Sick Heart: A Dark MMA Fighter Romance

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 we drink.

I pause many times. I lean my back against the steel beam closest to me and slide down it, resting as he continues his routine. He never seems to get annoyed with my breaks, though I am careful not to take advantage. I rest, catch my breath, then get back up and continue.

He does the same, only for much longer stretches. He works that bag hard. And then he slides his back down the far wall and watches me.

I let him. I mean, it’s not like I could stop him, but I could turn my back and send a message. But I don’t.

And I find that I don’t hate him.

I find that these long, easy periods of skipping, and drinking, and resting, and then doing it all over again are a comforting routine. Something I can count on.

This is a gift, I think. Day one with a new master should be filled with anxiety about my future. And it’s not.

Perhaps he is instilling a false sense of security in me. Perhaps this is some elaborate, evil plan and tonight, when it’s dark, and I’m too tired to fight back, perhaps he will rape me.

But I don’t think so. And a girl like me doesn’t get this far in life by being afraid of a little coerced sex. That’s fucking ridiculous.

I’m not afraid that he will fuck me tonight. So his plan, if it is a plan, is working. I am, if not at ease, then resigned to my fate.

But all things must end eventually. And this easy, predictable day is no exception.

The sun is finally visible on the left side of the platform because it is low on the horizon. It is May right now, so I approximate the time to be perhaps five-thirty or six o’clock when he takes the rope from my hands and sets it down in a little pile next to his. Then he points to the stairs and we meet up over there and begin to climb.

The birds attack.

I had forgotten about the fucking birds.

They are huge. The wingspan on these albatrosses is easily four meters from tip to tip. They are like pterodactyls, something out of place and out of time. But Cort waves them off like this is just part of the fun of living on an abandoned oil rig in the middle of the ocean, and they are not persistent.

We make our way to the other end of the upper platform, behind the small building that I woke up in this morning, and he points to the back wall.

That’s when I notice the hose. It is draped over a large hook. The nozzle looks like something you’d clean the bottom of a boat with. And I see what’s coming.

I hesitate. He takes my arm—not harshly—and drags me over to the wall. Then he points at me. I’ve deciphered about two dozen of his points today. And this one means, Don’t move.

It’s gonna sting. I already know that. But I’m sweaty, wearing yesterday’s paint and blood, and I don’t really care how I get clean at this point, just get me clean.