SICK HEART

by Huss, JA

  She turns, once again reaching for the ladder.

  But I place my hand softly on her shoulder. “Anya. I’m not here to piss you off. I don’t hang around with you hoping for a fuck. And if you’re mad about talking to me, then…” I blow out a breath of resignation. “Then fine. Don’t talk. But don’t go up yet, either.”

  “Why?” She doesn’t look at me when she says this. Just stares straight ahead at the rusted-out ladder.

  “Because.” I sigh. “Because you’re the first person in a very long time who has made me want to talk.”

  She scoffs.

  “No,” I say, reading her mind. Because I can hear her thoughts like they are my thoughts. And they are, I think. Because we are the same, somehow. “This has nothing to do with you talking to me, Anya. Whatever secrets you’re holding for Lazar, I don’t want them. I don’t need them. That’s not why—”

  “Because you’re out of here, right?” She peeks over her shoulder at me. “That’s why you don’t need them. You’re out of here.”

  I let out a long exhale. “You know what? Five minutes ago, we took a leap of faith together—”

  “Is that what you thought it was?”

  “—and two minutes ago, you made the choice to speak. And you kissed me—”

  “You kissed me!”

  “You kissed me back. And who cares, the point is we were kissing two minutes ago. And now you’re just getting all mean on me.” I point at her. “I know how to read your silence. Even when you’re saying one thing and thinking the other.”

  “Oh, do you?”

  “You’re being nasty because you want to change the subject. And anger is an effective way to do that. Trust me, I’ve been there. So I see through you, Anya Bokori.”

  She goes stiff, and even over the sound of the waves crashing against the steel pillars, I can hear her loud, deep breaths of frustration. Like she’s counting to ten to calm herself down. Then she says, “You know what? That’s the whole fucking problem.” She turns all the way around and stares up into my eyes. “Everyone just sees right through me.”

  I point at her. “That’s not fair either.”

  “No?”

  “I’m trying to know you, Anya.”

  “I don’t need you to know me, Cort. You’re out of here.”

  “Ohhh.” I draw in a deep breath. “I get it. I’m sorry. I should’ve realized quicker.”

  “Don’t pretend like you know anything. Because you don’t.”

  “You’re hurt.”

  “I don’t get hurt. That ass-kicking Irina gave me—”

  “Not that kind of hurt, Anya.” I place my hand flat on her breast. Right above her heart. It’s thumping inside her chest. “This kind. You’re mad because I’m leaving.” She scoffs. And it occurs to me that this might be the longest conversation she’s had in years. Maybe ever. “You’re wasting it.”

  “Wasting what?”

  “This.” I point back and forth between us.

  She frowns so deep. Her eyes go dark, and then they are glassy with the threat of tears. “There is no… this, Cort.”

  “Why? Because I’m leaving? What if I wasn’t?”

  “You are.”

  “But what if I wasn’t?”

  “You are. And you’re fucking crazy if you think I’m going to take that away from you. And if you say another word about not getting out, I’ll never speak to you again. That’s a promise.”

  She wants to cry. I can see it. Hell, I can feel it. And this realization is like a punch to the gut. Because this is the moment when I truly grasp her hidden darkness. She wants to cry, not because I’m leaving and she’s not, but because she thinks she has changed something in me. And she might become the reason I stay a slave forever.

  “OK.” I nod. “Fine. Topic over. But don’t leave yet. Stay down here with me.”

  She makes a face. “Down here… where? We’re clinging to a rusty stairwell in the middle of a rolling ocean.”

  I smile and point up. “There.” Her face follows the end of my finger to the little catwalk-like platform welded between two pillars. “It’s not much, but we’ll dry off, at least. And we can stretch out and have privacy.”

  She shoots me a look.

  “Shut the fuck up. I’m not trying to get in your shorts. If I wanted to fuck you, Anya Bokori, it would not be hard to change your mind.”

  She huffs.

  “But I don’t care about the sex. And I’m insulted that you think I do.”

