Survival (Twisted Book 1) (3 page)

“Yes!” I screeched, feeling more and more terrified by the minute.

There was so much noise. There were so many people. The excited energy buzzed in the air. The audience was getting a kick out of what was about to happen and then it hit me. We were in the thick of it. The night had already started; there had been previous fights, and there were more to come. The excitement grew with every second, telling me we were building up to something much bigger.

“Curtis?” I looked up at him as he held a chair out at a table for me and I sat down. He sat down next to me and my eyes never left him. “What did you mean about this being Oliver’s big night?”

“Ah,” he groaned and chewed on his thumb nail. “I don’t know that I should tell you. You already look like you’re about to spew.
Water?”

“Spill it.”

“The water?”

He was trying to be funny, the bastard. He’d brought me here, to the most terrifying night of my life and he was trying to be funny. I wanted to punch him. Hell, I was in the right place to do it.

“The truth, Curtis.”

“I can’t resist a pretty face,” he said, waving at someone in the distance and mouthing that he wanted bottled water. He turned back to me. “It’s the way this industry works.
The bigger the fight, the more money. The bigger the win, the more sponsors next time you fight. Get it?”

I nodded.

“Like any area of the entertainment industry-”

“This is entertainment?”

“Wait ‘til you feel the rush. You want the story or not, Skillet?” I nodded for him to continue. “The smaller fights go first. They go for five minutes in each round, a maximum of three rounds. You with me?” I nodded, speechless, “Championships and main events last for five rounds. The further on in the night, the bigger the profiles. People will stay for the main event, spend loads of cash, voila. The organisers made their moolah.”

“Stop trying to be funny!” I shoved at him but he didn’t even notice I’d touched him.

“I’m trying to make you feel better. Ollie has been a surprise mover up the ranks.”

“Why is he fighting?” I asked, scanning the arena for my brother. I couldn’t see him. I could usually feel him when we were close – twin sixth sense or whatever – but I couldn’t feel him.

“For the same reasons we all do.”

“Money?
All this danger for money?”

“It’s not dangerous if you do it right. This isn’t pit fighting, Skillet,” he chuckled, but I felt like a fish out of water. I had no idea what was going on. “And it isn’t for money. It’s for the rush, the release, the freedom, the passion. It’s climbing the steps of that ring and standing in the middle to look at the crowd, knowing you and just one other are in
control of your life for twenty-five minutes. During that time, nothing else matters.”

I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. I wanted to switch on the twin radar, find my brother and get him out of there. If he was doing it for release, there was only one thing he needed to escape from.
Home. Me. We would find another way to solve it. I just had to find him.

“He’s not here,” Curtis said, causing me to stop looking at every face I could see. “He’ll be in the back. Greasing up or shadowing,” he continued when he noted my confusion.
“Vaseline. Helps the punches slip off…and shadowing. Like a fight in slow motion. It’s conditioning. He’ll be fine.”

“How can you know that?”

“He isn’t called Juggernaut Jones for nothing.”

My heart was racing. Nothing Curtis had told me made me feel one iota of comfort. My brother was about to get in a cage and fight. Fight. And there was nothing I could do to stop him. I was about to lose my cool, when the lights fell dim and the strobe lighting began. The music made me jump as it burst from the speakers. The drums of a post-hardcore band, accompanied by the scream of the male lead singer, bled out and filled the arena. My ears hurt and the aggressive music relentlessly attacking me only made my nerves amplify.

“Okaaaay!” the MC in the middle of the ring shouted. “Deep breaths…clenched fists…”

The audience chanted with him.

“Deep breaths…clenched fists. Deep breaths…clenched fists.”

The MC continued, “Deep breaths, clenched fists, here comes Juggernaut Jones!”

I stopped breathing altogether as my brother jumped out, barefoot and topless wearing open fingered gloves, and I saw a bright green mouthguard in his hand as he raised his arms. He didn’t look like my brother. Oliver was always the quiet one, the reserved one; the one more likely to stop a fight with carefully chosen words. No way would he walk out into a crowd of hundreds, ready and willing to punch a man. For fun. I didn’t know who I was looking at as he walked the ramp, climbed into the ring and shook hands with the MC, but it wasn’t Oliver Jones…It was Juggernaut Jones. Was it possible that he could have been both? I wasn’t convinced. I was terrified. Beyond terrified. I was delirious and nauseas and my hands were locked so tightly together they hurt.

The other guy made his entrance. He was huge too. Couldn’t Oliver have been up against someone who didn’t match him muscle for muscle? More screaming from the speakers and I covered my ears with my hands, my eyes never leaving the other fighter. I didn’t even catch his name.
The MC’s voice was drowned out by the screams, whistles and cheers of the people who had made their way forward and were now surrounding us. He bounced down the ramp and glared at my brother; he bared his teeth in a snarl and more screams erupted from the spectators. I turned my gaze to Oliver as he shook his arms and bounced from foot to foot. He was focussed, I could see that much. His eyes had glassed over and the small smile on one corner of his mouth told me he was confident. I thought I could feel it permeating from him to me. I must have been imagining it; making it up to ease my fear.

“Okay,” the referee called and Oliver and the other fighter met him in the middle. “I want a good clean fight. I won't tolerate anything less. Are you ready?” he looked at Oliver, who nodded. He looked to the other guy, who nodded. It was happening.
“Alright. Touch gloves, let’s go.”

