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pace back and forth, my head swiveling to watch her naked body lying motionless on the bed. I hear a little boy screaming— (from the apartment below?) (It’s in your head.) —as his father fucks him on the floor and asks him if he likes it. Oh, tell me you like it. I tear at my fingernails. They’re ripped down so that the tender, pink flesh is exposed. It looks like her scars. She begins to cough. I am beside her in a moment, kneeling alongside the bed. “Can you hear me? Oh baby, can you hear me?” She turns her head slowly and stiffly, like a bar runs through her neck. In her eyes is something familiar, something that makes my palms sweat and gooseflesh crawl over my arms. Her lips part, the red tongue inside looking like the blood exposed from the slit in her back, and though her body remains still and calm, her hoarse voice trembles as she speaks.

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“Let me go.” I move in closer. I don’t understand. “Let you go where?” The tear that leaks from the corner of her eye looks familiar, too, but I don’t know why. She just loves me. She just loves me so much. I climb onto the bed and hold her like I know she wants me to. Then we fuck, her sweet, soft body so perfect against mine. As we lie in each other’s arms, I wipe the tears from her cheeks, my fingers gently following the raised scars. My sweet baby. I ask her where her scars came from.

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Apeiron Review | Summer 2015  

The summer issue of Apeiron Review, a Philadelphia-based literary magazine, is ready for you and a glass of your favorite beverage. Cool off...

Apeiron Review | Summer 2015  

The summer issue of Apeiron Review, a Philadelphia-based literary magazine, is ready for you and a glass of your favorite beverage. Cool off...