Chapter 44: Codename: Blackheart Chapter Forty-Four

Laying on the cot in the Red Room, I hold myself in the foetal position as agonising pain rips through my abdomen. I managed to stop throwing up and shitting my organs out, long enough for them to bring me here. To add insult to injury, the nerve block in my feet has worn off, so right now, all I feel is pain. My insides feel like they’re constricted and on fire, my hands are throbbing painfully as I clench them into fists to fight off the pain, and my feet feel like they’re on fire. I can feel the sweat soaking my hair and clothes and my breathing becomes more laboured by the minute.

I bet Hexton was so proud of himself for putting me in here, thinking it would fuck with my head, but I barely even notice this stupid, fucking Red Room because I’m distracted by pain. I’m probably going to die in this place. At this point, it seems inevitable and yet I’m just not ready to give up. My parents survived hell just like this so they could come home to me. If I just give up, then they’ll be forced to watch me die and I just can’t do that to them.

I soon hear the door unlock. With all the strength I can summon, I sit up and instantly regret it as the room starts to spin.

A masked man steps in and hands me a balaclava. “Put this on,” he instructs.

Today they’ve switched out the lycra jumpsuit for a simple black tank top, cargo pants and sneakers. The one time they give me shoes and it’s the time it’s most painful. I fucking hate this place.

I take the balaclava, put it over my head, and look up at the man, though I keep seeing double as I do. I take slow breaths trying to mentally prepare myself for what I have to do. I find my centre and push off the cot into a standing position and straight away my feet give out and I’m on the floor as a cry of pain leaves my lips. I had hoped I could push through the pain and pretend it wasn’t happening, but I’m not superhuman and there’s only so much pain a person can take. I’m past my threshold.

Tears prick my eyes and I pound my fist against the floor, enraged by my own vulnerability.

“Get up,” the man says in a detached voice. I glare up at him and picture all the ways I could kill him, but that’s a waste of energy. As the room continues to spin, I push myself up onto my knees, bare down, and push up onto one foot. Searing agony shoots through my foot and I can feel those gut bubbles working into a frenzy again. Nevertheless, I put my weight on my foot, slowly bringing up my other leg, and evenly distribute my weight onto both feet as I stand. I begin to sway as hot tears fall down my cheeks and are absorbed by the fabric of the balaclava.

For ten years I’ve encountered all levels of pain, not only from my job but also from this shit show, but this is by far the worst. The masked man guides me out of the room, not giving a shit about my current condition. I take slow, measured steps as we walk down the long cement corridor, leaning and putting my weight against the wall as I walk, in an attempt to keep some pressure off my feet, but every step is like having my ankles and sides of my feet whipped with barbed wire while someone drips acid on them. Yet at the same time, I can’t actually feel where I’m walking because the soles of my feet have no sensation, so I keep tripping and stumbling, which makes everything else worse.

We make it to the large double doors, where I can hear the cheering crowd on the other side. I clench my fists tight at my sides and feel the sting as the cuts in my hands protest. I try to focus on the pain in my hands to distract myself once again from the pain everywhere else. Maybe if I can just focus my brain on one type of pain, in one location I’ll be able to get through this.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome back our reigning champion; the cold, calculating and unrelating, BLACKHEART!” Hexton’s voice booms over the sound system.

The doors open and the cheering and screaming of rich sadists is drowned out by the sound of my heart pounding in my ears. I take slow, languid steps as I make it to one end of the arena. Once again, everything looks different. It looks like I’ve entered the Thunderdome, only there’s no Tina Turner. I stand on my marker and sway on my feet, struggling to stand up as everything moves in and out of focus. With each passing second, I can feel a tight, sharp pain building in my chest. Cardiovascular symptoms are kicking in, and since I’m about to exert a lot of energy, chances are, it’ll speed up the effects of the poison.

All I can think about is the pain. The pain in my head, the pain in my chest, the pain in my hands, stomach, and feet. It’s all too much. No person is supposed to go through this much, and they’re definitely not meant to survive. I look up and can see Whiro on the other side of the arena, dressed the same as me. His cold eyes are looking at me with so much excitement, yet I can barely keep mine open.

I glance towards the VIP box housing my family and am surprised when I don’t see Alec. Actually, maybe not that surprised. Man has a weak constitution. I bet he couldn’t stomach this. My family are struggling to hold back their concern as it’s written all over their faces. In the midst of my agony, a thought occurs to me. If by some miracle I can make it through the fight, I have a chance at survival.

While Hexton is droning on with his pretentious speech to the crowd, I discreetly tap on the wolf’s bane flower tattoo on my forearm. My eyes connect with my mothers, and she catches the action. Suddenly her eyes widen in alarm as she comprehends my silent message. I couldn’t exactly yell, ‘Hey Mum, I’ve been poisoned with aconite, can you help a bitch out?’.

I try to keep my eyes on Whiro, but from the corner of my eye, I can see my mother rush to her purse and rummage through it. She always carries a vial of aconite antidote in her purse in case of an emergency. It’s not an antidote in the sense that it’s a cure, but it eases symptoms long enough to help someone get to a hospital. If I win, I’m immediately free to leave. If I can get to my mother, she can give me the antidote and get me to a hospital, and I will have a damn good chance at survival. But as I watch my mother turn her purse inside out, I lose all hope. She doesn’t have the antidote, and now she’s freaking the fuck out.

