SICK HEART by Huss, JA (nice books to read TXT) 📗

my senses and look up… the fight has started.

Pavo and Cort are a flurry of arms and legs. Kicks and elbows. Pavo lands a flat foot right in the center of Cort’s stomach and Cort goes reeling back just like I did.

He doesn’t lose his footing, but he pauses for a moment as the pain in his gut sinks in. Then his eyes narrow down and focus on Pavo. Some of the spotlights from above weave around the platform, making me dizzy from the strobe effect. But there is one black light trained on Pavo and one black light trained on Cort. This presents a bizarre dichotomy, making the two painted fighters look like futuristic creatures straight out of the ancient world.

Pavo doesn’t wait, he’s already on the next attack. He pushes forward towards Cort, throwing a kick. But Cort counters the kick with an elbow and simultaneously hooks Pavo in the jaw with the opposite hand. Pavo stumbles, but Cort doesn’t give him a chance to recover. He hits Pavo with a powerful uppercut that lands flush with his mouth, the same way Pavo hit me.

Pavo goes down. Hard.

The drumming around us is deafening. Almost drowning out the cheering crowd.

For a moment I think it’s over. Pavo is struggling to get back on his feet. Cort turns his back to him, walking away.

But it’s not over. Because one of them is still alive. And spoiler alert: That’s not how this ends.

I have only been to two fights, and neither of them were at this elite level. They both involved Pavo, but that was years and years ago. One was the fight that ushered him into top-level status. The other one was at Pavo’s local stadium filled with a crowd of regular Thai people. He did fight that night, but it was more of an exhibition. There was a referee, there seemed to be rules, and most of the fighters that night looked like kids.

There are no rules here, they’re not even wearing gloves—not even wearing tape on their knuckles. And these two men haven’t been kids for a very long time.

They will fight until they no longer can.

I get up on my knees, refusing to be a compliant participant in the outcome of this night. Cort is turning back towards Pavo when my movement distracts him. His head swings in my direction. Pavo disappears into the darkness, his spotlight now gone.

The crowd begins to boo and shout, making sure their objections can be heard over the pounding drums. They probably have money on Cort and my participation in the fight seems to be a clear attempt at aiding Pavo.

Cort doesn’t seem to notice. His eyes are locked with mine. He puts a hand up.

Stop, that gesture says.

But I’m not going to stop. I turn, crouched, looking for Pavo in the darkness.

Because… he. Hit me.

That piece-of-shit coward hit me.

That baby living inside a man’s body hit me.

That arrogant prick who thinks I will become his property hit me.

In front of all these people.

There is blood in my mouth.

My tongue has been split open.

I spit the blood out and suddenly… I am enraged.

And that’s when all the spotlights go out.

The drumming continues in the dark, a wild, frantic beat that drowns out the shouts from the agitated crowd.

There are flashes of yellow and green, the leftover glow from the fighters’ fluorescent body paint. But after a few moments, even that blinks out.

Someone runs past me. The wind flutters over my bare skin and I can just barely make out the slapping of bare feet over the drumming. I squint in the dark, trying to make out shapes. And holy shit, is it ever dark. No moon, no stars, every light on the ship is out. And if I wasn’t rocking back and forth with the rhythm of an ocean, I would be utterly lost. The kind of lost that drives people to madness.

Then, just as suddenly as they went out, the spotlights come back on. But all three of them are targeting Cort.

And they are not black lights. They are bright and white and he is alone in a shower of illuminated brilliance in the vast sea of darkness.

Cort shields his eyes from the intense glare and that’s when Pavo attacks.

He rams Cort like a bull. Knocking him down with a hard thump that sends a sick chill down my spine.

I get to my feet and take deep breaths as the white lights blink out and the black lights make them glow again, but leave me dark.

Pavo’s snake winds around Cort’s skeleton.

The drums have slowed, taking up a pace that conjures up images of being stalked. A beat that reminds me of the hunt. I crouch again, thinking, watching the fight.

Pavo is on top of Cort, but Cort hasn’t surrendered. They are grappling. Fast-moving arms, and legs, and elbows, and knees.

I look around, thinking about the boy’s words just minutes ago. He’s got a cheat. We all know Pavo’s team hid a weapon on the platform.

Pavo, the cheater.

Pavo, the deceiver.

He is vile, rotten, and wrong.

He has no sense of pride, or loyalty, or fairness.

He is nothing but scum and even my nine-year-old sister-in-name-only can see it.

So I know there is a weapon on the platform.

But where? The helipad is nothing but a flat plane. I stand up and begin walking in the hazy, leftover black light that leaks outward from the fight, squinting my eyes and searching for a shadow that might be a knife.

That’s Pavo’s weapon of choice. He uses knives as part of his training ritual with his boys. He cuts them. Slices marks down their arms every time they don’t follow one of his insane directives. So they can never forget who is in charge. So they have to carry their shame with them for the rest of their lives.

I walk faster, ignoring the two men fighting. They are on their feet now, and the blows are vicious. They are grunting and they hit the hard concrete more