SICK HEART

by Huss, JA

  This is the tropics. Cold is relative. And this is the kind of cold that feels… comfortable.

  In fact, this whole storm feels comfortable. Because I’m used to the storm. I don’t mind the storm. I have been here for three months and it feels like I’ve never lived anywhere else.

  One month. That’s all I have left. One month.

  That’s all I can think about. Soon this will all end.

  And even though I’ve been trying to convince myself that things will work out, they won’t. I will never find a life like this again. I will never have a friend like Irina again. I will never work this hard, or care so much, or have so much to lose ever again.

  This makes me so sad… I suddenly want to cry.

  Cort sits down next to me. He doesn’t say anything. The rain is too loud to have a conversation with words. But he takes my hand in his and starts spelling something out with my fingers.

  It’s OK, he spells, over and over again. It’s OK. But it’s not, is it?

  Maybe for him. He’s earned his freedom and he’s leaving. So that’s great. I hope he and Maart and Evard have a great life.

  We all know Rainer is staying behind with the kids. They are very happy about that. And that’s also super great. For them. Because they get to go back to wherever their real home is and things will mostly be the same.

  But not me. Nope. I have no clue where I’m going when this is over. Not even a little bit.

  I look up at Cort and frown as I shake my head. He’s staring down at me with concerned eyes, truly wondering why the fuck I’m losing my shit.

  I pull my hand out of his and start signing. I don’t think I can do it anymore.

  “Do what?”

  Survive.

  “Anya—”

  No, I spell. No! I don’t want to talk to you. Just leave me alone.

  And then I turn my back to him and pull my knees up so I can wrap my arms around myself.

  I wait, almost holding my breath, as the rain eases up and becomes a still consistent, but softer drizzle. But Cort doesn’t get up to leave. Instead, he puts his arms around me and pulls me back so I’m leaning against his chest. “Do you want to hear my story then?”

  I look over my shoulder, catching just a glimpse of his jawline. His chin is propped up on my bare shoulder and the scratchiness of his neglected week-old stubble suddenly makes me acutely aware of his body.

  “Yes? No? You don’t give a fuck?”

  I think about my answer for a few moments, then finally sign, Yes.

  He takes a deep breath and starts talking on the exhale. “I don’t remember most of the early stuff. I was about four and a half, maybe, when Udulf started noticing me. And ironically, it was because I refused to talk. I had already learned sign language. I don’t remember how, so don’t ask. Some kid, probably. Some kid I was raised with. Or… I dunno, maybe a caretaker was deaf. Sounds about right.” He scoffs. “That these sick fucks would assign a deaf person to care for the babies so they couldn’t hear us cry.”

  God, that’s the truth. I don’t remember much of my early days either. I remember Paris, of course. it was always nice in Paris. But other than that—all those men I was sent to. They all just run together. There were yachts. There were private jets. There were beaches, and mountains, and green lawns in front of country estates.

  But I wasn’t a guest.

  I was a slave.

  And I was on a mission.

  Every single time.

  “Anyway.” Cort pauses again, like he needs to build up his will. “I was one of the house slaves at first.”

  I picture that. Having been one myself, it’s not that difficult. The boys had it much worse in my opinion. Lazar didn’t keep a lot of them, and when I was small, he didn’t have any my age. But I would hear them in the middle of the night when Lazar had guests. I would hear them screaming.

  I turn my body, angling my bent knees between us, and look at Cort. His face is almost expressionless. And that’s something I can relate to, as well. We learn how to turn it all off at a very young age. If you can’t turn it off, you don’t make it.

  “I wanted to die back then. That’s about the only thing I do remember. I had this overwhelming urge to just die. And because of this I made a lot of trouble for Udulf. That’s why he brought me out here. I pissed him off and he dropped me off to die.”

  I exhale in surprise.

