Sick Heart: A Dark MMA Fighter Romance

My hair starts out in two long ponytails. But they twist them up and secure them on top of my head like horns.

When I look in the mirror, I am evil personified.

And it fits, I think.

Everything about this night is going to be evil.

A group of teenage boys dressed up in slave attire—shirtless with gold skirts—escort me through the halls when I am done.

Two flank me on either side. They are young, because they are only my height. The two in front and the two behind are older. Maybe fifteen.

The younger one on my left whispers, “I hope Pavo wins.”

“Yeah,” the one on the right says. “You do not want to know what happens to the girls Sick Heart takes home.” I glance at him with frightened eyes. “I hear he kills them.”

Then the other one says, “I heard the same thing. He kills them all.”

“But don’t worry,” the one on my left says. “We’re all rooting for Pavo. He’s the favorite tonight.”

“He’s got a cheat,” the other one snickers. “And everyone knows it.”

“Shut up,” an older boy in front barks. “Quit talking to her.”

“It’s true,” a boy behind me echoes. “We all know that Pavo’s team hid a weapon on the platform.”

“You don’t know shit,” the boy in front says.

This whole time we are walking upstairs. But we stop at a large double steel door and then the two slave boys in front pull it open and step aside.

Immediately I am bombarded with the flashing lights of cameras. Dozens of men take pictures while reporters yell questions at me.

My two flanking escorts take my hands and lead me through the chaos. Disgusting, sweaty bodies reeking of the hot stench of oil and ocean push up against me.

“Just follow us,” the one on my right says. “We’re not stopping here. They want you on the platform right now.”

The boys who were behind me are now in front, pushing the crowd out of the way. The camera flashes stop and darkness takes over.

There is no moon tonight. And every light on the ship has been turned off.

Everything around me feels both empty and full in the same moment.

Then we are climbing another set of stairs. At the top I realize we’ve already reached the Bull of Light’s helicopter pad. Two spotlights come on, but not regular spotlights. Black lights. And my skin glows an unnatural bright white under the purple haze.

Both of my slave boys squeeze my hands. Then they lean in and kiss me on the cheek that’s not painted like a skull.

“Good luck,” the first one says.

“Pavo for the win,” the other one says, making a fist.

And then they leave me there, under the spotlights.

I breathe heavy and hard for a few moments, then almost fall into a panic when the spotlights go out. My heart shudders inside my chest. Because it’s all happening too fast and I don’t know what to do.

But of course, that’s not really true. I only have one job here. I am to stand in the center of the round helicopter platform and not move until the fight is over.

But then what?

What happens to me after the fight?

Men in the crowd begin to scream at me from the topside. They are much closer than I imagined they would be and when I look up, I can pick out a few individual faces as the black spotlight passes back and forth across the crowd.

I scan them, wondering what they are thinking.

They begin to boo me when I don’t move. They jeer and spew insults. And I realize I need to be in the center before anything else can happen.

I take a few steps forward and they cheer, clapping and whistling, calling at me.

The helipad hangs out over the side of the ship by just a little bit. Just enough so that when the helicopters land, there is no threat of the spinning rotors hitting anything on the command center. But this asymmetry, combined with the rolling motion of the massive ship, sets me off balance and I need to brace myself with feet spread apart to control the spinning in my head.

After a moment, I close my eyes, still slowly walking forward, and force myself to snap out of it.

Everyone is watching you, Anya. This is the fight of the year. If you ruin it, they will not forgive you.

I swallow hard, open my eyes, and find myself in the center of the platform, standing on the giant H painted on the concrete.

That’s when all the lights go out and the drumming begins.

A slow, thumping beat at first. Like the footsteps of some giant beast coming towards me. The drummers are close, but I can’t see them. I know it’s not a recording. The ritual has started and this is part of it.

The beat picks up and becomes tribal, turning this modern-day miracle of a ship into a jungle island in the middle of a sea of darkness.