Page 8 of Scorpion

This time, when my ears ring, it’s a different type of siren than the one I heard while I had lain helpless and watched my friends die. Because this time, it sounds like a melody. A call from the beyond, beckoning me to fall over the edge and succumb to the darkness.

They say time heals all wounds. That as the days go on, you’ll stop grieving the ones you love. But I don’t want time. I refuse to sit around waiting for the pain to hurt a little less, for the tears to burn a little softer. I want to beat the emotions out of me until it stops hurting, and I go back to being the type of woman my sister could be proud of.

Some call my addiction to the ring having pain I can control.

I call it weaponizing death.

I’ve long since made peace with the grim reaper. He can take me whenever he wants. If today’s my day, I’ll welcome his cold embrace with open arms. At least if I die in the ring, I’ll get to feel alive one last time.

So when everything goes black, I don’t fight it.

Chapter 2

ZALAK

Oxygen slams into me all at once. I buckle over, gasping for air, choking on each breath through my bruising esophagus. Rolling onto my elbows, I try to steady my pulse and focus on filling my lungs, but I can barely manage the simple task. I spit blood onto the floor covered in fresh crimson droplets, then drag my hand across my eye to stop the liquid from impairing my vision even more.

H-Brawn’s blurry figure circles the ring with his arms up.

No. No. Fuck.

I bite back a groan as I pull myself up onto my feet and try not to limp on my walk of shame back to the locker. But everyone can see it. There’s no denying that I can barely put any weight on my foot, or that I’m practically dragging it across the ground. I can feel all their eyes on me, their disappointment and smug victory. But it’s nothing compared to the next twelve hours if I don’t fork up some cash.

Red rims my vision, whether from the blood or from rage, I’m not sure. My bruised body protests against my movements, screaming at me to sit down. I slam the door to the locker room open and stagger inside.

“Fuck,” I growl, slapping the wall. The sound vibrates through the room, followed by another bang when I level my fists with the metal lockers.

No money. No health insurance. No fucking place to live after tomorrow.

Pathetic. Just like my parents always thought I was.

I don’t care if I’m on the street or living off food scraps. I’m not going to go crawling to my brother for a handout when he always took our parents’ side. Now Gaya is dead because they convinced her to visit our relatives in India, and her corpse is somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean, rotting alongside the parents who never gave a shit about us and two hundred other people.

I haven’t got many things—most of what my sister owned stayed with her wife, Amy—so I can rent a storage room and set up a tent in the forest until I figure it out. Plus, there’s no way I can share a space with someone, especially if I’m in a mood. Amy should be fine if I don’t send her any money for the next few weeks.

I’m just so fucking tired of everything. I’m sick of moving. I’m sick of living like this.

Yanking the towel off the bench, I hobble over to the sink to dampen the material, then attempt to wipe as much blood off my face as I can. The cut on my forehead and lip doesn’t let up, leaking crimson from the gaping wound.

I grit my teeth as I press the towel to my forehead, letting the metallic coat my taste buds, as I rummage around for my first aid kit. Red stains the Band-Aid I press onto my forehead within seconds. It needs stitches, but I can’t afford to get them.

My busted lip isn’t doing much better. It’s soaking a separate piece of cloth that I’m holding between my teeth. Every part of my body screams in pain as I drop down onto the bench to unwrap my knuckles and hiss as I shove my arms into a hoodie, leather jacket, then backpack. Clasping my helmet beneath my chin, I give the room a passing glance before limping out into the hall, taking the back exit to avoid facing the crowds.

I should be tracking down the promoter to get me in another fight, but I’m in no condition to get in the ring for another few weeks. Hell, I haven’t been in the right condition for months since I drunkenly fell down the stairs one night. My foot has been making me pay double time for it ever since.

I can barely smell the crisp night air as I limp toward my bike. It’ll be a miracle if I make it to my apartment in one piece. Every breath hurts, and I’m going to have to rely on my right leg for the drive. I’d rather risk getting into an accident than call down a taxi to take me home—not that I can afford it anyway.

Biting down on the towel, I throw my leg over my motorbike and slump down onto the metal to catch a moment’s reprieve from the pins and needles rendering my left foot numb and aching.

The bike rumbles to life beneath me, and I flinch, blinking back the image of the roaring flames coming from the armored car. My arms shake as I grip the handles. I don’t let myself think about my exhaustion as I peel away from the park and make my way to my apartment. Probably for the last time.

I’m not entirely sure how I made it home, but I know I did it, driving on autopilot until I’m struggling up the stairs with my helmet tucked beneath my arm and my hand in a death grip around the railing.

I lean half my weight against the wall, focusing on the dirty linoleum floors beneath me as I lift my knee higher than necessary to stop from dragging my foot. The edges of my vision blur and my head swims. Blood trickles out of the Band-Aid and down the side of my temple, as well as from the middle of my lip.

When was the last time I ate a proper meal? Do I even have any painkillers left for my foot?

Fuck. I should have died in that explosion too.

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