Swaddled pricks of crib sobbing wake the Matador and Gudrun. Gudrun running to the crib to shake a drip of milk on her wrist beside the cuts she used to run with blades in secret beneath the sleeves before the counselors brought her sickly mother to the offices for haranguing. The bullshit Matador feeling he isn’t quite cut out for fathering, leaves, running his fingers over scrolling images of pornographic girls flaunting their breasts to friends like banderillas, bleeding his strength to get out of bed and bring his baby to his heart. In the corner of the strip club, Matador gropes plastic tits while Gudrun slits her wrists.


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