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

sidesteps its way over to the chick and I can slip past.

Outside I stop short. Because I was right. I am not on a ship. Not even close to being on a ship. There is nothing around me but ocean for as far as the eye can see. And I am on the top floor of a platform.

A platform I vaguely recognize as an oil rig topside. Minus all the things typically on a topside that makes them habitable. There is a large, faded H painted in the center of the platform’s open space. A helipad.

There are more birds out here as well. Several albatrosses as well as large formidable gulls are flying overhead, their wings gliding in and through the wind without flapping.

There are a few more nests along the edge of the tiny building I woke up in, and each nest hosts another sizable chick.

One of my flying enemies dives at me as I run towards the center of the expansive, empty platform to put some space between me and the chicks. When I get there I stop, turn in a circle, and see nothing in any direction but water.

My heart skips. Literally skips inside my chest. And then it begins to beat fast. Fast. Faster.

Calm down, Anya. Remain rational and do not overreact. He did not drop you off on an abandoned oil rig. That simply doesn’t happen. Your life is not a movie, or a book, or some other fiction worthy of such drama.

I tell myself this kind of shit because there is still a slim chance that I’m not on an abandoned topside. It’s still possible that this situation works. It is still possible that my life isn’t one long string of fiction-worthy drama.

Right.

I snort.

And it’s a real snort. Not an implied one. Because a flock of albatrosses—who, by the way, don’t even live in the part of the Atlantic where I was located yesterday—always make their nests on the top floor of a fully working, commissioned topside oil rig.

I take a deep breath and let it out. Force the fear and confusion to go with it. And I think rationally. Because that’s all there is left to do.

So where the fuck am I?

Albatrosses don’t live over the Atlantic Ocean. It’s a stupid, pointless fact to know, I get that. But it’s true. They live far, far down in the southern hemisphere or far, far up in the northern one. They do not live in the tropics.

And I cannot be that far away.

I just can’t.

It doesn’t fit.

It’s hot, and windy, and everything feels tropical. Yesterday I was somewhere off the coast of French Guiana. The ship was heading towards the Gulf of Mexico. And I don’t know how I got here, but it was either a helicopter or a boat, which logically means that I cannot be that far from yesterday’s position.

These birds are out of place. Not me.

I press my lips together and nod. I’m going with this last part. Because if I find out I’m stuck on an abandoned topside somewhere down near Antarctica, I might not recover from that revelation.

I snort again. Because either way, I’m probably going to die here. I’m clearly alone with no food, or water, or shelter—unless I want to share that tiny building with the overgrown fluffy killer in that nest.

Get it together, Anya. You are already losing your mind and you’ve only been awake for three minutes.

I rally, scan the area, find a stairwell, and head that direction. The birds—both the giants and the gulls—follow in the air, occasionally swooping down at me so I don’t forget that I’m an unwanted interloper.

The stairwell is partially protected by a framework of metal that encloses the ten steps down to the landing where I get my first look at the level below. I pick out a sound of clicking at the far end of the platform, which is out of sight.

Click, click, click. It’s a constant rhythm.

But really, it’s not click, it’s… snick.

Snick, snick, snick.

And for some reason, it’s a familiar sound. Something I recognize. And this gives me hope. My feet skip down the stairs in a hurry, and I slip because they are slick with algae. I slide downward, my back hitting the sharp edge of the metal steps, and I grab at the handrail before I fall too far.

I let out a breath as I come to a halt. That’s gonna bruise.

But then my mind is back on the snicking noise. I don’t stand back up. I simply scoot down the steps until the far end of the platform comes into view.

And there it is. The noise. It’s exactly what it sounded like.

A man jumping rope.

And if I were a person who laughed out loud, I would do that now.

It is Sick Heart. Jumping rope.

But Cort is not just jumping rope. He’s doing little fighter tricks with that thing. I know, Pavo does this shit too—did, I remind myself, because he’s dead now. I stabbed him in the gut and Cort van Breda slit his throat and sliced his belly open to steal his heart last night in the fight.

This memory makes my stomach roil. Then I gag. And if there was anything in there, I would hurl. But luckily, it’s empty.

I take a deep breath and forget Pavo’s death. Instead, I think about all the ways I’ve seen him jump rope over the years. It was a major part of his training. He was very good at it and so is the Sick Heart.

He’s turning in a circle.

One foot, skip. Two foot, skip.

One foot, two foot, skip, skip—he stops.

Because he sees me.

And then he starts again.

Skip, skip, skip.

Snick, snick, snick as the plastic jump rope clips the concrete with each revolution.

No hello. Of course there is no hello. Because we don’t talk.

And that right there, that’s some advanced-level irony.

He’s wearing the same shorts as he was last night.

Was it last night? I have no idea. I drank way too much Lectra.

I kinda-sorta remember having