  Cort nods. “Yep. I was about five. And I was done living. There was no point. Until…” His voice lifts a little. “Until I came out here and met these birds. Well”—he turns and scans the birds all huddled against the exterior wall of the mechanical room—“that bird, actually. See him? He’s got a brownish beak. Their beaks get darker as they age. He’s over thirty years old.”

  I look at Cort and make a face of fuck you.

  He laughs. “I swear. These albatrosses practically live forever. And that guy over there, he was here with me that first time I was left on the Rock. He fed me fish.”

  Holy shit. Cort is Tarzan.

  “That’s how I stayed alive. Udulf didn’t come back for months. In fact, I think he forgot about me. He only came to drop off another little boy my age.

  “I was naked, and savage, and skinny. But I was still alive. My friend over there, he fed me. I had a lot of water. They left pallets of it when they decommissioned this rig.” He pauses to smile. “I didn’t want for anything. I taught myself how to fish. I swam around the reef. I would run laps around this roof. And…” He breathes out. “Every day I would jump off.”

  He’s looking down at the sea when he says this, but then he looks at me. “I tried to kill myself every day. I wasn’t unhappy, but I knew…” He shakes his head. “This wasn’t right. There was something very wrong with my life. And if I didn’t die really fucking soon, I was gonna figure out what all that wrongness was. So I jumped. Every day. But guess what?” He chuckles. “This rig isn’t high enough to kill yourself by jumping. But I did try. I haven’t jumped in more than two decades now, but you wanna know something weird?”

  I nod my head.

  “That night of our fight? That night on the Bull of Light? I had this overwhelming urge to grab your hand and run. Just run with you until we ran out of room and had to jump. And the only reason I didn’t was because… I had won. I had finally reached my goal. We were free. And I was pretty sure that jumping off that ship was a death sentence. We would’ve gotten caught up in the wake or sucked under. And I realized that I didn’t have it in me. I wasn’t ever going to kill myself. My heart was not that sick and I was gonna have to ride this life out for as long as it lasted.”

  My hand crosses the distance between us and I place a flat palm over his heart.

  He has a heart tattoo there with a big keyhole inside of it. But not the kind you draw as a kid. It’s an anatomical heart. And I suddenly realize something, something I never paid attention to before. All the skulls have silver eyes. It’s not easy to see because most of his tattoos are in grayscale. But once you see it, you can’t unsee it. And that’s when I realize… these skulls on his body… they don’t represent the death of his opponents.

  They represent the death of his kids.

  Sick. Heart, I sign.

  He nods. “Yeah. It’s fucking sick all right.”

  I shake my head no. And change the signs around. Heart. Sick.

  His mouth turns down and his eyes go distant for a moment. Unfocused. Like he’s remembering something. Then he looks at me again. “There was someone else. I can’t remember her. Not her face, but I know she was there. I just don’t know who she was.” He goes distant again, then refocuses. “It’s stupid. Like…” He scoffs. Maybe it’s even a laugh. “Like, I get it, OK? We all imagine that maybe this is all a mistake. Maybe we were kidnapped. Or lost. Or switched at birth before we left the hospital. We all want to think that we were dropped into the wrong life. That there is something else out there. Some other place where we truly belong. It’s a fantasy. A very common one
in kids. So I get it, right? But I’m telling you, Anya, I wasn’t always this way. I just know that once upon a time my heart wasn’t sick. Not until that girl got taken away. Before that, I was someone else.”

  I think I stop breathing in these moments.

  He knows. He remembers. He just doesn’t understand that he knows and remembers.

  He is heartsick because of what happened to him.

  And this is when I truly realize that his secret is my secret too.

  Cort throws his hands up. The rain has stopped and the sun is peeking through dark gray clouds. Thin columns of light shoot down towards the water surrounding us. Like we’re being cradled in the hand of God.

  “But I haven’t been him for a very long time.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR - CORT

  The storm quiets as Anya and I sit in the leftover drizzle. My chest feels tight, like I can’t breathe, and I know this is because I said all those words out loud. It’s been a long time since I thought deeply about life before Udulf and I don’t even understand why I felt the need to bring it back up tonight.

