SICK HEART

by Huss, JA

  He does the same. He won’t hit her again. He would’ve never hit her in the first place. She’s not worth a fight. She’s not a student in this camp, she’s a fucking cook. A dishwasher. Something to be dealt with. To Maart, Anya is nobody.

  Well, she was. Until she slapped him across the face.

  I have to bring a hand up to my mouth to hide my smile, but my girl has some balls on her.

  She obviously has no idea who or what Maart is. Because if she did, she wouldn’t have dared to touch him.

  There is just one guy on the whole planet I know can kick my ass in a fight and that guy is Maart. He never made it into Ring of Fire because we planned it that way.

  I was the one who would fight and he was the one who would put me back together when it was over. Because I’m not fucking smart enough to treat broken bones and run IV lines and he is.

  But make no mistake, Maart is one badass motherfucker. And there is no way he will let some princess of a girl get away with slapping him across the face in front of all these kids.

  He has to do something. He has to.

  If she slapped me like that, I’d have to do something too.

  We all wait—practically holding our breath—as Maart considers his options.

  He sucks in a deep breath and then glares at the kids and his words come out as a low, mean growl. “Get back. To work.”

  And just like that, the whole platform is on the move. Kids go back to their tasks, wrapping their hands or warming up for the day’s training. Rainer lets out a relieved breath because if Maart was gonna make an example out of Anya, he’d want them all watching. Rainer goes back to his kids too, checking their wraps and play-boxing with Evard.

  But I know better. Maart will never let this go. His eyes track around the platform, making sure every kid is doing what they should, as Anya stands in front of him, breathing hard and trying not to gag from the blood inside her mouth.

  His gaze lands on me and I raise my eyebrows at him. And in that same moment he reaches for Anya, his palm still open and aiming for her cheek.

  She blocks him, her forearm batting that potential slap away. I have to hide my smile again, because Maart never takes his eyes off me. And now he is saying things without words, just like Anya was.

  He is asking me, What the fuck did you do?

  And what can I say? All I do is shrug.

  His head slowly turns and he studies Anya for a moment. Sizing her up. Evaluating her potential. “You wanna be a fighter, Anya? And don’t you fucking dare hand me silence, bitch. You just slapped me. I have every right to throw you off this platform and let you die in the sea for what you just did. I am ajarn here.” He leans into her personal space. “Do you understand me?”

  I don’t expect her to answer him with words, and she doesn’t. But she nods her head and bows, just a little bit.

  It’s a slave bow, not a martial arts bow. But it implies absolute submission, so it works.

  Maart lets out a long breath and looks over at me. I haven’t moved, even though all my kids are busy. Anya has been forgotten as far as they’re concerned. None of them are over the age of six, but every one of them—with the exception of four-year-old Ainsey—has been out to the Rock at least twice already. They know what’s coming. They know that in six months they will have their first fight and more than half will lose.

  Which means more than half will be dead when it’s over.

  They don’t have time for Anya’s defiance.

  I don’t give Maart any indication of what he should do about this situation. He’s right. He can deal with her any way he wants. She disrespected him and he has every right to ban her from the camp.

  But when he looks back at her, he grabs her face and turns it, trying to see inside her mouth to find the source of the blood. Then he sighs and points his finger at her. “I’m pissed. If you wanted to train, all you had to do was ask with respect and we would’ve talked it over. Get your ass in the clinic. I’ll have to stitch that fucking tongue. I should just cut it off while I’m in there. It’s not like you need it.”

  His insults continue as he follows Anya into the building, then taper off as the door swings closed behind them.

  I turn back to my kids, ready to check hands, and find Ainsey—as usual—with a mess of wrappings around her knuckles.

  She’s not gonna make it. Knowing this is a curse. And every time I look into her eyes, I feel this heavy weight of guilt. This is why I baby her. This is why I kneel down, unwrap her hands, and then wrap them back up the proper way.

