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

I stop breathing through my nose and swallow it down, keeping my eyes tightly closed as he continues to sew up my scalp.

Finally, he ties it off, gets up, finds a pair of scissors, and cuts me loose. Literally.

There is no, How are you, Anya? Hanging in there? Feel better now? No, none of that. He simply drops his equipment onto the counter and leaves, walking across the hall to mess with the food.

I start wondering just how out of the ordinary this type of thing is for Cort. Cooking for someone. Taking care of someone. He doesn’t seem like the type. I mean, isn’t that why he has that entourage around him? This morning definitely feels like a Maart job.

I watch him get out a bowl, fill it with rice and the steamed fish, and then he pauses and looks down at it, staring at it for a little bit longer than should be normal.

I furrow my brow, trying to read his mind. What is he thinking about?

He doesn’t want to give you this food, Anya. Isn’t it obvious? There’s not enough to go around. And if he gives you this extra, small, meager meal, it means one of us goes without food later.

I want to be that tough girl. That one who says, You know what? I don’t need that food. I can take care of myself. I’ve always wanted to be that girl. But I’m not that girl, and I am desperate for that bowl of rice and fish, so I’m not even going to pretend.

Cort turns and looks at me. Then one final look at the bowl and he sets it down on the counter.

I sigh. He’s not going to feed me after all. He’s decided I’m not worth it.

But then he grabs another bowl. Scoops more rice into it. More fish too. And then he gets two forks, grabs both bowls, and nods his head to me as he walks down the hallway. Not to the door that leads to the training room, but towards the back of the building where the tub room is.

I get up—still slightly dizzy, my hair sticky with blood and a little bit foamy from the peroxide—and follow him.

We end up in a large open room with couches and maybe a dozen small tables with chairs. Hmm. A dining room? Or a living room? Or something in between?

There’s a long shelf on one end filled with board games and puzzles. Monopoly. Life. Trouble. Even a beaten-up box of Hungry, Hungry Hippos. There are books too, maybe a hundred of them. No War and Peace, no Moby Dick or Wuthering Heights. There are classic editions of Winnie the Pooh and Beatrix Potter. Tattered paperbacks of Goosebumps and Babysitters’ Club.

I am so stunned at the change in scenery—so surprised at the comfy feeling that floods through me at the sight of this room—that I just stand there in the doorway, looking around like a dumbass, forgetting all about the pain in my stomach and the newly stitched-up wound on my head.

Cort bangs a fork on one of the tables, and when I look over at him with a start, he’s pointing to the chair across from him. I walk over, unsure how to process what I’m seeing. What we’re doing.

What are we doing?

I sit and Cort shoves one of the bowls at me, then slides the fork across the aged varnished surface of the table. He starts eating immediately, eagerly shoveling the rice and fish into his mouth, and I realize he’s just as hungry as I am.

Well, of course he is, Anya. He’s twice your size and he’s working out like a… well. Like a fucking fighter. While you’ve been halfheartedly skipping some rope and throwing a few punches.

I look around again, still trying to fit the pieces of this place together. What is this? Do they keep kids here? Did he grow up here? Are those his books? His games?

Maybe, but… the Babysitters’ Club? That doesn’t make sense. Bexxie had those books on her shelf. And before they were hers, they were mine.

The sudden appearance of Bexxie in my thoughts makes me startle and a gasp escapes past my lips. Bexxie. Shit, I forgot all about her. I left her. I mean, I knew I was going to leave her, no matter what happened at the end of that fight. But I always thought I’d have time to say goodbye.

The painful rumbling in my stomach fades, the wound on my head forgotten. Bexxie. I left her alone. And I didn’t even give her a hug to let her know she was loved.

Cort taps the table with his fork again, but I don’t look up at him. I’m suddenly very, very sad. And I don’t know if it’s all the new stuff I’m dealing with, or the hunger, or the rough stitching of my head I just endured, but it all becomes a little overwhelming. And then the tears leak out of my eyes before I can stop them.

It’s not any of those things. It’s Bexxie. Because I am suddenly very, very, very sure that I will never see her bright, smiling face again. And that might be the most tragic thing to ever happen to me.

Cort sighs, clearly frustrated with me. When I look up, I see a blurry version of him through my tears. He’s slouched down in his chair, leaning back, his elbow propped on the chair arm, his fist under his chin. Like he’s about ready to throw me over the side of this rig and make me take my chances in the ocean.

And can I blame him? So far he’s had to wrap my bloody knuckles, stitch up my head, share his water and food with me, even though we don’t have enough for one person, let alone two a at this point, and now I’m sitting here—surrounded by his reluctant kindness—and all I can do is cry.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN - CORT

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