Don't You Remember Me?

A whore with cheap lipstick and a painted face stares into your eyes. Her own are the deepest green, and her hair is the lightest blonde. She’s soft, almost fresh, she had not yet been so deeply stained. Her soul is still alive, somewhere under her cheap mascara and fake eyelashes. She crosses her legs and closes her eyes, takes a slow sip of her cigarette and a short drag from her drink. She looks at you again (oh, her soul is so alive!) and you know that she’s the one.

“How much?” you ask, trying to be casual, but shaking like a child. Your first time with a price.

“Fifty,” she says, unsure of herself. You agree to the fare, though you know it’s unfair; you’re low-balling her, but it’s a good deal for you. She’s almost as new as you are, and doesn’t even know what she’s worth. She doesn’t even know that she’s worth more than any hooker in the room. She doesn’t understand that to you, she’s worth more than the stars.

You take her into your car, real calm, real slow. Her fishnets catch on something, and tear slightly, and you smile awkwardly at her. You get in beside her, in the driver’s seat, and begin to drive away. She looks down, nervous, her soft, girlish pigtails falling before her eyes.

You drive her three blocks to your apartment and take her inside. She sits down on the cheap, swollen bed and tries to look enticing, though she’s shaking, too. You look at her, and shake your head, and explain. You explain how you’re going to take her away and give her a new life. To her questioning eyes, her terrified eyes, you simply say, "Don’t you remember me, Arienette?"