They bumped gloves and backed up. The bell rang and they began to circle the ring, neither wanting to make the first move. The first guy swung his arm out and I held my breath as his fist passed Oliver’s face. Oliver tried next, and missed. They edged closer and closer, until they locked hands behind each other’s heads and tried to off the other’s balance. I didn’t want to watch, but I couldn’t look away. In my peripheral, I could see Curtis on tenterhooks.
One leg was bouncing and he was clenching his fists. He was nervous. He told me Oliver would be fine. Why was he nervous if Oliver was going to win?

The other fighter hit Oliver straight in the jaw. I raised my hand to my cheek; I could feel it. I was out of breath, my oxygen intake reduced the more Oliver exerted himself. They were on the floor, one trying to make the other submit and then they swapped. There was kicking and punching and flying fists. I couldn’t keep up; I only knew that the first round felt a hell of a lot longer than five minutes. It felt like long, agonising hours of watching my brother fight. I didn’t want it. Why would he want to do it? I got no rush; there was adrenaline, but the flight or fight response? I wanted to run and take him with me.

The same torturous routine went on for three rounds. Curtis comforted me in between, while Oliver was having Vaseline rubbed on a cut above his eyebrow and a load of water squirted into his mouth, but it didn’t work. Nothing would work. I wouldn’t feel better until I could slap some sense into my brother myself and make him promise he wouldn’t do it again.

The fourth round started and my heart felt heavy. It felt too weighed down to beat. It was slow, but it was fast. It was heavy, but it was fluttery. I was a concoction of nervous anguish and I just wanted it to end.

“Knock him out, Ollie!” I cried. I just wanted it to be over.

The bell rang as the words left my lips and Oliver turned to find me. He didn’t see the
fist coming in his direction. His eyes connected with mine and a look of terror flashed across his face before the fist connected with the back of his head and sent him to the floor. His body went limp, his eyes closed. He didn’t move.

Twins. You’re born together, you grow together, you learn together. You laugh together, you cry together…you fight together.

And then what?

January 1
st
, 2003

Oliver was unconscious before he was able to put his hands out to break his fall. His body slumped to the floor and my heart stopped as I watched it.

Time stopped. There was no bell.

Silence deafened the building.

The only movement was the referee standing over my brother and waving his arms in silent panic.

I couldn’t breathe. I felt numb.

I took off towards the ring and launched myself at the cage. I could feel the cold metal; it was the only thing I felt.
Cold.

Curtis wrapped his arms around my waist. I knew it was him; I could hear him shushing me. I could hear someone in the ring telling him to get me a
way. I was panicking. I was hysterical. I clung to the cage and watched as people dressed in black surrounded Oliver until I couldn’t see him. I allowed Curtis to wrench me away but my body continued thrashing.

“You said he’d be fine!” I screamed when he set me down. I pounded his chest and repeated, “You said he’d be fine.”

“I know.”

I looked past him.

“No!” I cried, trying to get to Oliver as he was strapped to a stretcher. “No, no, no!”

“
Skye, let them look after him”

“He needs me!”

Curtis lifted me off my feet and I stopped fighting. My body sagged as he threw me over his shoulder and made his way towards the exit. I silently sobbed as I was separated further from Oliver’s lifeless body.

I sat in the waiting room surrounded by people, but I wasn’t really there. I was still in the arena watching Oliver fall over and over again. All I could see was the pained expression on his face when his eyes met mine.

Curtis never let go of my hand, not once. But I didn’t hold back. I couldn’t.

Time ticked by; hours, minutes, I didn’t know. All I knew was that with each agonising second that passed, my brother was somewhere in the hospital. Alone.

The door clicked open and I heard muffled voices as I continued to stare blankly at the floor.

“Skye…Skye…Skye,” Curtis shook me and I looked up into the eyes of a doctor.

“Are you next of kin?” She asked. I nodded. “Are you his wife?”

I shook my head.

“She’s his sister,” Curtis answered for me and gave my hand a gentle squeeze.

“Where are your parents, Skye?” I just stared back at her, “Skye?”

“Unfit,” I rasped. “Dad left, Mum is drunk. It’s just us.”

She nodded in understanding and turned to Curtis.

“Would you come with her to my office?”

Curtis stood and helped me to my feet. We reached the door before I stopped.

“I’m okay,” I stepped away from him.

“But-”

“I said -- I’m okay.”

I followed the doctor to her office and she shut the door behind us. She sat behind her desk and gestured for me to sit opposite. I stayed standing.

“I really think you should sit down, Ms Jones.”

I relented and sat in the chair.

“My name is Doctor Khan. I’m in charge of your brother’s care.”

I continued to stare. I was close to breaking, to letting my heart shatter, but I had to keep it in. I had to be strong for Oliver.

“Are you sure you don’t want someone here with you?”

I shook my head, “No. Thank you.”

“Okay,” she shifted in her chair and straightened her back. “It isn’t good news, Ms Jones.”

I choked on a sob and my bottom lip trembled. Oliver.

"Your brother suffered severe brain damage and he's no longer responding to any stimulus."

I shook my head again. She was lying.

"Right now, the ventilator is the only thing keeping Oliver alive, I'm afraid. A neurologist is due here shortly to confirm my diagnosis.”

“Diagnosis?”

“Yes. The brain stem is what controls the flow of messages between the brain and the rest of the body as well as the vital functions such as breat
hing, heart rate, consciousness and awareness. Early indications show that Oliver’s brain stem is no longer functioning.”

I covered my mouth with my hand and my body trembled. The tears pooled and the pain plunged to every one of my nerve endings.

“Unfortunately, it is irreversible.”

“No.” I exhaled and couldn’t breathe in.

"To confirm brain stem death, my colleague and I have to assess a specific set of criteria at least twice. We will then ask for your permission to cease mechanical ventilation."

I couldn’t listen to any more. I stood up and paced the room. She was lying.