  Maybe because she understands me?

  But even so, that doesn’t make her special. We all come from the same dark place. We all live the same pointless lives. We all know that at any moment death is just right around the corner.

  So why her? Why think about it now?

  I’ve tried to piece my place in this world together as best I can over the years based on what I see around me. How these kids of mine come to the camp. How Maart and Rainer came to be. And Evard. Even Ainsey. They are both products of a Lectra-induced fight-night win.

  They are the prize of a prize. Because when I win, I have to breed with them before the night is over. ‘Them’ meaning the girls put up as a prize. Like Anya. Udulf wants my bloodline and it’s not like I’ll be settling down and raising a little family for the Ring of Fire breeding program.

  He takes it from me.

  He take everything from me.

  I don’t know how many of those girls have gotten pregnant during the post-fight, Lectra-induced sex party. At least two, obviously. So that’s one way you get born into our world. Breeding.

  You can be kidnapped by traffickers, you can be sold by your parents, you can come from foster care, or an emergency-relief tent in some third-world country. So that fantasy of mine—that I was someone else, that I am someone else… it’s not really wrong.

  I got here somehow.

  And even though I’ve been doing my best to not think about who I really am and where I really came from, it’s always been there. In the back of my mind.

  I am Udulf’s son.

  And he threw me away. Probably to save himself somehow.

  Just like I will throw Ainsey away to save myself.

  Anya gets to her feet and leans out over the edge of the helipad. I grab her leg out of instinct. This makes her look down at me and sign, Just looking.

  Seventeen languages. That’s pretty fucking crazy. No wonder Lazar kept her. I’m sure the people he sent her to assumed she could read and write. She’s so pretty. These sick fucks like to keep the pretty ones as pets. Treat them like daughters. Which is a whole other level of sick evil.

  The daughters don’t go to school, of course. They hire tutors for them. But they don’t really teach them anything of consequence. They learn a little math, they learn a little reading, they might paint or practice an instrument. But they do not teach the daughters foreign languages.

  It’s not like most people are even capable of learning seventeen languages. So she’s a genius. And that’s the real reason Lazar kept her all these years. She’s too smart to let go. Too smart to even kill.

  So why did he put her up as sacrifice for this fight?

  Anya said, If you won, I died and Udulf’s secrets went with me. And if Pavo won, you died and Lazar’s secrets went with you.

  This is what doesn’t make sense to me. What secrets? And why get rid of her now?

  Anya sighs. Then she starts backing up, her eyes trained on the horizon.

  “What are you doing?”

  She smiles, but doesn’t look at me. I get to my feet. “Anya. What are you doing?”

  She points to the sea, then looks me in the eyes. And in that moment, I know exactly what she’s going to do.

  “Wait, wait, wait, wait.” I step in front of her. “Why?”

  She doesn’t answer me. Just puts her hand out, palm up.

  I look over at the edge. The steel beam is in the way. But it’s a short leap over. Nothing insurmountable. I’ve jumped off this platform enough times to know that, at least.

  Then I look back at Anya, take her hand, and the next thing I know, we’re running.

  And then… we’re flying.

  Falling. Plunging. Deep and quick—and then slow as the ocean suffocates us.

  I push pause on life and just… open my eyes.

  And she is all I see.

  One beautiful blonde girl. Her perfect skin marred now with the scars of her fights. Her eyes open as well. And even though this water is not the kind you find near the shore—it’s not the kind that glows turquoise in the sun, it’s mostly dark green, cloudy and more like a lake today—even so, the blue of her eyes is so striking, I forget that I need to breathe.

  Her hair floats around her face like she is a creature of this sea. A dark, dangerous creature of this sea that makes you want to give up everything and take your chances trying to tame her.

  My sick heart changes in this moment. It doesn’t quite mend. But the hole that once held the missing piece might… shrink a little.

