SICK HEART

by Huss, JA

  She might be turned in to one, if Udulf has his way. Pimped out to other kings. A prize, perhaps? For some favor. She might even make it to a breeder. She has a nice face, a perfect, athletic body, and she’s smart enough to keep her mouth shut.

  But that’s not really Udulf’s style. He doesn’t like to put his trophies on the shelf. He does not admire them. He uses them.

  He will use her. Any way he feels fit.

  I slip my shorts down my legs, turn towards the shower, and put Anya out of my mind. She is not your problem, Cort. You have your circle. You fought hard for them. They have fought hard for you. You drew a line, you made your choice, and now you are weeks away from freedom. Mere weeks. After twenty-seven years, you will finally, finally have your own life.

  And I refuse to feel guilty about the ones I’m leaving behind.

  I am no one’s savior.

  I am no one’s hope.

  And maybe Anya did help me that night on the ship, but I fought for her too. She is alive because of me. She is here, out of Udulf’s hands, because of me.

  But she saved you too, Cort. And she might have a secret you can use.

  No. I’m not getting caught up in her. I’m done with this shit. I turn the water on. Then I push her underneath it and step in next to her, wetting myself down, but just enough to coat our bodies with the water. Then I turn it off again, take her hand, squirt some shampoo into her palm, and then do the same for me.

  We wash ourselves in silence. Me gazing one way, her the other. Pretending the other doesn’t exist.

  I grab the dried-out bar of soap I brought up here last night and rub it over my skin. The scent reminds me of a hospital, which makes no sense, because I’ve never been to a real hospital. Every medical procedure I’ve ever had was done by Maart.

  This makes me smile. I flip the water back on to rinse, but also to hide the smile.

  Maart. He’s not a doctor, but he has saved my ass more times than I can count. Saving him back is the least I can do.

  And Rainer has had my back in more underground training centers than I can count. You don’t start out fighting in the Ring of Fire. There are no cheering fans in the early days. You are dropped off at the event and if you win, you’re picked up when it’s over.

  And trust me when I say this—when you’re in a third-world country, fighting a local rising star, the natives aren’t very happy when their ticket out dies.

  I owe Rainer.

  Evard never did anything for me but bring me a bottle of Lectra and then judge my bad behavior the next day.

  I actually chuckle at that, then remember that Anya is behind me. I step out of the water and point for her to take my place. She is not looking at me, so I push her underneath the water.

  I’m done, so I walk over to the pack I brought up and take out two towels. It’s still hot out tonight, but the sun is low on the horizon and the unbearable stuffiness has subsided until morning. By the time I’m dry and dressed in a clean pair of shorts, Anya is done. I shut the water off, throw her a towel, then point to the pack and walk away.

  I don’t want to think about her.

  She is not my problem. Hell, she’s damn lucky I talked Udulf out of taking her today. That will have consequences at some point. So the way I see it, she owes me. And I fully plan on getting her secrets before Udulf comes back. All of them.

  In the kitchen I start the rice in the cooker and then lean against the counter, wishing I had started cooking before washing up so I didn’t have to wait for it.

  To waste time, I go out onto the training floor, kinda looking for Anya, but not finding her. So she didn’t follow me down here. She probably senses my uneasiness and wants to stay as far away from me as she can. That’s how I’d be feeling if I were her.

  And wasn’t I her once upon a time? Didn’t I walk around like that? Afraid of everything. Every too-loud noise. Every strange face in a crowd where all others were known. Every hushed whisper of my name in the night.

  My call to duty.

  I shudder with the thought of it. No. Not the thought of it. The memory of it.

  I don’t like thinking back on it. And I think this is why I don’t like this girl.

  She’s pretty enough to look at. But I learned early—very early—that beauty is deception. If there is one thing you do not want to be in this world we live in, it’s beautiful. If you’re beautiful, they notice you. It’s never good to be noticed in this world we live in.

