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

as far as I can tell. One boy might be around her age. But all the others have to be under the age of ten.

Suddenly there is crying and when I look over at the stairwell, a sopping-wet Rainer enters the training floor holding the very small child who was just dropped out of the boat. She wails between hitches in her breath, totally out of control.

Rainer says nothing to her. He simply sets her down and gives her a forceful push towards the other kids, who are all very busy rolling equipment out of the containers. They work in teams and they work in silence. Not a single word is uttered. And when I glance over at Cort, he’s just watching them, arms crossed over his chest, severe scowl on his face, and eyes a bit narrowed.

His camp. That’s what he’s thinking. And these little kids are his students. It’s a weird place to have a camp and it doesn’t make much sense to me, but my experience with training goes back one month. So what do I know about it?

I’m standing around doing nothing while everyone else works, and that makes me uncomfortable. But I don’t know what to do. Cort is not paying any attention to me at all, so he’s no help. And no one is talking.

No one. It’s like we’re all a bunch of mutes.

Even the tiny girl has mostly stopped her crying and is doing her best to drag a box across the mats, taking frequent breaks to swipe the back of her hand across her running nose.

Well, I could help her. It’s better than standing here. I walk over to her and reach for the box. But the little brat attacks me with pointy little elbows and knees, snarling a little as she pulls the box out of my hand.

A sharp whistle makes everyone pause for a moment. I turn to find Maart glaring at me. “What the fuck are you doing?”

I just stare at him because what else can I do? I’m not going to communicate with him. I barely communicate with Cort.

“I asked you a fucking question.”

I look over at Cort, but the expression on his face is blank. In fact, I don’t even have his complete attention. He’s mostly concentrating on the kids and how they are managing the equipment.

And then, suddenly, Maart has crossed the mats to where I’m standing, has got a hold of my upper arm, and is dragging me towards the building. I jerk my arm, trying to make him let me go—because his grip is tight—but he just grips me tighter and gives me a sharp jerk back. “Don’t fuck with me today, Anya. I have a million things to do and none of them have anything to do with you. So right now, you’re nothing but a waste of my time. Do you understand me?”

Again, what part of I don’t talk does he not get?

He pulls the door open and tugs me into the hallway. Once inside, he lets go of my arm and gives me the same push that Rainer gave the little devil girl. I was just trying to help. Jesus, these people are all assholes. I can’t believe she attacked me. I’m going to have bruises from those tiny elbows.

Maart pushes me again. Only now he grabs my shoulders and pins me against the hallway wall, his finger pointed in my face. “I don’t know what the hell you and Cort have been doing out here for the past month, and I don’t want to know. I don’t fucking care. But whatever it was, it’s over now. Do you understand me?”

Maart here is either eternally optimistic, or really fucking stupid. Because I am never going to answer him. I’m not going to nod. I’m not going to flash him an OK sign or a thumbs up. I am literally a professional non-communicator. And if he thinks some angry words and finger-pointing can get me to break, he’s out of his mind.

What does he think? Lazar just said, It’s fine if you don’t talk, Anya. I love it when slave girls defy me?

No. That’s not how it went. There were beatings over my silence. And much, much worse things that came after, when that didn’t work. So Maart here, he’s getting nothing out of me.

He scoffs. “You know what, Anya? I don’t give a fuck about you. Those kids out there?” He nods his head towards the door. “That’s who I give a fuck about. OK? In six months, half of them will be dead in the fights. You do not matter. They do. So I’m gonna give you a job and you’re gonna stay the hell out of my way. You’re gonna stay out of Rainer’s way. You’re gonna stay away from all those kids, and don’t even think about getting close to Cort. Whatever the two of you have been doing out here, it’s over now. Do you understand me?”

Wow. Is he jealous?

He is. He’s pissed off because I was out here for a whole month. Alone. With Cort.

I almost smile. And he catches this.

“That’s funny to you?”

The kids? No. That sucks. But kids die all the time in my world. Lazar has gone through… hell, I couldn’t even begin to count the number of children who have passed through his house.

Maart isn’t stupid. Because somehow, he reads this in my blank expression. He sighs, runs his fingers through his thick, dark hair, and then looks down the hallway. “You’re the new cook. Normally, I make the oldest girl do it, but she’s got a fight in four months and she could use the training.” He looks back at me and shrugs. “She’s good. But not good enough. It’s probably not going to matter, but…” He blows out a long breath with that word. “Doesn’t hurt to try. So you’re the fucking cook.”

The door swings open just as those last words leave his mouth and a bunch of boys are