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

I sign to her. Go ahead. I’m OK. She doesn’t understand the first part, but everyone knows the sign for OK.

The hose hits me again. This time, she has figured out the mechanism for pressure, and while it’s still strong and it still hurts, it’s nothing I can’t handle.

I place both my hands on top of my head and stand there, naked and with my eyes closed, as she washes me off.

When she’s done, I coil the hose back up, hang it on the hook, and then nod for her to follow me. It’s not the best way to get clean here on the Rock, but it’s the only way to fully enjoy what comes next.

We go down to the training level, but this time I take her in to the building. It’s dark, so I prop the door open with a large rock, sign for her to stay put, and then I turn and walk forward down the hallway.

There isn’t a whole lot to this building. It’s got the switch for the generator, which lives in the small building on the top level. A lavatory with about a dozen urinals and a few stalls, minus the showers, since the living quarter containers that used to populate this rig all had private bathrooms. A clinic that is mostly stocked. And a small kitchen that was only used for the construction crew, because when a rig is running it has a proper mess container.

I find the switch, kick it on, and the whole place comes to life with a rumble.

Back in the hallway I flick on the lights and find Anya standing in the open doorway where I left her. She looks me up and down, and I do the same. Like we’re both just now noticing the other is naked.

We are also both still wet. And she is shivering a little. I should probably give her a towel, but it’s not really necessary.

I beckon her with a crooked finger and then disappear into the kitchen. She follows me, standing in a new doorway now, just watching as I take things out of the cupboards and hold them out for her to see.

I’m not your fucking cook, these gestures say. I will cook for you tonight because you’re new. But I’m not your fucking cook. So take notice of where I find these things and what I do with them.

I think she gets it because she unconsciously sneers her lip as she watches my hands.

I show her how to wait for the water to run clear when I turn on the tap. I show her how to make rice in the small cooker. I show her the pre-packaged dehydrated meat. And then, when everything is cooking, I nod my head and make her follow me down the hallway again.

There is one more room to show her today. The best room. The whole reason why we hose off first.

And when she sees the tub, and when I turn on the water and it begins to steam, she sighs. No. She fucking moans.

I chuckle out loud.

It’s not a bathtub, it’s a therapy tub. Meant for athletes, not spa days. But the end result is the same. Warm, pampered muscles after a long day of work.

Anya leans against the door frame as the tub fills and I go searching through cupboards for soap and shampoo. We don’t keep anything fancy here and for a moment I wish we did. It was a long day for her and she didn’t complain. So I want to make her feel better—or at least understand that what I do here has a purpose and it’s got nothing to do with torture. Luxury soaps and lotions are just an easy way to do that. But Anya doesn’t seem to care that the toiletries are industrial-grade.

I hold out my hand. She pushes off the door frame and walks towards me, accepts my help as she walks up the four wooden steps, and then squeezes my hand as she swings her leg over and lowers herself into the hot water.

I climb in after her and we settle on benches placed opposite. The water hits her mid-waist so I have a very nice view of her breasts. If this bothers her, she doesn’t show it.

And why should it bother her? She is a Bokori house slave. An old one, for sure. So she probably hasn’t been touched in a while. But she was raised naked. Like me.

They do that to strip us of any lingering sense of self. To make us into things to be used. To take away our humanity.

And once it’s gone, it doesn’t matter what happens next. It doesn’t matter if the nicest man alive buys you, takes you into his home, treats you like a person, gives you plenty to eat, and never even looks at your body like it is just a thing to be used.

It does not matter how good it gets after that first shattering.

You don’t come back from that. You are dead inside. And you are a killer on the outside.

Anya Bokori is a killer. And so am I.

She straddled Pavo Vervonal last night and thrust a knife into his gut. I practically cut off his head five seconds later and then ripped his body open and tore out his heart.

There is no happy ending for us.

A tub of hot water on a rock in the middle of a dark ocean with birds that look like they came right out of Jurassic Park flying overhead, ready to pick apart your half-dead body and feed it to their chicks—this is about as good as it gets.

Anya washes herself quickly. She soaps up her hair and dunks under to rinse it off. And in less than three minutes she is done. Her blue eyes find mine, filled to the brim with questions.

She looks at me like she doesn’t know what to do next.

I’m more careful. My