  I turn to the empty wall of the small building housing the kitchen, the clinic, and the toilets and in that moment, I wish they were all here with me. Because if Maart, and Rainer, and Evard, and the others were here, this last punishment would be over. And even though I like it out here—I really do—I don’t want to be here with this girl.

  She bothers me. There is something about her that is very, very wrong.

  And I can’t put my finger on it. I don’t want to put my finger on it. But at the same time, I want those secrets she hides behind her silence.

  I know I earned my freedom. And Udulf admitted that I paid for myself and three people—Maart, Rainer, and Evard—just not four. Not Anya. So he’s not backing out.

  But still. I have no guarantees and nothing to hold over him if he changes his mind. If he should find some unpaid bill. Some debt on my balance sheet.

  Knowing Anya’s secret would go a long way in guaranteeing that in four months this whole life I’ve lived will be nothing but the remnant of a nightmare.

  When the rice is done I drop in the freeze-dried protein, stir it up, and then split the ration in half with a sigh. I’m losing weight. It shouldn’t matter. There are no more fights in my future and plenty of feasts coming up, but just the idea of losing muscle mass triggers a panic inside me that isn’t easily tamed.

  The Rock gets stocked with food once a year. When the training camp beings. We bring as much as we can and then we ration it to make it last. But I always come out here by myself at least once at Udulf’s command. So when we leave camp, there needs to be just enough to get me through until the supply ship comes again.

  Anya wasn’t supposed to be here. There is just not enough food for both of us.

  But whatever. It can’t be helped. I’m not going to let her starve.

  I take the two bowls, climb the stairs up to the top platform, and find her sitting on the edge, feet dangling over. There’s a low, steel-beam railing that lines that side of the helipad with just enough room to slip your legs underneath and dangle them off the edge. And it’s funny that she chose that spot, because that’s where I like to eat too.

  The steel beam is wide enough to be a table. And when the kids are out here, they will all fight for a spot at the beam when it’s chow time.

  I smile at that, then push the thought aside. They’re not my problem either. They’re all just like Anya. Lucky as fuck that they ended up with me and not someone like Pavo.

  I slide my legs under the beam about two feet away from Anya, then push the second bowl of chicken and rice in front of her.

  She doesn’t look at me, but she starts scooping the meal up to her mouth with her fingers. We have forks, but I didn’t bring them on purpose. Life on the Rock is that of a heathen and Anya Bokori is just going to have to get used to it.

  We eat in silence, but the meal is so meager, it’s over in a matter of minutes. I think I am hungrier when I’m done than I was when I started. I think Anya is too, because she looks down at her bowl with longing.

  I sigh. Loudly. Because it would be nice if she could see this for what it is. Kindness.

  There is enough food here to last one person exactly twenty-five more days. She’s lucky I give her anything.

  She gets to her feet—not saying anything, of course—and then picks up my empty bowl and walks off. After a few minutes, I get up and follow her because she probably won’t think about bringing the sleeping mats up. But when I get to the stairwell, she is already on her way up, mats in hand.

  I smil
e at that. She doesn’t smile back. Just hands me a mat and then follows me back up to the helipad.

  The birds are back. The gulls are loud on the platform below us, but the albatrosses are here on top, dropping off the last meal of the day for the chicks, who are several months old and as big as medium-sized dogs.

  Some of them—the ones without chicks this year—follow me across the platform. They don’t beg much if it’s just me out here. It’s like they know I don’t have any food to spare. In fact, they will often drop slimy little fish at my feet like I’m their chick and they’re in charge of my wellbeing.

  Anya lays her mat down in a spot near the center of the platform, but I walk over and pick it up before she sits down, pointing to a spot as far away from the nests as we can get.

  Again, if the kids are here the albatross know their limits. They are outnumbered and a couple dozen brats under the age of twelve is nothing but annoying. But if it’s just me—or just me and Anya—that’s a temptation they can rarely resist. They aren’t mean. Not to me, anyway. But they are pests and once they get a little attention, they want more. So it’s best to stay out of their way.

