Fighting for Mine

I surprised a couple of raccoons when I opened the front door. They sprinted out the broken window, leaving behind their coveted garbage. The mess was just as bad in the kitchen.

Cabinets were wide open with their contents spilled on the floor. Every surface had something smeared on it. Glass and dirt crunched beneath my feet as I moved toward the rear of the house. Graffiti covered the walls in the trashed-out back rooms. Used condoms lay on the floor along with discarded syringes.

My stomach roiled when I reached the bathroom. Cracked tiles and a mirror greeted me. Bastards filled the toilet with shit. I attempted to flush it, but nothing happened. The plumbing was most likely shot.

So much for getting cleaned up.

Returning to Albuquerque was out of the question. As soon I drove off, the squatters and animals would take roost again. Nope, I had to take care of the mess and keep my ass in town.

Again, Ximena’s fault.

The woman inserted herself into my brain, and I couldn’t function. Despite the garish rock on her finger, I couldn’t stop thinking about her. One would think after ten long years seeing her wouldn’t faze me.