SICK HEART Huss, JA (best way to read e books .TXT) 📖

time he stops his stupid rhythmic snicking, walks over to me, takes the rope from my hands, drops it on the ground, and points to my eyes. Watch, that point says.

Then he does a slower version of his snicking. He snick. Snick. Snicks. Which makes absolutely no difference to me at all.

He stops again, doubles his rope up, holds it in one hand like a whip, and then begins twirling it. Not jumping, just twirling it. Then he hops. He points to his feet. And I notice he’s hopping every time the rope says snick.

He stops, picks up my rope, doubles it up, and hands it to me. He signs something that I assume says, Your turn.

I hesitate. Because… what the actual fuck, ya know? What is the point of this life?

It’s a real question. What is the fucking point if I am to be stuck on an abandoned oil rig with a killer who wants to teach me how to jump rope?

He begins twirling his whip again, hopping at just the right moment, pointing at me to follow along.

I swing the rope, listening for the snick, and then hop. Not at the right moment, but I don’t care. This is me doing what he says as far as I’m concerned.

His rope is back in both hands now, and he skips while I hop alongside my whip.

We do this for a little while and I’m huffing pretty good. I’m so out of breath, a sharp pain shoots up my side. This makes me remember something and I stop to just stare at him.

His ribs. Jesus Christ. Pavo broke his ribs. That whole scene with the nurses in the clinic trying to get a brace on Cort. His resistance.

He’s jumping rope with broken ribs.

He stops and signs something at me, which I ignore, but then, even though I don’t want to, I need to. I point at his ribs. At the new tattoo there. A skull, of course. A wraith-like skull that represents the death of Pavo Vervonal.

Cort looks down at his body, confused, then back up at me, smiling. And he keeps jumping.

So I hop. Out of breath and wheezing. Not even jumping rope. It’s so fucking sad, my hop. But I do it anyway. Because that’s the point. Isn’t it? The point is pushing through the pain. The point is to keep going because they want you to quit.

And the secret… the secret is to keep one thing for yourself and let them steal the rest.

Cort van Breda must have decided a long time ago that he will keep his pain.

They can’t have his pain.

And they can’t have my words, either.

That’s why he skips.

And that’s why I don’t talk.

It’s impossible to tell time on the platform. There are no clocks, of course. But also, we’re on a middle level and there is no real way to see the sun.

I do my pathetic hop for what seems like several more eternities, but is more likely twenty minutes. And Cort shows off with the fanciest jump-roping I could never imagine. He skips, he jumps, he hops, he kicks, he double-skips, he double-jumps, he double-hops—but not the way I did—he double-kicks. He crosses his arms in a figure eight, he double-crosses his arms in a figure eight. He somehow travels the length of the fucking platform doing all these things, like he’s dancing with that rope.

And he is.

Cort van Breda—Sick Heart himself—is having a love affair with his jump rope right in front of my face and he has absolutely no shame.

He’s also not even out of breath.

He is dancing back my way when he suddenly stops and points at me. I’m still twirling my rope like a whip off to the side and halfheartedly hopping the way he showed me. But mostly I’ve been watching him.

He walks over to me. His body is glistening with a mixture of sweat and dried blood and he smells like… filth. Like dead filth.

I would take offense to that smell, but I’m pretty sure some of it is actually me.

He takes both handles of the jump rope of out my hand, then holds each one in a single hand, offering the rope back to me.

Right. I guess I knew I would have to jump rope for real at some point.

I take the rope and skip. And to my surprise, I don’t double-hop. I don’t even trip. I go six or seven whole revolutions before I mess up and have to start over.

Cort beams a smile at me. Like he’s proud. Like I am a small, slow child who just needed a little extra practice and encouragement.

He signs something at me. I’m internally annoyed and start jumping again. But he puts his hand out, catching my rope, and stops me.

His steel-gray eyes look straight into mine. Then he takes my hand, pulls the jump rope handle out of it, and positions my fingers into a series of signs. And it’s not like he’s trying to teach me anything. Because he goes way too fast. He’s just making a point, I think.

I don’t answer or acknowledge him in any way. But again, I don’t think he’s waiting for it. He hands me back the rope, and then turns his back and walks away.

I watch for a moment. Well, no. I’m practically studying his back. Because he doesn’t walk far, just over to the wall where he drops his rope on the ground and then reaches his arms up over his head, like he’s stretching.

Hundreds of muscles pop out of his back. He is so well-defined, he looks like an ancient stained-marble statue of Adonis, but with a much finer physique. His back piece tattoo is large and intricate, a design that must have taken several years of fights to complete because even from here I can count a dozen skulls.

My eyes drift down to his ribs and I study his newest addition. It’s a cross between a skeleton and a wraith. It’s Pavo, I realize.