SICK HEART by Huss, JA (non fiction books to read .TXT) 📕

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