  She doesn’t motion or make any move to contradict my change-of-location decision. Just plops down on top of her mat and pulls her knees up to her chest with a sigh.

  I sit down too, then lie back. Tired, not exhausted—you can barely call what I did today training—but tired in another way. Weary, I guess. And Udulf’s visit has left behind a bad taste. A lingering sense of doubt that I would prefer not to think about.

  Usually, when I’m out here alone, I will cheat. I talk to the birds. And the moon. And the sea. I talk a lot, actually. It’s only when others are here with me that I keep the vow of silence I came up with that first time. And maybe, if Anya had been chatty, we’d have spent these weeks together getting to know each other. I probably would’ve cheated with her here, telling myself she doesn’t count since she’s not one of us.

  But she’s not chatty. And now, after a few days of thinking about it, talking to her feels like submission. And isn’t it?

  I imagine she had everyone in her king’s house under her spell of silence. That little sister of hers probably talked for Anya the way Maart talks for me when I’m in silent mode. And don’t I do it for dominance? So yeah. Fuck Anya. I’m not talking to her.

  I point up at the sliver of moon out of habit, my arm straight out, my finger an extension. It is three days past new. I shut one eye, still pointing, like the moon is a target at the end of a rifle. This is a nightly ritual even when the kids aren’t here.

  And then Anya lies back on her mat and points her finger at the moon too.

  This pisses me off. Because she doesn’t know why she’s pointing at it. This is not her ritual, it’s ours.

  I drop my arm, sigh, and turn my back to her.

  Why did I bring her here again? I’m having trouble remembering. Probably because I was high on the Lectra.

  Oh. Ooooohhhh. I chuckle a little under my breath. Because I get a flash of Rainer between Anya’s legs that night. And her lying on top of Maart. And… yeah. That’s why I brought her.

  Fucking her again, though? That feels like a really bad idea.

  She taps my shoulder and I turn over to find her sitting up, pointing at the moon.

  What? I sign.

  She points again and I realize she’s asking for a sign.

  I make a little c with my thumb and forefinger, put it up to my eye, then gesture towards the moon. My sign devolves into a point, because that’s how we do it here, but that’s just a personal embellishment.

  Anya mimics my motions, then lets out a long breath.

  Life would be so much easier if she would just talk. Then I could cheat and ask her all the questions. I could maybe even… seduce her into giving up all the answers.

  But no. This one has to be special. Silent. Frustrating.

  But then I realize she did it again. She communicated with me. Asked me a question.

  So maybe I can ask her one back?

  I take her hand and she pulls back instinctively, a look of shocked panic on her face. I put up a hand. Sorry, that gesture says. Didn’t mean to startle you. Then I take her hand again and form her fingers into the sign for ‘A’—a fist, but not a punching fist like I showed her earlier today. Then I make the sign for ‘n,’ ‘y,’ and another ‘a.’ I point to her. That’s you, I sign.

  She nods, getting it. And then she does it back for me.

  Only—and I laugh—she does it with my hand. The way I did it with hers. Then she points to me.

  I shake my head, still smiling as I point to her. That’s you.

  She smiles too, lies back down, stares up at the moon, and makes the sign. Then she puts her fist up to her heart and signs her name. When she looks at me, I find her very serious. She reaches for my hand again, then puts it over my heart and points to it.

  Sick Heart. I don’t know how I know that’s the name she wants to learn, I just do. She’s not asking about Cort. She’s asking about Sick Heart.

  I sign it. Not spelled out like names usually are, but two words. Sick. Heart.

  That’s how they say my name out loud too. Two words.

  Sick. Heart.

  She frowns and makes a heart with her fingers in the air.

  I shake my head and show her again. Because that’s not it. That’s the other kind of heart. A romantic heart. Follow your heart. Hearts and flowers.

  The heart in my name is the organ. The thing that beats. The thing that breaks. The sick thing inside me that has kept me alive all these years.

