"…she's picking up all these calsones, looking like a gallina-giraffe hybrid. Poor girl wasn't graced with anything, if ya' catch my drift. Nada. God is cruel sometimes." The old man sighs heartily but resumes, "Laughing, I go over and tell la vieja, 'Mira, it rained chones!' Being the sourpuss she is, me dice to mind my own and blah, blah, blah…"

A pottery mug is placed between my hands, and a still-steaming tea pot pours a tea-like concoction into said mug. The liquid has the properties and appearance of tea but take a whiff of it – dried cat piss. My nose retracts so far into my skull. Rosa, my motherly neighbor, motions for me to sip. I do.

Dear God, by all that's sacred, this is death inducing. This shit is Satan's preferred. The taste is a lone catalyst: bringing forth a cacophony of coughs, throat dissolving bile, and tummy flips. This is death.

"As he's complaining about how the people upstairs are cramping his mood, I'm wondering how I ever thought he was a she. I'm getting old, man." Clearing his throat, "I pat his shoulder and tell him that he's in for a rough time with an attitude like that." Rosa's husband clicks his tongue, "Why would a whitey settle around here? Probably got disowned by his rich folk parents. I mean, this kid looks like a druggie." Grubby fingers rub the whitened stubble along his chin, "Maybe he rolls the other way. I mean, what self-respecting man dyes his hair bleach blonde? Or dyes his hair at all? Or have shoulder length hair? This ain't the eighties!"

Bundles of nerves constrict as mini, plastic-wrapped icebergs are applied directly onto my battered ribs. The sheer coldness ignites feels like coal embers. Yes, it's so cold it's fucking hot. My eyes tighten and strain to keep salty tears at bay, to no avail. The ache subsides enough for me to unclamp my lips but…fuck.

"So, he's not gay but he is a wrestler. I got myself a bit too excited and asked him if he's met Stone Cold or Taker or…whoever!" Emmy's shoulders, "He laughed and proceeded to help Rosie with some grocery bags. So much for scoring some autographs…" he scoffs, "How is a skinny twig like him supposed to brawl with the big dogs anyway?"

Caretaker Rosa beckons for me to hold still as she slices the remains of my tattered shirt and lathers my back with a warm dishrag. It's the most comfort I've experienced since I met consciousness a few hours back. I can only describe it as orgasmic.

Without so much a forewarning, something is pulled from my back. The feeling of warm liquid runs down the narrow of my back. Blood. I'm presented with what looks like a shard of glass. Adrenaline is one hell of a natural high. Another piece is swiftly torn from my body and I keel over.

Emmy kicks over a trash can and blabs on but I can only catch fragments, "…just talking near his door as la vieja stomps up the stairs… She scurries down the stairs, bags no longer in hand, and tells me to shut up…Phil's got his ears perked like some kind of hunting dog…Confusion…Bloody murder, these screams sound like la pinche Llorona! Phil wastes no time as he hauls...banging on your door-"

Yowling so pitifully, wolves would name me runt of the pack, I clench the crocheted throw like it'd help relieve any of this agony. Suppressed memories of my younger, clumsier days flood my mind; I've been doused in hydrogen peroxide. This irritant produces yet another wave of tears and feeling of internal burning. If not for the strong scent, I'd probably be passed out.

"Por el amor de Dios todo poderoso, Emmanuel! No miras? Don't you see that this child is bawling her eyes out? She's in excruciating pain and you blabbing on about that is making things much more unbearable!" The fair haired, middle aged lady sighs, audibly exhausted, "Go on and get ready for bed. Mar's pretty much in the clear for now."

Endearing, lively Emmy lightly taps my leg, "Sorry, kiddo." From there, he withdraws himself and retires into his own room.

And then there were three: nurturing Rosa and her abundant remedies, myself, and this never-ending misery.

-ΔΔΔΔ-

The digital clock strikes the witching hour and announces the dawn of another missed hour of sleep. Even with a measured cup of sleep serum, I've abided sleep and welcomed in newly formed bruises. They, the bruises, are bone deep. Open wounds limit me to one sleeping position but even that doesn't accommodate the rest of my aches. There's no winning this tug of war.

Concealed under all of this is the reality, mental, of why I haven't fallen victim to the Sleep King. For three years, I haven't been the only body in my bed. This full sized mattress isn't even mine but still. With another warm body, I feared not even the monster that crept under the bed. Another body meant safety. Another body was him.

