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

I pause many times. I lean my back against the steel beam closest to me and slide down it, resting as he continues his routine. He never seems to get annoyed with my breaks, though I am careful not to take advantage. I rest, catch my breath, then get back up and continue.

He does the same, only for much longer stretches. He works that bag hard. And then he slides his back down the far wall and watches me.

I let him. I mean, it’s not like I could stop him, but I could turn my back and send a message. But I don’t.

And I find that I don’t hate him.

I find that these long, easy periods of skipping, and drinking, and resting, and then doing it all over again are a comforting routine. Something I can count on.

This is a gift, I think. Day one with a new master should be filled with anxiety about my future. And it’s not.

Perhaps he is instilling a false sense of security in me. Perhaps this is some elaborate, evil plan and tonight, when it’s dark, and I’m too tired to fight back, perhaps he will rape me.

But I don’t think so. And a girl like me doesn’t get this far in life by being afraid of a little coerced sex. That’s fucking ridiculous.

I’m not afraid that he will fuck me tonight. So his plan, if it is a plan, is working. I am, if not at ease, then resigned to my fate.

But all things must end eventually. And this easy, predictable day is no exception.

The sun is finally visible on the left side of the platform because it is low on the horizon. It is May right now, so I approximate the time to be perhaps five-thirty or six o’clock when he takes the rope from my hands and sets it down in a little pile next to his. Then he points to the stairs and we meet up over there and begin to climb.

The birds attack.

I had forgotten about the fucking birds.

They are huge. The wingspan on these albatrosses is easily four meters from tip to tip. They are like pterodactyls, something out of place and out of time. But Cort waves them off like this is just part of the fun of living on an abandoned oil rig in the middle of the ocean, and they are not persistent.

We make our way to the other end of the upper platform, behind the small building that I woke up in this morning, and he points to the back wall.

That’s when I notice the hose. It is draped over a large hook. The nozzle looks like something you’d clean the bottom of a boat with. And I see what’s coming.

I hesitate. He takes my arm—not harshly—and drags me over to the wall. Then he points at me. I’ve deciphered about two dozen of his points today. And this one means, Don’t move.

It’s gonna sting. I already know that. But I’m sweaty, wearing yesterday’s paint and blood, and I don’t really care how I get clean at this point, just get me clean.

So I strip off my dress, toss it aside, and stand with my back against the wall and my eyes closed.

Yes. It fucking hurts. And even though I don’t want to wince, and hug myself, and cower from the cold water, I do all that.

He makes me turn around and face the wall, and then he sprays my back too. The whole thing takes maybe… five minutes? My body is red and stings all over when he’s done. But I am clean.

Cort walks over to me, his body still smelling of death and filth, still covered in sweat, and blood, and paint, and he hands me the hose. I look at it, and then him, and realize he wants me to hose him down next.

This is the moment when I realize everything I thought I knew about Cort van Breda was wrong.

Maybe I understand the Sick Heart. I get the fighter inside him.

But Cort? The man inside him?

No.

I was wrong.

I could hurt him with this hose.

And he either doesn’t care, or he doesn’t think I will.

I won’t.

CHAPTER EIGHT - CORT

When I first introduced Anya to the jump rope her face was a mixture of sadness, confusion, and many years of lowered expectations.

I’m pretty sure she thinks that no one can read her, but I can read everyone. We might be silent for very different reasons, but the outcome is the same.

Silence lets you hear things that aren’t said.

Silence lets you see things unseen.

Silence gives you space.

And space is a gift if ever there was one.

My first trip out to this Rock was when I was around five. Udulf had just acquired me and I was not in the mood to comply with anything he had in mind for my first night at his estate.

I ran. I hid. And when they found me, I kicked, I screamed, and I bit.

It didn’t stop him. He did with me what he had planned to do with me.

He beat me senseless that first night. He beat me so hard, and for so long, I just passed out. And really, that was a gift as well. Because I have no solid memory of that night. Or anything that came before my first trip out here to the Rock. The only thing I have left of the life that came before Udulf is the Lectra dream.

And that’s not reality.

When Udulf dropped me off on the lowest platform of the Rock that first time, I stayed for three months. Alone.

There was no food, but there was water. And that was so cruel. You can die in three days with no water. It takes months to waste away from starvation. Even a small boy can last many weeks without food.

It was good water, though. Bottled. Sealed. Clean. A hundred cases at least. I had so much fresh water, I bathed in it. The rig had