[ WP ] She 's had secrets before , but not like this . She never even told you she was pregnant .

Trigger warning. 
 
 The blood spreading over the floor mixes with the Adobo you threw earlier to create grisly mudslides that collapse onto your dirty Trival boots. You stare down in horror at what you have done. She sits in the spreading puddle, quiet racking sobs hitching her shoulders, one hand holding her face the other holding the red mess flowing from between her legs. She is squeezed into the space between the small stove and the dorm fridge, trapped in a corner by your aching fists. 
 
 She's had secrets before, but not like this. She never even told you she was pregnant. You would n't have done it, had you known. You look at the potential spreading over the floor. A strapping son, a beautiful daughter. Had you only known. You look in horror at your own hands. She should have told you. You can be gentle, you are n't a monster. This is n't what you wanted. This should n't be. 
 
 The guilt spins in your drunken head, twists through the blood fear dampening your brain. What have you done? The tiny kitchen in the tiny corner apartment is a nightmare hellscape. How could it come to this? You feel your anger drowning in shame and sorrow. 
 
 You glance around at the devastation your rage has wrought through the cramped room. Dishes smashed and boxes overturned. It is hardly noticeable in the mess of unwashed dishes and half-eaten food. Why has n't she cleaned? She was home all day. You feel a bit of heat on your cheeks. Was this your really fault? 
 
 You work all week. For what? A tiny apartment? You have to squeeze past each other to move through it. The blacks next door are always banging on the walls telling you to turn your music off before they go back to blaring their crap. Fuck them, chingados. Garbage dry food? A taste of Mexico your hairy ass, it tastes like cardboard and worse if she cooks it. Her? She is fat in all the wrong places and almost as hairy as you are. Why are you even here, trapped in this shit apartment? You jaw clenches. It could n't be your fault. She could have told you. 
 
 What right does she have to ask you where you were? She knows. What right does she have to ask about your pay? She knows. She knew better than to ask. This is n't your fault. 
 
 A man has a right to go to the bar with his Friday pay after a long work week. This country is expensive and you are n't paid what you deserve, how hard you work. And the prices are high, but they play the music you heard growing up. 10, 12 cervezas is what it takes to wash the stress out and so what if its 5 bucks a pop? Its your money. And the bitches that flock there to steal your hard earned money? This is at least somewhat their fault, right? 15 bucks to buy them a cerveza? Goddamn robbery and they wo n't dance with you if you do n't buy them at least one. 20 bucks to dance with you, the same dances you see for free in every bar at home? They should be paying you. They all complimented your Trival boots. And you're dancing the lead to help them remember something better than this shit country. 35 bucks per dance, but you need it to feel like a man and with the alcohol in your blood you do n't feel the money disappearing. You do n't get paid enough and it disappears fast and when its gone the women laugh at you until your face turns crimson and you start swinging. But the bouncers are watching and they're big fat Americans and you find yourself on your back on the street with no money. She knew not to ask. She knew not to yell so loud when your head was splitting open and the music had left a painful buzzing in nearly deafened ears. She knew. This is n't your fault! 
 
 Your teeth scrape together as you grind your jaw back and forth, but you do n't even notice. You wobble a bit, the cervezas still dominating you mind and body. You clench your fists and the knuckle on your right middle finger pops painfully from the time it got caught in the machine. Your fucking comemierda white boss looked up from his phone only long enough to tell you you would n't be paid for the day. Pendejo would n't even look you in the face when he gave you your short pay. This she knew too. And she pestered you all week about it. It could be her fault. 
 
 You look down on her as she tilts her head back and inhales a loud sob. `` Ahh.'' The blacks bang on the wall. 
 `` Shut up in there you fucking Mexicans! We're tryna sleep!''. You can tell its a broom hitting the wall from the shhTHUMP sound the bristles make before the head hits the wall. You glance over at the wall and back to her and shes sobbing loudly now. She let you move in here after your first time together. This is her fault. 
 
 You slowly scan the blood on the floor as your teeth grind and your knuckles pop. This was your baby. You look back at the bitch, the sobbing making every ugly feature pop. She might not even be Catholic. She does n't go to church with you on Sundays when you lock her in to clean. She does n't pray for herself and she does n't pray for you. She even asked you to take down your Virgin and Child painting. Claimed she was your Maria, as if she was good enough to be in the same room as even the painting. She knew what she was doing. She forced you to perform an abortion with your fists. This is her fault! 
 
 You reach down and grab the bitch by the hair on the back of her head. She stops her wailing and her eyes shoot open, fearful tearful eyes locked on you. You put you weight into it, swinging at the hips and dragging her off her fat ass out of the blood. You slam her head into the cabinets. She cries out, so you do it again. You let her head drop into your baby's blood. She is quiet. 
 
 `` What the fuck is going on in there? We're calling the police!'' Their slamming on your wall is driving you crazy. 
 
 `` Me toca los cojones.'' You head toward the fridge, but the world seems to tilt on you. You throw your hands out to balance yourself, but stumble sideways. You hip-check the table and it skitters across the floor, the light Formica thrown by your weight. You grab the door handle to the fridge to steady yourself for a moment then pull it open. You pull out a can of Modelo and crack it. A sip, two, and already you feel the top of your throat locking and the bottom of your stomach rising toward your throat. You throw the can at the wall and the blacks start banging again. You pull out a bottle of Corona, your last, and smash the cap off against the counter. A sip and its the same. You look in disgust at the bitch's body laying in its puddle on the floor. You see the chest rising. Ca n't even do that right. You throw the bottle, but it bounces off her shoulder without breaking. 
 
 You take the two steps toward the far wall without stumble and slide the window open. Its sticky with old cooking grease settled from the air. You can hear sirens in the distance. You climb out onto the fire escape, but you ca n't get down from here. Up. Two flights and you feel like puking. Why are you climbing again? You lay down next to the walls. You hear sirens and remember. Black jeans, black leather jacket, black Trivals, black hair, black night. You'll risk it. You lay down by the wall, back down toward your window. You try to listen, but the pull of your lids ca n't be fought, and before you know it you sleep.