  But I smile the entire time for two reasons. One. Anya blocked Maart’s slap and he wasn’t expecting that. And two. I have to wear this mask with Ainsey. I don’t want her to know what’s coming. I want her to spend these last few months with me thinking it’s all gonna turn out OK, even though it’s not.

  By the time the kids are done jumping rope, Anya and Maart are walking back out to the mats. I pause and watch them as they make their way towards me.

  “She’s with you.” Maart sighs out these words. Like he’s tired. Or maybe just tired of her. I can only imagine the conversation that took place in the clinic.

  Maart hates drama. And every time we get a new girl, he lets them know this. Maart is the complete opposite of Rainer. He is cold. He is calculating. He is serious, he is focused, he is intense. That’s why Rainer has always been in charge of Evard.

  Though Maart has warmed up to Evard over the past year, ever since I fought for his freedom and won. Maart knows he’s here for good. Unlike Ainsey. Her clock is ticking so loud, Maart goes out of his way to ignore her completely.

  I’m not sure what he thinks about Anya. Especially now.

  “What?” he asks.

  I shake my head and smile.

  “Just…” He runs his fingers through his thick, dark hair and sighs. “I don’t know. I don’t care what you do with her. Three fucking months. I can deal with anything for three fucking months.” He gives Anya one final glare, then turns to me. “It was only three stitches, so if she starts getting lippy and whining about how she can’t work hard today, send her back into the kitchen.”

  I chuckle. Yeah, ya know, I would actually love to see a lippy Anya Bokori. Because that sounds pretty fun to me.

  Maart points at Anya. “And you will still clean those fucking dishes and make dinner. Do you understand me?”

  Anya presses her lips together and nods, bowing her head in that slave way she does. I hate that slave bow. So I snap my fingers to get her attention, then point to the mat where my little band of misfit fighters are already doing drills.

  Maart just turns away and walks off. I watch him, wondering what’s really going through his head. Does he hate Anya? Does he resent her? Is he pissed at me for bringing her out here and putting a little kink in our escape plans?

  I’m not sure. We haven’t had time alone together since they all arrived. And our kids don’t sleep in the same area on the roof. He hates the fucking birds and stays as far away from them as possible. I love them. Coming to the Rock is like going home for the holidays. These birds are my family. So anyway, I guess I’ll have to make a point of finding Maart later to try to figure out what he’s thinking. Because we don’t need any tension. We’ve been living in a constant state of high alert our whole lives. This should be a fun time. A time to enjoy what we’ve built here and look forward to new things.

  I turn back to Anya and bow to her. She is immediately confused and bows back. I put my hand on her shoulder to stop her and her eyes meet mine with zero expectations.

  Sometimes she looks… lifeless. Like she’s empty inside the way Lazar is. The way Udulf is. The way I would be too, if I stayed in this world much longer.

  But then, other times, she’s bright and the light inside her is so apparent, it makes me want to shield my eyes. She was like that in the game room. But the bright light has nothing to do with being happy. That light is about being alive. Because I could see it when she was puking up the
tiny fish we caught in the net those first few days we had to work for our dinner. I could see it when I dragged her down to the lower level and left her there as punishment. I could see it when she helped me kill Pavo.

  Anya Bokori is still in there. I don’t know her story and the way this is going, I will probably never know her story, but I do know one thing. She’s no quitter.

  And she’s no slave, either.

  That’s her first lesson today.

  I put my palms flat together like I’m praying, then bow my head and raise my hands up until the front of my thumbs touch my eyebrows. If I was back at home, I would add a greeting, but this is a no-talking space, so I leave that out.

  I point to Anya. And she does it just like I did. And when her bow is over, her light is back.

  The both of us sigh at the same time, then I take her jaw in my hand and motion for her to open her mouth. She does, looking down—again, another instinctual slave gesture that she probably isn’t even aware of—and I check her tongue.

