf van Hauten’s oil rigs and giant ships are all their own country?
I suddenly notice that the snick, snick, snick of Cort’s jump rope has stopped. And when I look up, he’s watching me. I turn my back to him, pick up my jump rope, and start my day, stomach burning and rumbling, mind a little bit foggy, and my prospects—well, they seem nonexistent at the moment.
I don’t do anything fancy. I don’t even try to do the single hop. I just can’t seem to manage it this morning. I feel like my mind is swimming in the ocean down below and then, without warning, I find myself on the ground, a sharp pain shooting through the back of my head.
My vision goes blurry for a moment and when I force my eyes open, Cort is hovering over my face. He snaps his fingers in front of my eyes when I try to shut them, then he picks me up and carries me inside the little building, setting me down on a small bed in a dark room.
I turn over, ready to fully appreciate this bed, but Cort snaps his fingers again. And when I open my eyes, I see that there is blood on them.
Shit. I reach up, touch the back of my head, realizing I actually hurt myself. I fainted. From lack of food.
Asshole. I scowl at him. Point at him. Accuse him.
He sighs—his default answer with me, it seems. Then he gets up and walks across the hall, leaving this room dark. He flips on the kitchen light and I catch a glimpse of him pulling out the rice maker.
Oh, my smile is sweet. He’s going to feed me. And all it took was a head injury.
That’s cynical, I know. And he deserves a little more credit than that. Because I’ve fainted from lack of food before and, trust me when I say this, no one carried me to a bed and started making me food afterward.
So I am grateful.
He prepares more than rice too. It only takes a few minutes for me to realize he’s making fish. I’m sure it’s some disgusting dried fish that has been on this rig for months or even years, but I don’t care. I’ll eat anything right now.
He comes back, flipping on the light in my room, and then busying himself at a counter on the far wall. That’s when I realize I’m in the clinic where he wrapped my hands yesterday.
Cort comes at me quickly, supplies in hand. He slips my feet off the bed and pulls me up to a sitting position, making me turn so he can see the gash on the back of my head. He sighs again.
He’s mad, I think. He’s mad that he has to feed me. And even though I’m happy about this now, I know everything comes with a price. I will pay for this later. Some way, somehow, this extra meal will come back to haunt me.
Cort presses his hand on the top of my back, right between my shoulder blades, urging me to lean forward. Then he pours something over the wound. Peroxide, from the smell of it. This bubbles against my scalp and he’s not very careful about any of it, so the foaming liquid spills down the side of my head and drips over my arm and on to the floor.
He’s certainly no Maart when it comes to bedside manner. I saw how Maart cared for Cort after the fight. He was very concerned and careful.
Cort stops pouring and then his fingers are probing the wound. And then he actually mutters, “Fucking hell,” under his breath and I turn my face up to him with a smile.
He points at me. Signs something at me with angry fingers—it’s probably Fuck you—and then pushes me down so I can’t look at him.
He takes my hand, places my fingers against a thick wad of gauze over the wound, and applies pressure. I hold it there as he walks over to the counter and starts banging drawers open and closed, looking for something.
What does he need?
When he turns around, he’s holding a little white package and a hemostat. I side-eye him, asking him questions with my gaze even though that is totally against all my rules.
He signs something at me—probably Shut the fuck up, Anya. You’re a giant pain in my ass today—and then tears open the little package and pulls out a needle attached to a suture.
Oh, hell no. I stand up, forgetting about the gauze I’m holding and the pressure I’m supposed to be applying, and feel the blood drip down through my hair. He grabs my arm, shakes me, pushes me down to the floor on my knees, and then tells me to bend over the bed.
He’s going to sew that needle through the skin of my head.
He pushes me, further making his point, and so I comply. He sits down on the bed next to me, then pushes my head into his lap.
Hmm. I don’t know what to think about that. It’s not sexual. Like at all.
But it could be.
I snicker a little and he pinches the inside of my arm, making me hiss. Because that fucking hurt! When I look up at him, he’s not messing around. There is no sly smile on his face. That was not a flirt. He’s not amused, or charmed by me in any way. He’s all business.
So when he points to his lap again, I bend my head down and rest my cheek against his thigh.
He dabs the gauze, then without any warning at all, he stabs me with that needle and begins sewing up my head.
