SICK HEART

by Huss, JA

  To honor Pavo, they paint a snake eating its own tail around my right breast.

  To honor Cort, they make one side of my face into a skull. My eye is outlined in deep black. My cheek becomes a jawbone showing teeth.

  My hair starts out in two long ponytails. But they twist them up and secure them on top of my head like horns.

  When I look in the mirror, I am evil personified.

  And it fits, I think.

  Everything about this night is going to be evil.

  A group of teenage boys dressed up in slave attire—shirtless with gold skirts—escort me through the halls when I am done.

  Two flank me on either side. They are young, because they are only my height. The two in front and the two behind are older. Maybe fifteen.

  The younger one on my left whispers, “I hope Pavo wins.”

  “Yeah,” the one on the right says. “You do not want to know what happens to the girls Sick Heart takes home.” I glance at him with frightened eyes. “I hear he kills them.”

  Then the other one says, “I heard the same thing. He kills them all.”

  “But don’t worry,” the one on my left says. “We’re all rooting for Pavo. He’s the favorite tonight.”

  “He’s got a cheat,” the other one snickers. “And everyone knows it.”

  “Shut up,” an older boy in front barks. “Quit talking to her.”

  “It’s true,” a boy behind me echoes. “We all know that Pavo’s team hid a weapon on the platform.”

  “You don’t know shit,” the boy in front says.

  This whole time we are walking upstairs. But we stop at a large double steel door and then the two slave boys in front pull it open and step aside.

  Immediately I am bombarded with the flashing lights of cameras. Dozens of men take pictures while reporters yell questions at me.

  My two flanking escorts take my hands and lead me through the chaos. Disgusting, sweaty bodies reeking of the hot stench of oil and ocean push up against me.

  “Just follow us,” the one on my right says. “We’re not stopping here. They want you on the platform right now.”

  The boys who were behind me are now in front, pushing the crowd out of the way. The camera flashes stop and darkness takes over.

  There is no moon tonight. And every light on the ship has been turned off.

  Everything around me feels both empty and full in the same moment.

  Then we are climbing another set of stairs. At the top I realize we’ve already reached the Bull of Light’s helicopter pad. Two spotlights come on, but not regular spotlights. Black lights. And my skin glows an unnatural bright white under the purple haze.

  Both of my slave boys squeeze my hands. Then they lean in and kiss me on the cheek that’s not painted like a skull.

  “Good luck,” the first one says.

  “Pavo for the win,” the other one says, making a fist.

  And then they leave me there, under the spotlights.

  I breathe heavy and hard for a few moments, then almost fall into a panic when the spotlights go out. My heart shudders inside my chest. Because it’s all happening too fast and I don’t know what to do.

  But of course, that’s not really true. I only have one job here. I am to stand in the center of the round helicopter platform and not move until the fight is over.

  But then what?

  What happens to me after the fight?

  Men in the crowd begin to scream at me from the topside. They are much closer than I imagined they would be and when I look up, I can pick out a few individual faces as the black spotlight passes back and forth across the crowd.

  I scan them, wondering what they are thinking.

  They begin to boo me when I don’t move. They jeer and spew insults. And I realize I need to be in the center before anything else can happen.

  I take a few steps forward and they cheer, clapping and whistling, calling at me.

  The helipad hangs out over the side of the ship by just a little bit. Just enough so that when the helicopters land, there is no threat of the spinning rotors hitting anything on the command center. But this asymmetry, combined with the rolling motion of the massive ship, sets me off balance and I need to brace myself with feet spread apart to control the spinning in my head.

  After a moment, I close my eyes, still slowly walking forward, and force myself to snap out of it.

  Everyone is watching you, Anya. This is the fight of the year. If you ruin it, they will not forgive you.

  I swallow hard, open my eyes, and find myself in the center of the platform, standing on the giant H painted on the concrete.

  That’s when all the lights go out and the drumming begins.

