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

He rolls over, one, two, three full revolutions. And then he’s on his feet.

They never go down easy. Not at this level.

Another flash of white. Fucking Anya and her knife.

Pavo grabs her out of instinct, wraps one arm tightly around her neck, catching the vulnerable part of her trachea in the crook of his elbow. She drops the knife, both hands reaching for his arm to pry it away as he begins to strangle the life out of her.

And then the sound of metal on concrete changes everything.

A weapon. On the battlefield.

The crowd had faded into the background, but now it all comes roaring back.

Pavo’s eyes dart to the knife, but I’m looking at him. He throws Anya and she goes stumbling to the side, still grabbing at her throat and wheezing as she desperately tries to suck in air.

I lurch back, but I’m too late. I am cut and bleeding before the pain even sets in.

Pavo is very good with knives. His skill with them is impressive, even to me.

He doesn’t cut me again. Doesn’t even try. He throws that fucker right at my neck.

I dart to the side, and still that knife pierces my flesh as it passes by and hits the ground several meters behind me.

My hand reaches up to find the damage and is instantly covered in hot, sticky blood.

Again the sound of the crowd and the drums fades back in. They are going wild for him and my head is spinning a little. Did he cut me deep enough? Did he hit the artery? Nick it? Am I already dead?

I don’t have time to think about it, because Pavo is attacking again. His kick is swift and there are twenty years of practiced force behind it when the length of his lower leg hits me across the hips.

But I’ve got twenty-two years of practiced checks behind my defense as well. I grab his leg. He immediately checks me, hooking his knee, pulling me forward. And then he jumps up, left arm circling my head, holding it tightly in place while his right elbow finds the side of my face.

Stars. I stumble backwards and let go of his leg.

His defense wasn’t an original move. But it was effective. I have to retreat, taking steps, and steps, and steps backwards as Pavo advances.

“Finish it.” They are chanting now. “Finish it. Finish it. Finish it.”

Pavo is their winner. They are here to see him. Not because they love him, but because they hate me.

They want to see me fall. After all these years, all these fights, all those prizes—they are done with me. They want me dead.

I too am a sacrifice. Just like this girl on the platform with us.

His legs are battering me and I am blocking. One blow after another. And each time I block his legs, his elbows are there because he’s high on the kind of adrenaline rush one only ever gets when they think they’ve already won.

The drums stop.

The final moment is nothing but the maddening crowd. They forget who they are in the outside world when they’re at the fights. All those rules they live by fade into the background. They stop caring about their role. They stop thinking about the gifts they accept. And maybe—if they’re very lucky and they win their bets—maybe they forget about the things they gave up to be here. Maybe they forget the price they’ve already paid.

And if they get lucky enough, and drunk enough, and they find a lover tonight who knows what they’re doing—then maybe they even forget how much they still owe.

“I told you,” Pavo growls, breathing hard, his eyes locked with mine as he spits blood on the concrete at my feet. “You will be mine in the end.”

But he’s not talking to me. He’s talking to Anya. I can’t spare the moment it will take to locate her, but I can hear her wheezing somewhere behind me.

Pavo still has bounce in his step. And now I see it. The blue ring around his irises goes fluorescent purple in the black light. The ring of Lectra addiction. He is fucking high. Which is not against the rules. There are no rules. You win any way you can.

But it’s a risk. The Lectra can be a bonus. It can make you fearless. It can dull pain. And if this were chess, it could help you see a dozen moves ahead.

But this isn’t chess. This is life and death and Lectra can also make you afraid. It can amplify the agony. It can pull you into a slow-motion dream world where nothing makes sense and every action comes with hallucinogenic tracers.

It affects Pavo the first way. That’s why he drinks it before a fight.

But it affects me the opposite. That’s why I don’t.

“You had a good run,” Pavo says, attacking me again, his perfectly executed kick crashing against my hips. He doesn’t check me this time. Just backs off because he knows I’m not in a good place.

I’m playing defense. I’m dizzy and blood is streaming down the right side of my body.

His knife didn’t hit the artery because I’d be bleeding out on the ground by now if it had. But he hit something. My rib is screaming and I can feel those kicks all the way to my kidneys.

The drumming starts again. A new beat. The death beat. The final beat.

Someone, probably my father since he’s hosting this event, has decided that Pavo has won and has instructed the drummers to pound out the ending sequence.

And that’s when Anya steps between us, knife in hand. Pointed at Pavo, not me. And she thrusts it into his side.

I actually laugh at the gall of this stupid girl and the gasp of the crowd is loud enough to hear in between the slow beat of the death drums.

Pavo grabs her, reaching for the knife in his side. I expect her to let it go, but she doesn’t. She