Everything about this is gross—the feeling of the needle, the smell of my own blood mixed with the cooking fish across the hall—and for a moment, I think I’m going to puke.
Cort stops. Like he knows this is coming. But he doesn’t pull me up, or hand me a bowl to hurl into, he leans down and growls at me. Daring me to throw up on him.
I stop breathing through my nose and swallow it down, keeping my eyes tightly closed as he continues to sew up my scalp.
Finally, he ties it off, gets up, finds a pair of scissors, and cuts me loose. Literally.
There is no, How are you, Anya? Hanging in there? Feel better now? No, none of that. He simply drops his equipment onto the counter and leaves, walking across the hall to mess with the food.
I start wondering just how out of the ordinary this type of thing is for Cort. Cooking for someone. Taking care of someone. He doesn’t seem like the type. I mean, isn’t that why he has that entourage around him? This morning definitely feels like a Maart job.
I watch him get out a bowl, fill it with rice and the steamed fish, and then he pauses and looks down at it, staring at it for a little bit longer than should be normal.
I furrow my brow, trying to read his mind. What is he thinking about?
He doesn’t want to give you this food, Anya. Isn’t it obvious? There’s not enough to go around. And if he gives you this extra, small, meager meal, it means one of us goes without food later.
I want to be that tough girl. That one who says, You know what? I don’t need that food. I can take care of myself. I’ve always wanted to be that girl. But I’m not that girl, and I am desperate for that bowl of rice and fish, so I’m not even going to pretend.
Cort turns and looks at me. Then one final look at the bowl and he sets it down on the counter.
I sigh. He’s not going to feed me after all. He’s decided I’m not worth it.
But then he grabs another bowl. Scoops more rice into it. More fish too. And then he gets two forks, grabs both bowls, and nods his head to me as he walks down the hallway. Not to the door that leads to the training room, but towards the back of the building where the tub room is.
I get up—still slightly dizzy, my hair sticky with blood and a little bit foamy from the peroxide—and follow him.
We end up in a large open room with couches and maybe a dozen small tables with chairs. Hmm. A dining room? Or a living room? Or something in between?
There’s a long shelf on one end filled with board games and puzzles. Monopoly. Life. Trouble. Even a beaten-up box of Hungry, Hungry Hippos. There are books too, maybe a hundred of them. No War and Peace, no Moby Dick or Wuthering Heights. There are classic editions of Winnie the Pooh and Beatrix
Potter. Tattered paperbacks of Goosebumps and Babysitters’ Club.
I am so stunned at the change in scenery—so surprised at the comfy feeling that floods through me at the sight of this room—that I just stand there in the doorway, looking around like a dumbass, forgetting all about the pain in my stomach and the newly stitched-up wound on my head.
Cort bangs a fork on one of the tables, and when I look over at him with a start, he’s pointing to the chair across from him. I walk over, unsure how to process what I’m seeing. What we’re doing.
What are we doing?
I sit and Cort shoves one of the bowls at me, then slides the fork across the aged varnished surface of the table. He starts eating immediately, eagerly shoveling the rice and fish into his mouth, and I realize he’s just as hungry as I am.
Well, of course he is, Anya. He’s twice your size and he’s working out like a… well. Like a fucking fighter. While you’ve been halfheartedly skipping some rope and throwing a few punches.
I look around again, still trying to fit the pieces of this place together. What is this? Do they keep kids here? Did he grow up here? Are those his books? His games?
Maybe, but… the Babysitters’ Club? That doesn’t make sense. Bexxie had those books on her shelf. And before they were hers, they were mine.
The sudden appearance of Bexxie in my thoughts makes me startle and a gasp escapes past my lips. Bexxie. Shit, I forgot all about her. I left her. I mean, I knew I was going to leave her, no matter what happened at the end of that fight. But I always thought I’d have time to say goodbye.
The painful rumbling in my stomach fades, the wound on my head forgotten. Bexxie. I left her alone. And I didn’t even give her a hug to let her know she was loved.
Cort taps the table with his fork again, but I don’t look up at him. I’m suddenly very, very sad. And I don’t know if it’s all the new stuff I’m dealing with, or the hunger, or the rough stitching of my head I just endured, but it all becomes a little overwhelming. And then the tears leak out of my eyes before I can stop them.