  Three tiny stitches across the side of her tongue where she bit it. Maart is a damn good stitcher, but inside the mouth everything scars. I think this is more of a reinjury than a new one. I have a vague recollection of her mouth bleeding back on fight night. Which means it’s gonna scar good. And take extra-long to heal, as well.

  It’s still seeping a little bit of blood, but she’ll live.

  I walk over to Jafari, my tallest kid—which isn’t saying much, he’s six. But he’s lean, and he’s quick, and he’s already done this camp three times because I got him young. So he doesn’t need to be told what to do. And when I snap my fingers at him, then point to Anya, he just nods and walks over to her, his long, skinny arms already reaching up to slap her.

  Anya appears confused for a moment. And then Jafari’s little fist connects with the edge of her jaw and she snaps out of it, blocking his next attempt.

  I look over at Rainer and catch him laughing and shaking his head.

  But what else can I do? Jafari could kick Anya’s ass if I let him loose. She should really be paired up with Ainsey if this were based on skill level. But Ainsey is with me, and anyway, she’s too damn short.

  I leave Anya and Jafari to it, and then walk over to Ainsey, who is pouting and sitting on the floor, playing with her toes. I kick her with the tip of my foot and she scrambles to her feet as I kneel down with palms up.

  She starts punching my hands in her pre-defined pattern of jab, jab, cross. Over and over again.

  The day passes like that. Jafari puts Anya through her paces and I pretend that I’m teaching my tiny one how to fight. I send Anya back into the kitchen a couple hours before quitting time so she can get dinner ready, and then I make my kids run up and down the stairwell until they are ready to drop from exhaustion.

  I like them tired at the end of the day. Makes them sleep through the night. And that means I can steal a few moments to myself. That’s the best thing about teaching the little ones. They like their sleep time.

  After dinner, when everyone is settled on their mats, we all point to the moon and check off the day using the sign for ‘six.’

  The rules for the first month are strict. The food is bland, there is no talking, there are no trips to the game room, and every day is a lesson in hard work.

  But we are all about milestones here. And Anya reached one today.

  So a few hours later, once I know everyone is asleep, I get up, walk over to Anya, tap her awake, and instruct her to follow me.

  She does this without any objections and we end up in the kitchen. She watches me open a bottle of the Lectra, pour two shots into a single glass, and then she follows me down the stairwell to the landing just above the ocean.

  We sit on the stairs, shoulders touching, and then I turn and offer her the glass.

  She is glowing silver in this moonlight. Her skin has darkened over the weeks and in the sun, she is a golden brown. But right now, she looks like something out of a Nordic fairy tale. Her long blonde hair is wavy and wild, her skin smooth and pale as the shimmering moonlight reflecting off the water turns her into a mythological creature of the sea.

  She looks at the glass of Lectra for a moment. Then her eyes dart up to mine.

  Half, I sign to her. And she huffs, and nods. Then takes the cup from me, downing half.

  I drink the other half. One shot each. It’s just enough, really. Just enough to give me a chill as it goes down, but then warm me back up once it settles in my stomach.

  It’s just enough to erase the tension in my shoulders and allow me to forget.

  I lean back, my elbows resting on the step behind us, then kick my legs out and sigh. Anya does the same and we just sit there. Looking out at the sea. Watching the shipping lane off in the distance.

  I’m not gonna lie, I’ve missed this.

  We had a nice schedule going before the camp started. We were used to each other. At ease with each other. And even though it’s been almost a week and everything about our schedule has changed, I realize that what we had, didn’t changed.

  When I turn to her, she’s already looking at me. And when I kiss her, her mouth is already open.

  I know this is the Lectra. But I don’t care.

  I kiss her back with force, angling my body towards her, then over her, until she’s practically lying back on the steps. And before I can think too hard about it, or talk myself out of it, I slip my hand between her legs.

  Why now? I can read her mind. Why now, with all these people around us, when you haven’t touched me in weeks? Why now?

  And the answer is because time is short. The answer is because she stood up to Maart. The answer is because I want to.

