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

in silent mode. And don’t I do it for dominance? So yeah. Fuck Anya. I’m not talking to her.

I point up at the sliver of moon out of habit, my arm straight out, my finger an extension. It is three days past new. I shut one eye, still pointing, like the moon is a target at the end of a rifle. This is a nightly ritual even when the kids aren’t here.

And then Anya lies back on her mat and points her finger at the moon too.

This pisses me off. Because she doesn’t know why she’s pointing at it. This is not her ritual, it’s ours.

I drop my arm, sigh, and turn my back to her.

Why did I bring her here again? I’m having trouble remembering. Probably because I was high on the Lectra.

Oh. Ooooohhhh. I chuckle a little under my breath. Because I get a flash of Rainer between Anya’s legs that night. And her lying on top of Maart. And… yeah. That’s why I brought her.

Fucking her again, though? That feels like a really bad idea.

She taps my shoulder and I turn over to find her sitting up, pointing at the moon.

What? I sign.

She points again and I realize she’s asking for a sign.

I make a little c with my thumb and forefinger, put it up to my eye, then gesture towards the moon. My sign devolves into a point, because that’s how we do it here, but that’s just a personal embellishment.

Anya mimics my motions, then lets out a long breath.

Life would be so much easier if she would just talk. Then I could cheat and ask her all the questions. I could maybe even… seduce her into giving up all the answers.

But no. This one has to be special. Silent. Frustrating.

But then I realize she did it again. She communicated with me. Asked me a question.

So maybe I can ask her one back?

I take her hand and she pulls back instinctively, a look of shocked panic on her face. I put up a hand. Sorry, that gesture says. Didn’t mean to startle you. Then I take her hand again and form her fingers into the sign for ‘A’—a fist, but not a punching fist like I showed her earlier today. Then I make the sign for ‘n,’ ‘y,’ and another ‘a.’ I point to her. That’s you, I sign.

She nods, getting it. And then she does it back for me.

Only—and I laugh—she does it with my hand. The way I did it with hers. Then she points to me.

I shake my head, still smiling as I point to her. That’s you.

She smiles too, lies back down, stares up at the moon, and makes the sign. Then she puts her fist up to her heart and signs her name. When she looks at me, I find her very serious. She reaches for my hand again, then puts it over my heart and points to it.

Sick Heart. I don’t know how I know that’s the name she wants to learn, I just do. She’s not asking about Cort. She’s asking about Sick Heart.

I sign it. Not spelled out like names usually are, but two words. Sick. Heart.

That’s how they say my name out loud too. Two words.

Sick. Heart.

She frowns and makes a heart with her fingers in the air.

I shake my head and show her again. Because that’s not it. That’s the other kind of heart. A romantic heart. Follow your heart. Hearts and flowers.

The heart in my name is the organ. The thing that beats. The thing that breaks. The sick thing inside me that has kept me alive all these years.

But how to explain that to someone who can’t sign?

I point to my head. My brain. I make the sign for it. Then I point to my foot, make the sign for foot, then do the heart sign again.

Her mouth makes a little o shape. Like she understands. But she doesn’t.

I mean, sure. She gets it, I guess. But she doesn’t understand why I use that clinical sign for my name and not the romantic version. She can’t understand that because I don’t even get it.

It wasn’t something I decided. That name was given to me along with the knowledge of how to sign in the first place. I just don’t remember any of it.

I don’t remember learning ASL. It’s just something I’ve always known. And that only makes sense in one way.

Those early memories are so terrible, I’ve blocked them out. And that’s bad. Because I can remember plenty of horrible things in my early years. Yet I don’t know how I got my name.

I do know my name is not really Cort. That was the name Udulf gave me. Just a throwaway name when he finally gave in and sent me to the training camp for good. Up until then, he called me Sicko.

Just thinking that name sends a chill up my spine.

How did he know? I mean, how did he figure out the sick part? Did he—what, look that sign up online and then turn it into… an endearment?

Sicko.

I shake my head, then notice that Anya is moving her hands around, her fingers gesturing and making signs that aren’t signs. At first, I want to correct her. Tell her no. That’s not right. That’s not how it’s done. You don’t know what you’re talking about.

But I stop myself and just watch her. I watch her talk without words.

She can talk though, right?

I lean over and she stops, suddenly, when I enter her personal space. She holds absolutely still as I touch her lips with two of my fingers. Then I kiss her, opening my mouth to give her some tongue. And yeah, her tongue is there. Responding and pressing against mine.

I knew this. I vaguely remember checking her that night of the fight. But I needed to be sure, because if she can talk, and she wants to tell me something, why not just… do it?

No one is here. No one is