The dead apple tree has a large branch I use to jump over the school wall. I have to hold up my too-big pants up while I run from all the old ladies chasing me with their cowlicked hair and wood yardsticks. They couldn’t catch me even if I walked to the tree and it’s ridiculous that they still try. The only reason I ever come and stay all the way until first recess is because of the apples they give us. Of course, it’s expected that we actually stay the whole day. But how can anyone expect me to carry out an entire six-hour sentence every single day when I can be doing better things with my life?
The red apple is still in my hand once my feet hit the ground and now I really start taking off. Faster than wind itself, I dart past the security guards that just barely step around me. I pass: the drum major’s widow who has worn his jacket since the day he died; the pig’s nose outside the butcher that has lost one of its ceramic ears;the shop selling ham, 34 centimos, spare ribs 75 centimos; the cheese shop next to it; queso fresco, 1 sole, a añejo, 2 soles; the smiling florist and his crinkly eyes; in the bakery window, the red and pink lollipops; the twins handing out aromatic melon cubes and honeydew slices; sugar plum ice cream from the old man with three teeth; the cheese seller’s babysitting in the stroller and watching the dog watching the chickens roasting; now I’m at the newspaper kiosk by the foreign currency exchange office.
My legs are unsteady, something I’ve never felt before, and just as I pass by the chola with the lamb that’s only got three legs, but has an extra ear, I begin to feel sick. Faster than the Bolt himself, I don’t usually gasp for air after running. Even so, I am gasping now because at the mouth of my house there is a hole. Of course, there is usually a door to cover that hole. It is not there right now. Usually, there are four deadbolts, three front cameras, tall black iron gates with pointy tips, the seemingly rabid dog that Pa never bothered to get tested just because the mutt hadn't bit one of us yet, and a security alarm installed, that keep out the vagos from the streets. The hole that is in the face of my house is something very new because even when the door is open, the screen (that has additional deadbolts) still protects the inside. None of it is there now.
Once I walked into a brothel on a dare (and curiosity) and saw writhing bodies bathed in red light contorting in erotic motions. The smutty sight matched the vulgar musk of sex and shame. All I wanted to do was turn around and run back, wishing I had never let my innocent eyes see something so violating. The hole in the house means something just as nauseating because this is not an area where widows walk alone, florists smile, or old men sell ice cream. To make it worse, Diana is not at school today, and there is nowhere else for her to be but home. So I take a step forward and walk towards the deep, black hole in the face of my home.
My legs are lead. There is this dead branch sitting on the side of the road in the gutter where rotten apple cores float in grimy water. It is heavy in my hands and I can just barely close my hands around it, but I take it anyways and step inside.
The bakery is never open until my first recess begins. Mama has to buy bread daily to satisfy the annoying cries of four siblings who demand puffy, warm pan de maiz, or if we are feeling particularly picky, pan de anis. Now that I think about it, it’s quite patient and kind of Mama to wring our ears between her fingers, but still serve us that bread every single night. She is not home.
A rank smell hits my nose first. It is a putrid smell closely followed by piss and feces. He is barefoot and his feet are black with the filth of the street as he dirties the birthday napkins that have fallen onto the floor. His pants are thin rags that do nothing to hide his sagging grey briefs. His wiry chest is bare and his swollen belly hangs low past the waistline of his soiled loincloth. Recently picked scabs all over the dry patches of his chest and belly are still oozing blood. An addict. He was holding a bottle of Pa’s best whiskey, the bottle that had been brought out for Diana's birthday tonight. Beady, black eyes smugly bear into mine and he flashes a gold tooth at, the most white one out of all the others still in his mouth, before falling back unconscious onto the couch Mama usually sits on to watch her novelas. A cloud of blood stains the couch from behind his corpse. The police would later turn it over to find multiple punctures.
Tears spill from my eyes as soon as I hear Diana’s whimpering in the next room over, the master bedroom. A ball in my throat chokes me. I am already too late. I drop the stick in my hand and walked over to see her lying with her legs still splayed and red blood staining the sheets. Her red, glassy eyes meet mine and she begins sobbing and wheezing again. His blood coats her hand and the knife. It is not the only part of him that is a part of her.
He will be part of her for the next year because the city would not fund an abortion. He will look into her eyes again, this time as a child. He will age and speak in that same gravelly voice that had moaned obscene things above her and she will hate him for it. And then she will hate herself for hating the child.