The Boy Who Wasn't Real

Eric

I train for hours today. Sam is too strong for me. I still don't know how Elisaveta beat him.

But do you know why she beat him? asks the voice inside me.

I ignore it and throw my fist into a punching bag. My knuckles are split and bleeding. It's weird feeling pain for no reason at all. I'm not used to this. I'm only used to getting into fights with people who I steal from—or people who steal from me.

"Harder, Eric!" shouts Sam. He's standing behind me and his loud voice rings in my ears.

I stop punching to look Sam in the eye—which requires me to pretty much look up at the ceiling, that's how tall he is. "I'm doing the best I can. I told you before, I'm not going to be able to be ready for The Hollow in just a few days. I need more time."

"You don't have more time, Eric. That's why I'm pushing you so hard." Sam pauses to grab a knife from a table covered in weapons. He tosses it in the air and catches it by the blade. "We're gonna start with these now."

I huff and grab a knife for myself.

"Actually, Eric," says a voice from behind me, "you're going to be using my knives today."

I turn to find Elisaveta leaning on a door frame. Her brown hair is up in a bun. She's holding two of her knives. As she walks over to me, she throws a knife forward. It buries itself in the punching bag, spewing grain all over the floor. I take the knife out and examine it. The pommel is studded with peridots and the grip is black with hints of gold. The blade is curved near the end.

"It's a nice knife, isn't it?" Elisaveta points out as she walks across the room, tugging on the neckline of her shirt. She pulls on a pair of black, fingerless gloves and analyzes her knife. I recognize it as the one she put to Sam's throat the other day.

"Yeah. Where'd you get it?"

"No small talk allowed," Sam snaps. He stands on one side of the training mat. Elisaveta is on my left and him on my right.

I grip the knife tight in my right hand. "Okay. When do we start?"

Elisaveta smiles and lunges towards me, her blade a silver streak through the air. A spark of pain cuts through my side. As she bends away from my defense, Sam comes at me from the right. His blade is a little rusted, so I take extra care not to get cut by it.

I lash out without any form or plan. I feel my blade connect with something solid—too solid to be Elisaveta, but enough to be Sam. His grunt confirms my thought. I press a hand to my bleeding side and try to get at least one hit in on Elisaveta. She's too nimble for someone of her size. Her only weakness is that there's more of her to hit than anyone else.

She parries one of my blows and brings her knife down, stopping a hair's breadth away from my thigh.

She doesn't want to hit you, Eric. Is it for the same reason she attacked Sam?

Shut up. I need to focus.

I shouldn't have left myself open. The next time I strike, I make sure not to make the same mistake. I twist away from her knife and slice through her loose, black shirt. I don't connect with skin, but I got a hit in. I feel myself inflate with pride.

Elisaveta notices my confidence and slips away from my clumsy blows. Then, her arm is around my throat and black spots cloud my vision.

"Stop," I say, but it comes out as barely a whisper.

Elisaveta removes some of the pressure on my neck, just enough so that I can breathe. "What did you learn Eric?"

"That I'm a bad fighter?" I offer, unsure of how to answer.