Carlos grants me a moment to gather my wits before he comes for me again. With my feet spread, I duck the blow he attempts to land, stumbling beneath his swinging arm.
Fortunately,his lessons are starting to stick since he’s unwilling to tolerate failure. If I don’t fight, I’ll die. Or worse—I’ll be like the other women, sent out to satisfy the whims of depraved monsters.
Taking a kick to the side, I land sprawled across the boxing ring. The mat isn’t the high-tech, sponge kind that I paid a small fortune to have fitted in my studio. This one is rock-hard and inflexible.
The impact jolts my bones, causing me to cry out. Carlos growls a curse in furious Spanish then stalks off so he doesn’t have to watch me writhe around in front of him.
Staring up at the steel rafters high above me, I can almost picture my safe, bright studio back in Liverpool. The polished, floor-to-ceiling mirrors. Workout equipment. Well-stocked smoothie bar. Bustling atmosphere.
I used to think that I was successful. Strong. Independent. Capable of tackling anything the world dared to throw at me after Mum passed. That nothing and nobody could ever hurt me again.
Now I’m cowering here, getting beaten within an inch of my life on a daily basis. Despite all the PT sessions I’ve taught and workout routines I completed, I still can’t defeat this son of a bitch.
If I can’t defend myself against Carlos, what hope do I have against anyone else?
I have to get stronger.
Fists curled tight, I push myself up again. My spindly legs are shaking, the muscles shrieking in protest. But still, I launch myself towards where Carlos is glugging water against the ring’s ropes.
He hears my thudding steps too late. I strike him in the back of the head, causing him to grunt then topple. The asshole lands so hard, I wonder if I’ve caused some serious damage.
Spread out in the same position he left me in, I’m free to boot him in the face. Blood erupts from his mouth and nose from several firm kicks, giving me a burst of satisfaction.
“You told me to get up.” I stare down at him, his eyes muddled with confusion from the head blow. “Now let me have my rest and water.”
A slow, rolling clap echoes through the room. Cigarette now flicked aside, Mr Gael has moved to the edge of the boxing ring. For the first time since I arrived here, a smile graces his lips.
“Finish the job, 768.” His savage yellow eyes brim with intensity. “We’re not teaching you to show mercy.”
Distant sensations pour into my numb state, dragging me from the depths of the traumatic memory. For a few seconds, I float in the unknown, that evil smile at the forefront of my mind.
We’re not teaching you to show mercy.
It takes time for awareness to inch back in, eventually feeling the hot water still beating over me. I lay still as the world settles back into place, slick tiles pressing into my screaming muscles.
Pain.
Nausea.
Dizziness.
Numb detachment.
The warring sensations battle for centre stage when my brain catches up to what’s just happened. Each time I black out, the result is the same. I wake up in agony, confused and dazed by the force of the latest attack.
Every episode I’ve had in the past few years is different. Truthfully, I don’t know what physically happens in the seconds or minutes when I’m plunged into total blackness.
I’ve dealt with the anxiety of wondering when the next will hit ever since my worst fight. The one that almost ended my life. Mr Gael was forced to cancel my fights for months while I healed from a fractured skull.
Knocking forces me to peel my eyes open. It takes a few seconds for my sight to settle beyond my swimming vision. I feel like I’m on a swaying ship.
Tom’s spotless marble bathroom appears in blurry lines through the shower door. This is… his apartment. His bathroom. His life I’ve invaded.
I’m free now.
“Ember? The car just arrived.”
Lips flopping uselessly, it takes great effort to make my tongue obey, though my voice is strained.