  But the real answer is… because I like her. And I want her.

  I know this is bad. I know this is using her. I know I will hurt her. And in the end, I will leave her.

  But when she opens her legs, responding to—no, agreeing to my request—and I find her wet, I just don’t fucking care.

  I slip a finger inside her and she lets out a long breath. But it’s not enough. I’m tired of her little offerings. I’m tired of her hidden sighs. I’m tired of her silence and I want to make her scream.

  I pull her shirt up and over her head, then push her legs together and tug her shorts down.

  Anya responds by going still and stiff. And I get angry. Because that’s not what this is.

  Do you want to stop? I sign.

  She shakes her head no.

  Then what the fuck, Anya? Do you want to go back up?

  She shakes her head again.

  Then what is wrong?

  She sucks in a deep, deep breath, but doesn’t answer me. Not with a shrug, not with a shake, not with a nod.

  I pull away and lean back again, frustrated.

  I get it. I do. The girl was a sex slave. But that was a long time ago, wasn’t it? And we’ve done it before. Twice.

  I sign this to her. And when she doesn’t answer me, I take her hands in mine and start making signs for her.

  I know you understand me. I know you can sign. I know you can talk. Tell me what’s wrong.

  Her eyes drift away, looking off into the distance at the shipping lane. And I’m just about to force her to look at me when she turns back.

  And then her fingers are moving. Quickly and with confidence. And I am… mesmerized. So enthralled with the signs she makes—because while some of them are standard, most of them are not. They are weird combinations. It’s like slang. Signs that only long-time users of ASL would even be able to comprehend, let alone make up on the spot.

  And this is why it takes me almost thirty full seconds to realize what she is telling me.

  I know who you are. I know what they did. I know what you lost.

  I know why they call you Sick Heart. You’re backwards. You are not Sick Heart, you are Heart Sick.

  And I know who did that to you.

  I pull back, unsure what that means. No, I sign. That’s not what I was asking
. We’ve all lost people, Anya. I don’t want to talk about that, I don’t want to think about that, I just want to know why you don’t want me to touch you.

  I do, she signs.

  You pulled away.

  She shrugs. Nervous.

  Lies.

  It takes her a moment to respond. And when she does, it wasn’t what I was expecting.

  Why did you bring me down here tonight?

  Ah. I get it. She wants to know where this is going. Well. The answer to that is… nowhere. But that’s not what I tell her. I answer the actual question she asked, instead. Because you stood up to Maart. You earned a place on the mat. You’re on the team. It’s a milestone and I wanted to make sure you got to celebrate it. Because now that you’re on the team, you’re on the team. In three weeks, you will fight one of those kids up there. And you will get your ass kicked, Anya Bokori. There is no way around that. Everyone here is better than you—except Ainsey, and she won’t have to test through, she’s too small. So I’m sorry, but you can’t fight her.

  Anya smiles and then laughs out loud. It’s that same sweet, unexpected laugh I heard the very first day we met on the ship.

  And this reminds me of what we were doing before we got all sidetracked.

  I want to hear her. So bad.

  And this time, when I lean in and slide my hand up her bare thigh, she doesn’t go stiff and still. She leans into me, her head resting on my shoulder, her legs opening to give me better access. Her hand slipping down the inside of my thigh where my cock is beginning to grow under my shorts.

  I have doubts. And doubts lead to regrets, and regrets lead to mistakes, and I know better. I have spent my entire life carefully picking my way round landmines. Stepping gently. Speaking carefully. Fully understanding that this tenuous reality I have built is something so fragile, just breathing the wrong way could bring it all down.

  But I like this girl.

  I like her mystery, and her innocence—even though I am fully aware that it was stolen from her the moment she was born—and I like her anger.

  Because that’s what she is. Anya Bokori isn’t some sweet, fair-haired, Viking-eyed child. She is unafraid. She is driven. She is dangerous. That’s why she’s still alive.