  But how to explain that to someone who can’t sign?

  I point to my head. My brain. I make the sign for it. Then I point to my foot, make the sign for foot, then do the heart sign again.

  Her mouth makes a little o shape. Like she understands. But she doesn’t.

  I mean, sure. She gets it, I guess. But she doesn’t understand why I use that clinical sign for my name and not the romantic version. She can’t understand that because I don’t even get it.

  It wasn’t something I decided. That name was given to me along with the knowledge of how to sign in the first place. I just don’t remember any of it.

  I don’t remember learning ASL. It’s just something I’ve always known. And that only makes sense in one way.

  Those early memories are so terrible, I’ve blocked them out. And that’s bad. Because I can remember plenty of horrible things in my early years. Yet I don’t know how I got my name.

  I do know my name is not really Cort. That was the name Udulf gave me. Just a throwaway name when he finally gave in and sent me to the training camp for good. Up until then, he called me Sicko.

  Just thinking that name sends a chill up my spine.

  How did he know? I mean, how did he figure out the sick part? Did he—what, look that sign up online and then turn it into… an endearment?

  Sicko.

  I shake my head, then notice that Anya is moving her hands around, her fingers gesturing and making signs that aren’t signs. At first, I want to correct her. Tell her no. That’s not right. That’s not how it’s done. You don’t know what you’re talking about.

  But I stop myself and just watch her. I watch her talk without words.

  She can talk though, right?

  I lean over and she stops, suddenly, when I enter her personal space. She holds absolutely still as I touch her lips with two of my fingers. Then I kiss her, opening my mouth to give her some tongue. And yeah, her tongue is there. Responding and pressing against mine.

  I knew this. I vaguely remember checking her that night of the fight. But I needed to be sure, because if she can talk, and she wants to tell me something, why not just… do it?

  No one is here. No one is going to know. She won’t be punished, if that’s what she’s afraid of. So why keep this charade up?

  I pull back from the kiss and look into her eyes. They are dark in the moonlight, but still vagu
ely blue. Why? I ask.

  And she is smart. Because she throws that sign right back at me. Why? Why me? Why don’t you talk?

  It’s an easy explanation and I’m sure I could get her to understand if I put a little effort into it. Talking to her, here, in this place, would be cheating. This is just a rule I live by on the Rock. It gives me direction. It gives this place meaning and gives this training definition, and all my kids need that.

  Just like I needed it.

  Just like Anya, apparently, needs it too.

  And sure, maybe I would’ve cheated if she talked. But she doesn’t, and I didn’t. And I won’t. Not now. I’ve made up my mind and once I make a decision about something, it’s done. I don’t have the luxury of second chances and regrets. My life is all about instincts. All about moving without thinking. All about predicting what my enemy will do before they do it. And then meeting them there, halfway, before they know what’s happening.

  But this feels like an explanation Anya hasn’t earned. So I just turn over and say nothing.

  A few seconds later I feel her fingertips on my back.

  I look over my shoulder, scowling now, then sign, Leave me alone. I’m tired of her. I’m tired of this day and Udulf’s visit this morning is finally sinking in.

  He’s up to something.

  He won. Right? He got to keep controlling interest in his precious ship, he got my prize money. Why does he give a fuck about Anya Bokori? What made him get on that helicopter and fly out here after three days?

  He’s never done that before. It’s been more years than I can count since he’s set foot on this rig. At least a dozen, but maybe even more.

  And damn, I don’t normally allow myself to wish for things I don’t have while I’m on the Rock. It’s just pointless. But I’d give anything for a sat phone right now. Not that Maart or Rainer would know anything about what Udulf is doing, but I could set them on a mission to find out.

  Anya pokes me again.

  I sign, What? and make a scowling face so she knows I’m pissed.

  Her hands make a gesture that is actually a word, but I’m pretty sure she’s not saying ‘pie.’ Still, her middle finger is slipping across her palm. And I can’t help myself, I sit up to try to figure it out.