  A slow, thumping beat at first. Like the footsteps of some giant beast coming towards me. The drummers are close, but I can’t see them. I know it’s not a recording. The ritual has started and this is part of it.

  The beat picks up and becomes tribal, turning this modern-day miracle of a ship into a jungle island in the middle of a sea of darkness.

  And when I look around, past the men eager for the blood that’s coming, and truly take in the fact that there is nothing around us for thousands of miles and no moon overhead to light my way… I am lost.

  But does it matter?

  Haven’t I always been lost?

  The pace of the drumming picks up. It gets louder and louder. And then there they are.

  First Cort, then Pavo. They enter the helipad from opposite stairwells that lead up to the platform and they do not look the way I expected.

  Oh, there is a skull and there is a snake. But Cort is not the sum of his tattoos like I had guessed. He is a glowing yellow skeleton, each and every bone outlined in fluorescent paint. His ribcage. His pelvis. The tiny bones of his hands. And yeah, even his cock. A long, thick line of yellow dangling between his legs.

  Naked.

  Well. I didn’t see that coming. But I’m not surprised. Everything about these fights is hypersexualized. That’s probably why Pavo was so distracted by Cort’s dick last night.

  Pavo is painted as a snake. His face is the open mouth of a cobra, fangs protruding and ready to strike, his body covered in intricate neon-green scales that coil around his chest, and hips, and one leg. The rest of him is black, except, again, his cock—a thick line of green between his legs, swinging and slapping against his thigh as he walks towards me, because he is hard.

  I roll my eyes.

  They walk up to me without hesitation and each of them grips one of my hands.

  Pavo squeezes tight. Like he’s trying to crush the tiny bones.

  Cort’s grip is delicate. Like he doesn’t want to touch me, but is being forced to do so.

  Drones circle above us. The drumming is so loud now, I want to hold my hands over my ears. The men on the topside walkways cheer with enthusiasm.

  “Are you ready, Anya?” Pavo asks. He steps out of the line we make, far enough for him to look past me, at Cort. Pavo’s eyes find mine and he smiles. “He likes you, nyuszi. I can tell. I can see it in the way he looks at you.” Cort says nothing and Pavo belts out laughter. “He likes you because… the two of you share a secret, don’t you, nyuszi? You and the Sick Heart. You are more alike than you ever realized.”

  I narrow my eyes at Pavo and sneer my lip, confused, but also annoyed. Just shut up already. No one wants to hear you talk.

  “Oh, you don‘t know?” Pavo snarls. The spectators are growing tired of waiting and their cheers become jeers once again. “You really don’t know?” He shakes his head. Then he leans in closer to me, still focusing on Cort. “He doesn’t talk, Anya. Not a fucking word from him in public in over twenty years.”

  My mouth drops open. Then I turn my head to see Cort’s face. It’s unreadable, his mouth nothing but a flat line, his silver eyes narrowed down into slits, staring straight into mine.

  Pavo grabs my breast with his free hand and the crowd goes wild. “He is silent. Just like you, nyuszi.”

>   I don’t look at Pavo. Because right now I cannot take my eyes off Cort van Breda.

  Is it true? Is he silent, like me?

  “He doesn’t talk,” Pavo continues. “And neither do you.” Then he laughs. “I can only imagine how that would work out should he win. But he won’t win. Don’t worry. You will be mine in the end, Anya. And I will make you talk. I will make you do all kinds of things with that mouth of yours.”

  Pavo is saying these words to me, but he’s really talking to Cort.

  Everything I know about Cort van Breda flashes through my mind. He does not do interviews. He stands there. Looks pretty in his Muay Thai shorts and his skull tattoos climbing up and down his body. He didn’t say anything when he entered the reception hall earlier. He walked right past us and grabbed the Lectra bottle.

  Maart talked for him.

  Just like Bexxie talks for me.

  I look back at Pavo, hoping he will say more.

  But he doesn’t say anything.

  He just punches me in the mouth.

  My lip splits and my whole body goes whirling backwards from the force.

