Truth is, all of me hurts all of the time. He can poke anywhere on my body and trust it’s going to be tender, sore, achy… You name it. I’m in a damn dungeon. The guards hurt me. Put a period on that sentence and just get me in the damn cage so I can pretend to die and go the fuck home.
Brown eyes squint behind thick lenses that are as big as windshields perched on the bridge of a long nose. Bushy brows peek out from above black frames. The white lab coat barely fits around his bulky build as he gets in close and holds an ophthalmoscope to my eye. “Look straight ahead.”
I do as he instructs, wanting to get this over because anticipation’s clawing at me. Each second is a hammer banging against my brain as time marches me toward freedom.
“Keep your head still and follow the light with your eyes.”
I do that, too, familiar with this dog and pony show we perform before every event. Crane keeps the fights fair because, apparently, it’s not profitable or entertaining to put half-dead fighters in the cage. It’s all or nothing, so we’re put through these bullshit medical exams by Crane’s ethically questionable physician Thursday afternoons before Fight Nights.
“He’s not concussed,” Doc says over his shoulder to his assistant.
A younger man, fidgeting on a wheeled stool at a metal desk, transcribes the doctor’s diction to my file. Even I can see the bold red warnings scrawled across my records.
Aggressive. Hostile. Dangerous.
Damn. Fucking. Right.
Lethal, too. That’s why I’m chained to the exam table. Metal cuffs clamp around my wrists over the zip ties. My ankles are shackled. Even Doc’s assistant has a taser gun tucked into a shoulder holster.
Across the room, Lyle has the cattle prod at the ready as he scrolls through his phone. He’s not paying a lick of attention to anything but what’s on his screen.
Doc moves around to my back. He presses the crisscrossed scarring. The skin’s fucked over the worst of it, but luckily for me, Lyle and Owen were sloppy. They made more of a mess than serious damage. “Your back healed nicely.” He returns to stand in front of me. I get a noseful of latex when he touches his gloved fingers to the marks around my mouth. “These shouldn’t bother you.”
Not physically. Psychologically is a whole other animal. Something about having my lips sewn closed stayed with me. Can’t shake the sensation of the needle and thread sliding through my skin or the sickening feeling of not being able to open my mouth. God, just thinking about it makes me break out in a cold sweat. But I shake it off before it becomes a problem.
Can’t risk Doc sidelining me.
“No,” I grunt, fighting down a shiver that’s trying to work its way up my spine. “They’re fine.”
“I’m going to take your blood pressure.”
“Do what you gotta do,” I mutter.
The rubber soles of his shoes squeak against the white vinyl tiles. He wheels over the mobile blood pressure stand, and after fitting the cuff around my biceps, he instructs me not to move. I think he says it by rote because, seriously, we’re beyond these reminders. And I’m bound almost to the point of being nailed down.
I roll my eyes. “Sure, Doc.”
He pumps the air bulb a few times. Releases it. “One twenty-one over eighty-two.”
The assistant writes it down. Doc sticks the otoscope in my ears. Peers down my throat and feels the lymph nodes. Goes through all the motions of an actual medical exam before stepping away.
He nods to Lyle. “He’s cleared to fight.” Damn right I am. I have to be. My life depends on it. Jamie’s life depends on it. “I’m sorry, son.” Doc’s whisper is low enough for only me to hear.
This is the first time he’s shown a hint of remorse over what happens here. Like he knows my days are numbered.
I shrug. “No worries.”
“What’d you say?” Lyle demands.
“I said, you’re an asshole, Lyle.” I punctuate each word.
Dismally, Doc shakes his head. “Why must you instigate?”
Sorry, but I have to laugh. I yank the chains securing me to the exam table. “This is why.”
“It’ll be over soon.” Again, his whispered words are solely for me, and I frown, suddenly not so sure whose side he’s on. He gives me a curt shake of his head, his eyes full of warning.
Christ, he’s in on the escape, too.
