Sick Heart: A Dark MMA Fighter Romance

I don’t ask permission to do this.

I don’t need permission.

I am not a little boy in a bathhouse.

I am Cort van Breda, Ring of Fire World Champion for ten years running.

I own this girl.

Anya Bokori is mine.

I don’t know what happens next. All I know is that I’m wearing shorts again—still barefoot—and I’m cruising through the tight, nearly claustrophobic hallways of the ship.

I don’t know where Rainer is. Or Maart. Or Evard. And even though I should care about that—about Evard, at the very least—I don’t care.

The Lectra is one hundred percent in control.

It’s telling me where to go and when I get there, it will tell me what to do as well.

People stop when I approach.

They press themselves into the walls, eyes downcast.

Looking at the floor.

Looking at anything but me.

I know I’m fucked up. That’s the thing about the Lectra. It gives you glimpses. It gives you moments. But you gotta obey it too. You can’t tell it no. It will spit in your face if you try.

So I go with it. I flow with it.

And pretty soon I’m not on the ship anymore. I’m walking the platforms of the Rock, alone in the middle of an angry ocean. Small and hungry. Beaten and bruised. Humiliated and sad.

And sick.

I am sick.

My heart is sick.

I am heart sick.

The girl who was telling me to run is gone now. I don’t know what happened to her. All I know is that I woke up on the Rock.

There was nothing there back then.

He left me there for three months.

Three fucking months.

The Rock is where I learned to be silent.

The Rock is where I learned to live with myself.

The Rock is where I learned to accept my lot in life.

The Rock is where he broke me.

The Rock is where I put myself back together.

The Rock is where the nightmare begins.

The Lectra lets go and I find myself climbing the stairs to the event room.

There are mercs lining the stairwell, all dressed in black, carrying those giant guns. Knives strapped to their legs and ammo on their belts.

They would not have a chance against me in this tight stairwell. Not even with those weapons. Not even all of them at once. And they all know this. Because they don’t look at me.

They don’t dare fucking look at me.

I picture that fight in my head. Imagine myself jumping up, grabbing the platform of the stairs above my head, kicking five or six of them in the face and then swinging around to take out their buddies rushing up to help.

It would be a bloodbath. I would snap so many necks.

“Cort!”

I focus and find Maart standing at the top of the stairwell, just outside the open door to the observation room.

“Fuck, dude. Where the hell did you go?” He looks over my shoulder. “Where’s Anya?”

Anya. Where is Anya?

“She left with you. Where’d she go? Lazar wants to talk to her.”

Oh, does he? Too fucking bad for him.

“Cort? Where is she?”

Some time passes as I climb the remaining dozen steps up to Maart. And then he’s talking again.

“Jesus Christ. Look at your eyes. They are bright blue, brother. You are fucked up.”

I laugh, then sign, I am so fucked up.

“Where’s Anya?”

But I’m not sure. I don’t actually remember taking her with me when I left the room.

“Never mind,” Maart says. “We’ll find her later, I guess. Everyone’s waiting for you. Rainer has been covering. You ready?” He’s got me by the shoulders and gives me a little shake.

Oh, I’m fucking ready all right. Let’s do this shit.

We enter the room and pause, taking it all in. I spy my father, but he’s so far away it feels like a journey and a trek to talk to him. So I let people surround me. People I don’t know. People I don’t care about. Maart, of course, does all the talking for me. I’m not even paying attention. This is pretty much the best part about the silence. I can just tune them out.

But then that reporter is in my face trying to ask me questions.

“Cort.” She’s past middle age. Too much make-up and some of it is smeared. There are dark smudges under her eyes and her cheeks are pale now and not rouged. “What did it feel like to disobey your father tonight?”

“Come on,” Maart says, positioning himself between her and me, kinda pushing her back a little. “Leave him alone. He’s not going to answer you.”

“Why not, Cort?” Her eyes are locked on mine. “Why can’t you answer me? Is this some kind of vow? Did you take a vow? Did you know that Anya was silent too? Is that why—”

“That’s enough!” Maart is all out of patience. “Get the fuck back.” Maart grabs my arm and tugs me along through the crowd.

There are a lot of women here now. Whores. They are all whores. No respectable man brings his wife to a Ring of Fire fight.