  She lets out a long silent breath, then looks back up at the platform. “How do we get up there?”

  I win. “Follow me.”

  We swim over to another rusty ladder on the side of a pillar and climb. This one is truly under the belly of the rig. And we have to climb all the way up to the top and then walk along a wide steel beam and climb down another ladder to the platform.

  I have no idea what this rusty metal grate affixed to the side of the pillar was used for, but in years past, when I was out here alone, I used to tether my nets to it. Because net fishing isn’t something that can easily be done alone.

  On each end there is a platform that is shaped to the side of the pillar, so it curves a little. And when Anya and I lean our backs up against the pillar, we are looking out in slightly different directions, with slightly different perspectives.

  “You don’t have to talk,” I say, breaking our silence. “But I would love it if you would listen.”

  She turns her head to look at me. And it’s funny. Because I don’t need her words to hear her talking anymore. She’s asking me a question. Listen to what?

  “I have this dream. Did I ever mention that? It’s recurring and I’ve been having it since I was a kid. But here’s the thing… ever since I met you, it’s been changing. For as long as I can remember, the people in my dream are blank faces. Usually black blobs, but sometimes they are white blobs. The point is, they are blobs. At least, they were.”

  “What are they now?”

  I huff a little air. “You.”

  “Me?”

  “I know it’s not really you. You’re way too young.” I pause, then say, “How old are you, Anya?”

  She hesitates. “Eighteen.”

  “Liar,” I whisper back.

  “They tell me I am, anyway.” I feel her shoulders shrug against mine. “How would I know?”

  “Well… OK. Eighteen is too young. They tell me I’m twenty-seven and I’m pretty sure that’s true. So you’re nine years younger than me. You were born five years after Udulf took me into his house as a slave. There is no way you were there. So I know it’s not you. But there is a girl there.”

  “And you think it’s me… why?”

  “It just feels like you.”

  “It’s not me.”

  “Maybe not.” But I say it like I don’t mean it.

  Because I don’t mean it. I know that girl isn’t Anya, but I also know, she is.

  That’s dreams for ya, right? They never make sense and they only ever give you a glimpse of the truth. Never the whole picture.

  “That’s like… projection,” Anya says. “Or something.”

  “Close,” I say. “It’s called repression. It’s when you rearrange shit in your head so you don’t have to see the truth. And in my case, I have suddenly attached you to the face in my memory, even though it can’t possibly be you.” I pause to look at her. Then I smile. “I think it’s because you are very fucking pretty, Anya Bokori.”

  She blushes, even though I know this is not any kind of revelation for her. She has lived in Lazar’s clutches for nearly two decades. There is no telling how many times she has been used. And most of those people Lazar gave her to would have said something similar. But the blush is real.

  “I want it to be you. Get it?”

  She nods.

  “I want it to be you, because if you were that person, then what I think happened… never happened.” I sigh a little. “It means it was just a dream. I want it to be a
dream.”

  “Yeah,” she sighs. “You do want it to be a dream.”

  And… is that a weird response? Or am I just overthinking shit?

  But before I can ask her about it, she says, “Don’t you ever think about revenge?”

  I turn my head to look at her. Then shrug. “Don’t we all?”

  “Then why not go get it? I’ve heard you’re the most dangerous man on this planet, Cort van Breda.”

  I smile. “I’ve heard similar. But maybe I’m just holding out for the fairy tale ending, Anya Bokori.”

  She huffs. “Happily ever after?”

  “Among other things.”

  “What’s that look like?”

  I pause there to think about it. Then sigh. “I don’t really know. I guess I never thought it through, but just off the top of my head I’d say… a rescue would be nice.”

  “A rescue?” She scoffs loudly and turns her body towards mine. “Since when does the Sick Heart need a rescue?”

  “I guess I don’t. And I’m not expecting it. But it would be so sweet if, just once, someone would show up at the last minute—right before the bomb ticks down to zero, like in the movies, ya know? And someone—I don’t know who. Someone I don’t expect though. They show up and save my ass in the nick of time.”