  The crowd erupts in cheers as I hit the helicopter platform and slide almost a meter from the force of Pavo’s blow, my entire left side scraping against the concrete.

  And when I finally gather my senses and look up… the fight has started.

  Pavo and Cort are a flurry of arms and legs. Kicks and elbows. Pavo lands a flat foot right in the center of Cort’s stomach and Cort goes reeling back just like I did.

  He doesn’t lose his footing, but he pauses for a moment as the pain in his gut sinks in. Then his eyes narrow down and focus on Pavo. Some of the spotlights from above weave around the platform, making me dizzy from the strobe effect. But there is one black light trained on Pavo and one black light trained on Cort. This presents a bizarre dichotomy, making the two painted fighters look like futuristic creatures straight out of the ancient world.

  Pavo doesn’t wait, he’s already on the next attack. He pushes forward towards Cort, throwing a kick. But Cort counters the kick with an elbow and simultaneously hooks Pavo in the jaw with the opposite hand. Pavo stumbles, but Cort doesn’t give him a chance to recover. He hits Pavo with a powerful uppercut that lands flush with his mouth, the same way Pavo hit me.

  Pavo goes down. Hard.

  The drumming around us is deafening. Almost drowning out the cheering crowd.

  For a moment I think it’s over. Pavo is struggling to get back on his feet. Cort turns his back to him, walking away.

  But it’s not over. Because one of them is still alive. And spoiler alert: That’s not how this ends.

  I have only been to two fights, and neither of them were at this elite level. They both involved Pavo, but that was years and years ago. One was the fight that ushered him into top-level status. The other one was at Pavo’s local stadium filled with a crowd of regular Thai people. He did fight that night, but it was more of an exhibition. There was a referee, there seemed to be rules, and most of the fighters that night looked like kids.

  There are no rules here, they’re not even wearing gloves—not even wearing tape on their knuckles. And these two men haven’t been kids for a very long time.

  They will fight until they no longer can.

  I get up on my knees, refusing to be a compliant participant in the outcome of this night. Cort is turning back towards Pavo when my movement distracts him. His head swings in my direction. Pavo disappears into the darkness, his spotlight now gone.

  The crowd begins to boo and shout, making sure their objections can be heard over the pounding drums. They probably have money on Cort and my participation in the fight seems to be a clear attempt at aiding Pavo.

  Cort doesn’t seem to notice. His eyes are locked with mine. He puts a hand up.

  Stop, that gesture says.

  But I’m not going to stop. I turn, crouched, looking for Pavo in the darkness.

  Because… he. Hit me.

  That piece-of-shit coward hit me.

  That baby living inside a man’s body hit me.

  That arrogant prick who thinks I will become his property hit me.

  In front of all these people.

  There is blood in my mouth.

  My tongue has been split open.

  I spit the blood out and suddenly… I am enraged.

  And that’s when all the spotlights go out.

  The drumming continues in the dark, a wild, frantic beat that drowns out the shouts from the agitated crowd.

  There are flashes of yellow and green, the leftover glow from the fighters’ fluorescent body paint. But after a few moments, even that blinks out.

  Someone runs past me. The wind flutters over my bare skin and I can just barely make out the slapping of bare feet over the drumming. I squint in the dark, trying to make out shapes. And holy shit, is it ever dark. No moon, no stars, every light on the ship is out. And if I wasn’t rocking back and forth with the rhythm of an ocean, I would be utterly lost. The kind of lost that drives people to madness.

  Then, just as suddenly as they went out, the spotlights come back on. But all three of them are targeting Cort.

  And they are not black lights. They are bright and white and he is alone in a shower of illuminated brilliance in the vast sea of darkness.

  Cort shields his eyes from the intense glare and that’s when Pavo attacks.

  He rams Cort like a bull. Knocking him down with a hard thump that sends a sick chill down my spine.

  I get to my feet and take deep breaths as the white lights blink out and the black lights make them glow again, but leave me dark.