Dad is trying to calm her down so as to not draw any attention, but I think that’s no longer an option. Asking a mother to stay calm when her child is in danger is like asking the waves to stop crashing along the shore, it’s an impossible ask. Dad isn’t even bothering to pretend they’re just acquaintances and it makes me feel guilty. I don’t want what’s happening to me to lead to their exposure, so instead, I lock eyes with my grandfather and give him my best smile and hope he sees it in my eyes. I’m trying to let him know that whatever happens, it’ll be okay. I watch as his eyes become glassy with unshed tears, and he presses his hand against the glass. I smile at the gesture. Even in this moment with no words being shared, I can still feel their love for me. Poor Marcel is doing his best to comfort Vivienne, and in a funny turn of events I’m glad Alec isn’t here to see this.

“Our final two competitors have overcome exceptional odds and have made it to the final round. When the timer starts, our competitors will have one hour to execute – pun intended,” Hexton smirks, as the crowd laughs. “The final blow to their opponent. Only one can leave the arena alive. Should both competitors still be going when the timer reaches zero, they will both be forced to forfeit their wins and their lives. Everything hinges on this final fight. Whiro vs Blackheart, just who will win?!” he shouts, once again working the crowd up. I sway and have to steady myself as I regain my footing. I am so fucked. “Let the fight commence!” Hexton shouts, and as I glance at the jumbotron, I see the timer start counting down.

I haven’t even had a chance to lift my arms into a defensive position when Whiro rushes at me and takes a direct swing at my face. The shock of the action and my impaired state cause me to lose balance and I drop to the ground like a sack of bricks.

“You’re making this too fucking easy. At least give me a fight before I kill you, make it worth it,” he says as he lands a severe kick to my gut.

I have just enough time to lift the bottom of the balaclava and vomit on the arena floor as I struggle to catch my breath, while Whiro walks around performing to the crowd like some mascot at a football game. I didn’t vomit because his kick was that painful, I vomited because he kicked a gut that is currently infected with poison. But sure, let him take the credit.

I lower the balaclava and manage to get up on my hands and knees, just in time to feel Whiro stomp painfully on my back, forcing my body to connect with the ground painfully. With a groan of pain, I slowly roll on my back and try my hardest to catch my breath as agony erupts through my chest and I just know it’s my heart.

I can see Whiro’s foot coming down again aiming for my face, but some survival instinct inside me kicks in despite my horrible circumstances and I reach out, catching his foot and dig my thumb into the stitched-up wound in his leg, feeling the stitches rip apart under the strain of my thumb. He screams as he drops to the ground, and I take the opportunity to crawl away and force myself to stand. I clutch my chest as the pain increases and each breath becomes harder than the last. But I’m not dead yet. It’s not over till it's over.

I walk unsteadily over to Whiro and straddle his chest. He goes to throw a punch, so I grab his hand and apply as much pressure as I can to where his fingers used to be. He screams, temporarily distracted by the pain, and I take the chance to land repeated punches to his face. These punches don’t hold even a fraction of the force my punches usually hold. For all I know, to him, they just feel like a love tap and I’m wasting my time, but when I see the signs of blood seeping from under the balaclava I know I’ve at least done some damage.

Whiro manages to roll me on my back, but I notice in my somewhat delirious state, the way he winces showing weakness to his left flank. He lands another brutal punch to my face, and I immediately taste blood in my mouth. Everything is appearing in double, but I take a gamble and manage to throw a punch at his ribcage. I hear the sound of strangled air leaving him as he moves off me and fights to catch his breath. If I’m lucky, I might have just punctured a lung, but I can’t be sure. I roll onto my front and try to get up, but instead, I feel hands clasp the sides of my head and slam my skull into the concrete.

The pressure around my head disappears leaving behind only pain. I weakly roll onto my back and try to see straight, but everything is blurry. The sounds of the excited crowd become muffled, the lights are blinding and there’s a loud ringing in my ears. I’m aware of the moment Whiro moves on top of me, and I can feel his hands wrap around my neck. I try to break his grip on my throat, but I have no strength left. My body is too broken and bruised with nothing left to give.

Quickly a heaviness comes over my body, and black spots dance in my vision. I lose control of my arms and feel them drop at my sides as my air supply is completely cut off. I glance over at the VIP box where my family is watching, but I can’t make out anything. All I can do is send out a silent apology that I let them down. An apology that they had to see this. I hope they know they did everything they could, and they truly gave me every tool I needed in life. They were the best family I could have ever asked for, and at least I get to die knowing I had one hell of a life. I hope they know how grateful I am to them.

As I close my eyes and accept my fate, knowing at least now the pain will finally stop, the sound of an enormous explosion has my eyes opening as Whiro’s weight is thrown off my body. The ringing in my ears is now painfully worse, but beneath that is the muffled sound of screams and chaos. Between my blurry vision and the dust cloud, I can’t see shit, but I am aware of a figure rushing over to me. I feel them pull the balaclava from my head and pour something nasty down my throat, then I feel a sharp pin prick to the neck that tells me I’ve been injected with something. The figure whispers something into my ear, and despite how hard I try to focus on their words, I’m being pulled into the darkness. I let the darkness take me and slip into a painless rest, unsure if I’ll ever open my eyes again, but content to know that if this is my death, at least it’s not at Whiro’s hands.