  She’s silent for a moment. Imagining the picture I just painted in her head. Then, she says, “You could just save yourself, Cort.”

  “I probably could. But I’d have to bite the hand that feeds me to make it happen. And then what? I’m on the run for the rest of my life? Hiding in favelas. Lurking in jungles. That’s not an ending I can live with. So I don’t know. I guess I can’t answer your question. Or maybe I can, I just don’t want to.”

  She looks down at her fingernails. Picks at them a little. “It’s better that way.”

  And now I remember what she said. “Why do I want it to be a dream, Anya?”

  She shrugs. Her shoulders bumping against mine. “Because then it’s not real.”

  We’re silent for a little while. I kinda wanna keep talking. I kinda wanna tell her more. I’m not sure why, because it’s not going to do anything but drag us both deeper into the dark depths of this fucked-up world we’re living in and then make us both remember what that fight was about earlier.

  I’m leaving. She’s not. And I guess we just have to live with that.

  We stay on the platform, but we settle back into a world of silence. Like that little side-trip into the spoken word never happened. We doze off, leaning in to each other, and then wake up just before dawn and climb back into the real world.

  Putting everything about last night behind us.

  Because it’s fight day.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE - ANYA

  One by one the kids are called to the mat to test out of month two. I’m only half paying attention to who is winning or losing because I’m still busy thinking about last night with Cort.

  Did I really speak to him?

  I did. After all these years of silence, last night I spoke words. And I don’t even remember what the first one was.

  This blows my mind. Because in the early years, when I first stopped talking, I used to fantasize about what the first word would be. I imagined whole scenarios. And Lazar was a part of each and every one. I was going to spew the perfect words at him and make him sorry.

  Today, all of that feels very juvenile. Just a child’s dream of vengeance. I never did it, for one. I never spoke to him and none of my fantasy revenge plans ever came to fruition.

  “OK. That’s it. Good job, everyone. Welcome to month three.” Maart pauses. “You have one day off and you’re—”

  Whoa, whoa, whoa. What the actual fuck is happening here? I stand up and take a few steps forward. Maart stops talking mid-sentence, his eyes fixed on mine. What about me? I sign.

  “What about you?”

  My fight? Where’s my fight?

  “You don’t get one this time.”

  “Why not?” I turn to find Cort walking up behind me. “Why doesn’t she get a fight? She’s been training as hard as anyone else.”

  Maart sneers at him. “Because she doesn’t need a fight. She won’t be on a platform in a few months fighting for her life.”

  “How do you know?” Cort asks. I turn to look at him because his tone is dark and serious. And this is Maart. He doesn’t speak to Maart like that. “You have no idea what’s gonna happen to her when this is over. So why would you take this away from her?”

  Maart’s eyes track over to mine and he lets out a contemptuous laugh. “Am I stealing something from you, Anya? Because I thought I was doing you a favor. I’m not going to pair you up with little kids to stroke your ego.” His eyes go back to Cort, narrowing down into slits. “Raffie sprained his ankle yesterday. So he didn’t fight today. And you were so busy this morning coddling that useless toddler and dreaming about your night down below with that overgrown house slave that you didn’t even notice Raffie didn’t fight today. There is no one left for Anya to fight, so this is settled.”

  He pauses and I swear, the entire ocean goes still waiting to see how Cort will react to Maart’s words. Because it’s very clear that Maart is pissed. And it’s also very clear that the reason he’s pissed is due to Ainsey and me.

  “What the fuck?” Cort’s voice is low.

  “What the fuck?” Maart repeats. “That’s what I should be asking you. What the fuck are you doing?” Then his gaze lands on Rainer. “You’re already fucking shit up, Rainer. Telling him you’re staying behind. And whatever. If that’s how you want to waste your one life, who am I to tell you no? But you’ve been going around telling these damn kids that you’re staying behind to take care of them.”