  Pavo’s snake winds around Cort’s skeleton.

  The drums have slowed, taking up a pace that conjures up images of being stalked. A beat that reminds me of the hunt. I crouch again, thinking, watching the fight.

  Pavo is on top of Cort, but Cort hasn’t surrendered. They are grappling. Fast-moving arms, and legs, and elbows, and knees.

  I look around, thinking about the boy’s words just minutes ago. He’s got a cheat. We all know Pavo’s team hid a weapon on the platform.

  Pavo, the cheater.

  Pavo, the deceiver.

  He is vile, rotten, and wrong.

  He has no sense of pride, or loyalty, or fairness.

  He is nothing but scum and even my nine-year-old sister-in-name-only can see it.

  So I know there is a weapon on the platform.

  But where? The helipad is nothing but a flat plane. I stand up and begin walking in the hazy, leftover black light that leaks outward from the fight, squinting my eyes and searching for a shadow that might be a knife.

  That’s Pavo’s weapon of choice. He uses knives as part of his training ritual with his boys. He cuts them. Slices marks down their arms every time they don’t follow one of his insane directives. So they can never forget who is in charge. So they have to carry their shame with them for the rest of their lives.

  I walk faster, ignoring the two men fighting. They are on their feet now, and the blows are vicious. They are grunting and they hit the hard concrete more times than I can count as I scan the helipad for the knife I know is here.

  Except it’s not.

  There is nothing on this platform. It is bare. It is flat. It is empty.

  So that means it has to be somewhere else, somewhere close enough that Pavo can get to it. There are only two choices. The stairwells. I jog over to the closest one, searching, my fingertips gliding along the smooth steel frame.

  There it is. Fastened to the underside of a thick railing.

  I pull, and it comes free with a rip of Velcro.

  And then I turn back to the men… and walk into the fight.

  CHAPTER FOUR - CORT

  The worst thing about fighting Pavo Vervonal is his incessant chatter.

  It’s like this asshole has no respect for the value of silence. My very first goal in this fight has nothing to do with winning and everything to do with knocking out his fuc
king teeth so I can make him shut up.

  “You like her, don’t you?” He says this as I ring my arm around his neck and take him down.

  But he’s slippery, just like the snake painted on his body, and he maneuvers this way and that until he’s out of my reach. On his feet, opposite me, crouched low with eyes fixed on mine. We circle each other.

  “You want to take her home, don’t you, Sick Heart? You’re imagining the party that comes next, aren’t you? The Lectra. You want to—”

  I attack and cut him off. But his talking was nothing but a trick, a way to distract me as he planned his moves. I crack him in the jaw with my right elbow, but he dodges the follow-up move and my left fist crashes into his blocking forearm instead of his head.

  But I’m no stranger to tricks. I’ve been fighting for my life since I was five years old. I hold the current Ring of Fire world record for the number of times I’ve been on the platform opposite an insane asshole just like Pavo.

  And I have tricks of my own.

  I’ve got him on defense and his eyes are assessing my elbows, and knees, and fists, and feet for their threat value.

  He does it in that order. Because my elbows are always what takes them down in the end. And my knees are always looking for that weak spot. And my fists are always going for the knockout punch.

  So when his threat assessment finally catches up to my offensive moves, he’s expecting a kick.

  But I don’t kick. I simply sweep him off his feet.

  He falls backwards, and even over the pounding of the drums, I can hear the crowd.

  They are not rooting for me.

  They never root for me.

  They will put money on me, because I like to win. But in this fight, I’m not the favorite. At twenty-seven, the mere fact that I’m still alive is just luck to them. And just before luck runs out, it runs slow.

  They came here thinking my luck has been running slow for years now.

  This is it. Money on Pavo.

  But fuck that. I’m not even down, let alone out.

  Pavo responds to my sweep with a series of grappling moves that leave behind a rash of concrete burns on my skin when we finally get back on our feet, once again crouched and circling.