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

After about a minute, Cort takes the bowl away and places it in the sink. Then he comes back with a towel and pats my hands dry.

He motions to me with his fingers. Stand up, I think he’s saying. So I do. And he turns my chair around so the seat back is facing him, then directs me to sit and rest my right forearm on the top.

I do this and he begins wrapping my wrist and hand with gauze, stopping briefly to add a thick wad of cotton padding over my knuckles. He motions for me to make a fist, and open my fist, and make a fist again dozens of times as he carefully winds the gauze through my fingers, over my knuckles and thumb in a figure eight, and around my wrist. It takes several minutes for him to finish and by the time he’s done, everything is tight with tape.

He does the other hand as I watch, then he stands up, puts his chair back and begins to box the air, bouncing on his feet, twisting his hips, and making hissing sound effects as he punches. Then he points to me and I roll my eyes, embarrassed. But just as I do that his hand darts towards me and slaps my cheek.

I back up, startled. What the fuck?

He does it again, not smacking me hard or anything, but still. What the hell?

He pauses his bouncing and shakes his head. Then he brings one fist up to his cheek and points to it, then to me.

Oh. I get it. I’m supposed to block him. I put my hand up to my cheek but before I can even process anything else, he slaps me again, this time harder.

I back up, but he takes a step forward. So I back up again and hit the cot. This sends me falling backwards onto the thin mattress.

Cort pauses and shakes his head, then offers me a hand and pulls me to my feet. He leans into my face so we are eye to eye. Then he takes my left hand and places it against my cheek, gripping my fist firmly in his, like he’s making a point.

I get it. He wants me to leave my hand there to protect my face, but then he just smacks me on the other cheek instead. I swing at him, backing him off.

He finds this delightful. Because he’s smirking at me, bouncing from one foot to the next as he circles me in a fighter’s dance. He points to his cheek. Hit me.

You don’t gotta tell me twice. I swing, but he blocks me and dances out of the way, smacking my cheek again. Only this time, it fucking stings. Dick.

He’s smiling big now, throwing fake punches at me with one fist as he points to his cheek with the other.

I just stand there. Why even bother? I’m never going to make it past his blocks. So I just leave the clinic and walk out to the training platform. Because if he took almost an hour to wrap up my hands, there is no chance we are going to spend today doing puzzles.

He follows me out, picks up our jump ropes, throws mine at me, and then he starts skipping down the length of the platform. Doing all kinds of crazy things with that rope.

I jump. And I don’t complain. He fed me, wrapped up my hands, and let me rest for a whole day. I have no excuse today so I jump.

We do this for what seems like a very long time. At least an hour because I start and stop about a hundred times, so out of breath, so out of shape, it starts to become embarrassing. Because Cort is doing hops, and double jumps, and these high-jump things, and never once does his rope get caught in his feet.

Being around him on the training platform is nothing but a long lesson in self-loathing. I am not unfit. I sigh. I’m just not… fit, either.

This makes me chuckle a little and when I look over at Cort, I find him watching me. He finishes his skipping, takes my rope, as well as his, and tosses them both onto the floor near the wall. Then he points to the chalkboard with my name on it. It still has yesterday’s schedule of drills one, two, and three on it. I don’t even remember what they were.

But Cort directs me onto the mat and shows me again. Baby-step punch, retreat punch, hip-pivot cross.

Right. Got it.

I do them and he watches for a little bit, coming in to correct my form and then stepping back several times. Then he nods and gives me the signal to keep going and takes himself over to another mat where he begins some slow martial arts-type shit I haven’t seen him do before.

His back is to me, so even though I don’t stop my drills, I don’t really pay attention to them, either. I pay attention to him. The way his back muscles stretch as he does a series of slow moves that look a little bit like tai chi. He has one massive piece of art on his back—two full-body skeletons doing martial arts. One of them has lost a leg, one only has a single arm. They are bleeding from the eyes and their mouths are x-ed out with black electrical tape. The one with two hands is signing something. I don’t know what that sign means, I just know it’s a sign. And there’s an angel—a little girl with no face and soft, feathery wings—floating between his shoulder blades.

All around the two fighters are people watching. Dead people. Decaying people. All of them with x-ed out eyes.

It’s a fight, of course. One of his, probably. He pivots on the mat so we’re facing each other again. I am still moving my feet and my hands, but my effort is all