Whispered through the dark.
"St. Monica, help me..."

Gulp...


Burns her throat,









But the sensation is addicting.

Swig... Sip... Swish...
Ugh!
It's so vile!
She
can't

stop.

"St. Monica, give me strength..."
The liquor keeps flowing.
She's forgetting,
Where she's at,





Her name,









Who she is.

That's how she likes it,










Usually.
Not today.
She's needs to stay here.

"St. Monica I need you more than ever! Please! I beg of you..."
Silent rain escapes,
From her shimmering,







Aqua lenses.

The hump attached to her stomach,
She knows better,
But he did this to her.







She feels the need to make things right.

Chugging, now,
As fast as she can.
That man.
That sickening,

Despicable

man
She calls her husband.








What a lame excuse for a lover.

The bruises,
Around her neck.
She gropes them,
Lightly, as though a feather is tickling her skin.
Reminding her,
Of the monster she married.
The rain begins to fall harder,










louder.

"St. Monica, guide me. Help me to do good. Keep us alive..."
She's feeling sorry,






For herself,










The living child inside her,



















Him.

She places the brown, bagged glass aside,











Brushes away the sadness,

















Juts her chin into the air.

She'll fix this,






But not the way she thought before.





















"St. Monica... thank you."