When the world is silent, deaf from the overwhelming noise of bombs and gunfire, there is only one place for me that is safe.

It’s a small tunnel, one on the border of the US and Mexico, it has everything one needs to survive, all underneath harsh, flickering, fluorescent lights.

The floor is dirty and grimy, and there are little alleyways that lead to nowhere stuck into the tunnel. It smells too. The disgusting odor of piss and armpits have lodged their way into the cracks in the plaster walls, making their home among the other vermin that are sure to live there.

There’s all kinds of services there. There’s a tax attorney that also functions as an immigration attorney, another tax attorney, a closed down stand that has about a dozen “foreclosure” signs with one big broken sign on top that proudly states you can sign up for “Obamacare” there. And there’s about three pharmacies. All selling the same things.

But the pharmacy is never what the men are interested in. Even if they’ve come back bleeding and dangerously close to death, they always want what’s in front of the pharmacy.

Porn mags.

The few children that live are advised not to go there. As a distraction, they’re taken to the many little shops that sell nothing but junk food. Chips, cookies, pastries, sodas, all wonderful diversions from the pretty lady who’s baring her tits for everyone to see.

I often times think about a guy I knew, when the world was right side up, just a few years ago. He claims he saw the sky cloud over when he was sitting on the train. We were supposed to meet. He and I had plans, I was going to go to his country and work as a maid until I saved enough money for my education. And then I was going to be a college professor of the arts.

Now I sit in this disgusting tunnel, with a monster growing in my belly, and with a drunkard who won’t stop going to see the pretty tit lady, and who only comes back when he’s tired of his hands.

And even though there’s three pharmacies, none of them have what I need.