"Marleene…" comes a distorted voice.

Holy fucking shit, I scream inwardly. I pull up the covers to nose-level and make not a sound. The door creaks so eerily and I can't seem to fade away to avoid discovery – I am a target now. A figure ghosts over to the foot of the bed. Close, so utterly close. Sweat begins to perspire from my pits and already trembling fingers tremble all the more. The mattress sinks.

"Don't…don't hurt me!" my vocal chords betraying my code of silence.

"It's me, Rosa, cariño." A familiar wrinkly hand wraps itself around mine, "Dios, you're shaking…"

"I'm scared," silence overbearing the room. I grip her hand tightly to ensure she's here to stay, "I can't…I can't sleep. I can't fucking sleep… alone." My voice cracks at the single thought of a vacated side of the bed, "I…I am alone," this unravels me, "I am alone, mama!"

Sweetheart, this neighbor of mine is a blessing in disguise. She rounds the headboard and slithers in next to me. Ever so carefully, as if I'm made of aged porcelain, she wraps an arm around me, "Ay mija." She strokes my bird nest mess of hair, "Ese puto bastardo…"

"If I hadn't done that…If…I wouldn't be alone." I murmur. A few hours ago, I'd been so ready, so confident in my decision. Now, I've come to realize that it was reckless, spur of the moment. I was blinded by hurt, disgust, anger which didn't allow for straight thinking, "I love him, mama. I love him but…" I've betrayed him and I'm mostly likely a public enemy in his eyes.

A gentle sigh, "This isn't an action of love, mamita."

-ΔΔΔΔ-

Morning has come and left with just a bat of an eye. At least it feels like that since I've spent my waking hours propped on the couch. My nervous system is as good as gone; I can't even feel my arms or ass unless I move. Plates and Tupperware full of breakfast, lunch, and brunch litter the coffee table, all calling out but none convincing enough to budge me.

"…and the lie detector determines that yes, Shaniya was having a sexual relationship with your brother, Tremaine!" the crowd erupts in wolf calls and boos as a voluptuous, if that's even correct, woman flails her arms, denying everything and more.

Snickers or any form of laughter aren't permitted as that means movement and movement isn't something I have the luxury of. This has brought me to tears and doesn't fail to now.

Upon waking, I'd waddled to the bathroom, wincing with each waddle, and nearly had a heart attack. My reflection was something like straight out of a horror film. Being next to nude allowed for a full viewing of what could be classified as a work of art. If Picasso ever used live models for canvasses, I'd surely be included in his Blue Period exhibitions. I'm fairly certain that out in the world, a person so fucked in the brain would get his rocks off to this. I, on the other hand, allowed for a splatter of acid to drip from my mouth. My back was, still is, a myriad of cuts, scrapes, reds, pinks, and hints of purple.

Bath time was spent sinking is self loathing. It'd hit full force how I'd wasted five entire years hoping, on an unanswered prayed, that God'd finally let me have this one. Five years sidelining any preplanned plans to root and support Noah's own. Five years in which Noah was my solitary reason, my everything and then some. Five years were done, past tense, because he'd strung me along for a mile too long; over indefinitely because he'd beat me into oblivion.

"Oye, esta mujer is gonna let you tent up at her house for the time being. I did a rundown of the perimeter and found no traces of that rat! Anda, go pack a bag and I'll have Em drive you soon as he comes home!" shouts Rosa from her place, in the kitchen where she viciously chops veggies, "Si oyes? Did you hear me? Your safe, mamita! Ain't nobody hurting you, again. Over my dead body." She mutters.

Even as she coddles me, this warmth passes over my heart. Mama Rosa is the warm hug I can depend on during solace, the handler of firmness, and voice guidance that never fails me. She delivers the love my own mother never could.

Following her instructions, I rise from the couch and head towards the main door. I welcome pain inner and outer with this. I'll be jumping ship and washing up on the shores of my best friend's home. Being here, in this building, will ensure admittance into psychiatric care.

Stumbling out into the hall, staring straight at Apartment Fourteen, I see the indent of a giant footstep a couple inches away from the know. Who would've thought that the spunky youngsters, fresh out of high school, who moved in three years prior would end up like this?