  “So what?” Rainer asks. “Why do you care? In one month, you’re washing your hands of the entire thing.”

  “Because this isn’t over yet. And you two dumb fucks don’t seem to get it. And that’s fucking funny, coming from you, Rainer, since I’m the only one who seems to be taking this camp seriously. You’re trying to make these kids into your best friends. And you?” He points to Cort. “You’re trying to play Daddy to a little girl who won’t—”

  “That’s enough!” Cort snaps. “We can talk about all that shit later when we’re alone. Right now, we’re talking about Anya’s test. She did the work, she gets a fight.”

  Maart and Cort lock eyes as several long, awkward seconds tick off. “There’s no one left for her to fight. Unless you want to force Raffie on to the mat.” Maart looks at me. “But then again, maybe that’s what you need. An opponent who can’t even stand.” Maart snickers. “Nah. He’ll still kick your ass.”

  I step forward again. Because I get it. Maart hates me. He hates the fact that Cort brought me here. He hates the fact that Cort likes me because this reminds him that he’s replaceable. I point to myself and then I sign, How about you?

  “How about me what?”

  Fight me.

  Maart laughs.

  All the kids gasp.

  Cort says, “Fuck that. You’re not—”

  But before he can get all the words out, putting an end to my challenge, Maart says, “Fuck yeah. Let’s go.” And he whips his shirt off over his head and begins circling me on the mat.

  Cort steps between us, arms wide to form a barrier. “Stop it. She’s not fighting you. You would kill her.”

  Maart stops circling and straightens up out of his fighter’s stance. “What the fuck is wrong with you? That’s not a rhetorical question. What. The fuck. Is wrong with you? I’ve fought plenty of our kids and not a single one ever died.”

  “She’s not one of our kids,” Cort begins.

  But Maart cuts him off. “That was my fucking point. She’s not one of us. She doesn’t need a test. She won’t be fighting for her life in a few months. She will go live in one of Udulf’s mansions, or harems, or wherever the fuck Udulf keeps his women. And she will be fed, and fucked, and—”

  “That is enough!” Co
rt yells it. And every single kid ducks their head a little, cowering from the anger and rage in his voice. “That’s enough.”

  Maart walks towards him and pokes Cort in the chest. “Fuck you. I don’t take orders from you, Sick. Heart. I’m not your underling. I am your equal. And you and I both know who the better fighter is, so don’t you fucking tell me that’s enough. I’ll let you know when I’ve had enough.”

  Cort pushes him. Hard. Forcing Maart to take a step back. And then this fight is all but inevitable. Until Rainer steps between them, his back to Maart, his finger in Cort’s face. “Step the fuck back and get out of the way. We have an uneven number of kids this time, so this is how it ends. If Anya wants a test, she fights Maart. This is how it’s done.”

  “With kids who know what the fuck they’re doing.” Cort points to me. “She has no idea what she’s doing. He’s playing with her.”

  “Then I guess she should say no,” Rainer says. He turns to me. “You have three seconds to make a decision. Do you want a test, or don’t you?”

  I nod yes before I can think about it. Because fuck this Maart guy. He’s been on my case for two months now. Like whatever his problem is, it’s all my fault. And I’m sick of it.

  “There you go. Get off the mat, Cort. We’re all hungry and ready to celebrate the end of phase two.” Rainer pushes Cort backwards until he stumbles off the mat and is standing behind his row of kids.

  And then it’s just me and Maart. With nothing but a few feet between us.

  He hunkers down into his fighting stance again and turns into someone else right before my eyes. Some ruthless killer version of himself. He turns into Cort the way he was that night on the helipad with Pavo.

  He turns into an animal.

  And I turn into his prey.

  I put my fists up, mimicking his fighter stance, but without the two and half decades of practiced good form.

  We circle each other for a few seconds, then, before I even understand what’s happening, he’s smacked me in the face. I grit my teeth, tasting blood. My tongue has mostly healed from the last time he did that, but it’s like he knew he could split it back open with one well-placed slap.