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

In death. He won’t be going to some better place. If such a place exists. No. Pavo Vervonal is going to Hell. And if you are given some kind of incorporeal body to live in for eternity, Pavo will be a skeleton wraith.

So it’s perfect.

Then I remember that I got a tattoo last night as well. I look down at my baby toe and the experience washes over me. Like someone has suddenly pulled back the Lectra amnesia and in an instant, everything is clear again.

I bend down to touch it. To trace the fine, tiny lines of the star. It’s a messy star. The kind of star little kids draw. The kind of symbol that says, Good job.

And, weirdly, it matches one he has on his lower stomach. In fact, he’s got several stars like this on his body. They are filler, taking up space between his skulls and skeletons. Like the way most tattoo enthusiasts use smoke, or flames, or tribal designs.

And then, because I know Cort can’t see my face, I smile.

It is the first real smile since… well. I have to pause at that. Because I smiled yesterday too. That moment when Cort took the Bokori bottle of Lectra from the bar.

Hmm. Two smiles in two days. And both of them are because of Cort van Breda’s actions.

His feet are suddenly in my field of vision and when I look up I realize I’m in a very submissive position.

I immediately stand back up. But I don’t look him in the eyes.

He bends down and studies my toe. Then he taps my ankle. I realize too late that it’s a signal to lift up my foot. But he’s already got it off the ground and I’m stumbling backwards. One strong hand grabs my wrist, and I am suddenly balanced again.

His fingers trace the star on my toe as well. And then he is still.

It’s a weird stillness. Because he is just staring down at my foot and all I can see is the top of his head and the points of his knees. His thumb caresses my toe and the whole thing is suddenly weird.

What is he doing? Why is he just staring at my toe?

His shoulders curve in and he sighs. Then he looks up at me. It’s a startling look. A vulnerable look. He signs something at me, but in the same moment, he is frowning.

My expression is flat because I’ve been doing this a long time and that’s just instinct. But if he didn’t look away, if he didn’t let go of my foot, stand up, turn his back, and walk off—then… then I would’ve responded.

Because the way he looked at me? That look was something worthy of a response.

But just as quickly as it came, the moment disappears. It is utterly erased.

He makes me jump rope.

I have no concept of time. But while I’m jumping, he is working the heavy bag hanging from a steel beam. It’s the only bag on the whole platform even though there are hooks for dozens and dozens of bags on the ceiling.

I get better at skipping as I watch him. My feet seem to grasp the new movements. And even though I can’t go more than one or two dozen revolutions without messing up, that’s actually a good thing, because I need recovery time. I haven’t exerted myself so much since… well. Never.

Cort does punches. Punch, after punch, after punch. Fast ones, slow ones, combinations. What have you. I’m no punch expert. But it feels like he works through a sequence. Some predetermined course of practice that he’s been doing his whole life. And the entire time he is distracted. At least, that’s how he comes off to me. Thinking about other things. Like this is just mindless busy work to him.

Eventually he stops and walks over to me.

We are both disgusting. Nothing but sweat and blood, some of it his, some of it mine, some of it Pavo’s. And it strikes me then that we’re both pretty sick people. There is an ocean of water beneath our feet. One dip and we could wash this blood away.

But we don’t. We didn’t. And it’s weird.

He points at me. Rolls his hand.

I get the meaning. He wants to check my skipping. So I skip. Because I can now. And I don’t mind it. There are a lot worse things in this world than skipping rope.

He nods. No smile, no thumbs up, no pat on the back or star on the toe. Just a nod and then a point.

Keep going. That’s what that nod and point mean.

I learned a long time ago that people would put up with my silence as long as I don’t play dumb. If they can get their point across, and I do as I’m told, eventually they get tired of punishing me for my silence. So I keep going.

And he starts kicking that bag. I have no clue what these kicks are called, but he does lots of different types of them. Front kicks, and back kicks, and side kicks, and jump kicks. He does spinning kicks, and then he’s flipping and I actually stop skipping to watch that part of his show.

Because that’s what this is.

He’s putting on a show for me.

And that’s when I realize that he’s working out in front of me for a reason. And I am jumping rope as busy work. I am jumping rope so he can make me do two things at once.

This is pretty clever on his part. I get a little lost as I imagine that this is how he runs his training camp. I picture men like him. Younger, though. Maybe teens. All jumping rope like me. All watching him dance with it, then fight the bag with punches and kicks.

They soak him up like a sponge. And so do I.

This is how we spend our day.

At one point he shows me where the water is, hands me one of two plastic cups, and