Page 83 of Yours on the Canvas

They talk around me like I’m cargo. Ray drones on about the syndicate, about the underground circuit in Seattle that has been waiting for new blood. They talk about getting me into the ring as soon as my body “remembers how to take a beating.”

A fight is already booked for three weeks from now. Three weeks to strip away the warmth Silas gave me. Three weeks to turn me back into the mindless weapon they always wanted.

“Three weeks gives us enough time to sweat out the softness Silas put in you,” Ray says, turning back around to face the front.

His words cut deep, and I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste blood.

I can’t think about Silas. If I picture his crooked smile, or the way his fingers felt wrapped around me this morning, I’ll throw myself out of this moving car.

I stare blankly out the window as the familiar, dreary skyline of Seattle begins to loom through the grey drizzle, swallowing the last remnants of my hope.

* * *

The car stops behind a house that I don’t recognise. Before the engine even shuts off, Ray’s door opens, and he is standing beside my door waiting for me.

The moment my boots hit the gravel, the cold barrel of a gun presses firmly against the small of my back. It’s not subtle. It is a reminder of the leash, a silent command that keeps my spine rigid and my steps heavy.

“Move,” Ray mutters, nudging me forward with the steel.

We walk up the stairs to the front porch. Dad unlocks the door pushing it open, and Ray nudges me forward, and I step into the house.

I look around while they walk me down the hallway. Carpet is worn thin under my boots, and the kitchen and lounge look like they were furnished straight from a back alley. The kitchen table has a peeling laminate top, dishes piled across the bench like no one’s bothered to wash them in days. The couch is torn in places, stuffing poking through the seams, and the TV sits on a shaky little table that looks like it’ll collapse if someone breathes too hard near it.

My steps slow as I take it all in, I can smell the neglect, the decay. It’s the feeling that this house is nothing but a shell, and it’s never been a home.

“Move, Jackie.”

We reach a solid wooden door at the back of the house. Dad yanks it open, revealing a steep set of stairs disappearing into pitch-black darkness.

My feet stop dead.

I stare into the dark, my pulse hammering in my throat. My voice comes out small, cracked, barely there.

“No.”

The click of the gun goes right off beside my ear, sharp enough to make my whole body jerk.

“Down.” Dad orders.

Something inside me gives out. Not strength, just hope.

I let out a shaky breath and step into the darkness. The air gets colder with every stair I take, thick and stale, like it hasn’t moved in years. A shiver crawls over my skin, like something alive moving under it, and my chest tightens until all I feel is pain.

I feel like I’m walking to my grave.

When we reach the bottom, Ray flicks a switch, and a harsh yellow light snaps on overhead, buzzing loud enough to make my teeth ache.

The glow is ugly, washing everything in a sick, dirty yellow colour.

It’s a basement.

But there’s also a cage.

I stand in front of the chain link fence and I look into the space beyond it.

On one side, there’s a narrow cot pushed against the wall. It’s covered in thin blankets and a pillow that is so thin, there may as well not be there. A small partition hides a toilet and a rusted sink. The whole place smells of damp concrete and old sweat.

But it’s the other side of the room that makes my stomach twist.