  Then we are rising again, our bodies naturally buoyant, seeking the air we need to live.

  And when we crash through the surface together, I realize we’re still holding hands.

  She laughs. A real laugh. Even better than that first one I heard back on the ship before fight night.

  She drops my hand and I almost reach for her again, missing her grip immediately, desperately wanting to hold on to her.

  She wipes her eyes, still smiling, still laughing, spinning around as we tread the choppy water of a tantrum-throwing sea. Then she turns back to me, her face suddenly serious, and she says, “Don’t ask me again. Don’t ever ask me again.”

  I’m so stunned by her words—and so enthralled with her sweetness of her voice—I don’t say anything back. I just float in front of her. Afraid I’ll spook her and the magic of this moment will disappear.

  “This is what I sound like.” She stares into my eyes, so serious. “But it’s the last time I’m going to talk to you. Don’t ever. Ask me again.”

  Then she turns in the water and casually swims towards the underbelly of the rig, rising and falling on the large rolling waves like she really is a creature of the sea. Heading for the rusty ladder and leaving me behind.

  I shake myself out of the stupor she put me in, then swim after her, overtaking her easily and then finally cutting off her retreat. “No. No, no, no, no, no.”

  She says a lot of things back to me in the language of her silence. She speaks to me in a language I’m fully fluent in by now, and that’s fine. Because all I want is her attention.

  I grab her face. Both of my palms flat against her cheeks. And then I lean in and kiss her.

  Our lips touch and she tastes like an unsettled ocean of regret. Our lower bodies drift closer, our feet making small currents, treading water to keep us afloat.

  She opens her mouth first and this causes a rush of satisfaction inside me. Our tongues tangle together, doing a little dance only they understand. It’s not a light kiss, but it’s not a heavy one either. Her lips are soft and mold against mine in just the right way. I grab her around the waist and pull her right up next to me, pressing us together, trying to make us one as we continue the kiss.

  She reaches up and threads her fingers into my wet hair. And then she pulls back and shakes her head no.

  “Why?” I whisper.

  She doesn’t answer.
Just turns, reaching for the ladder.

  “Hold on. Hold the fuck on. This is not how this night ends.”

  She turns in the water, eyes flashing. “Why? Because you didn’t get sex?”

  “What? No. What the hell, Anya? That’s not fair and you know it. I don’t care about sex.”

  “You seem to want to have it with me. Even though I know you’re not supposed to be doing that. Maart told me. He told me I was fucking shit up and that was one of the examples.”

  “When did he say—you know what? Fuck Maart. This has nothing to do with Maart. This is about me and you. And the fact that after three months of complete silence, you just spoke to me. And that’s it? ‘Don’t ask me again?’ That’s all you have to say?”

  She shrugs her shoulders, her face blank. Emotionless. It’s an expression I recognize. We all get it at times when we shut down. That’s what she’s doing. Shutting down so she can get past this conversation and not have to deal with something messy. “That’s really all there is to say.”

  I stare at her for a moment. “What are you doing?”

  She points her finger towards the sky. “Trying to go up there.”

  “That’s where you’re going. No. I want to know what you’re doing. Why are you suddenly angry? Because I got you to speak?”

  “I chose to speak. And now I’m choosing not to do it anymore.”

  “So you’re what, failing at that on purpose? Because you’re still talking, Anya. And fuck that, anyway. No. I have questions for you.”

  “No one gives a fuck about your questions, Sick Heart.”

  I narrow my eyes at her. “Don’t do that.”

  “Don’t do what?”

  “Call me that name.”

  “Isn’t that your name?”

  “What the fuck is your problem? I didn’t do anything. I didn’t force you to talk to me. You chose to do that. So if you’re mad at yourself—”

  “I’m not mad. And trust me, Cort”—she sneers my name a little and I’m truly baffled at the complete one-eighty of her mood—“I learned to take responsibility for my own actions a very long time ago. I have no use for blame.”