Even now I was fooled— completely lulled by his diction, hoping this was all a ruse. A big joke; Ashton Kutcher’s big Fuck You to the Terracotta Lolita herself.

“ Just… just let me go. I’m bleeding really badly. I need to get to a hospital,” I whimpered. “Then I’ll come back—“I’m a whore, a true honest to god whore”—I’ll say, “It’s part of the job.”” I chuckled weakly.

“You are a whore…”

“I’m nothing but,”

“They’ll think it’s just a street crime.”

“Y-yeah…” He’s buying it, I thought.

“Tell me something , Mein Frau, do you know any whores that wear Prada shoes?” The color drained from my face as he slipped the ten back into my cleavage. “Goodnight Sahara.”

He wrapped his fingers around my neck, the latex gloves causing me to have a violent reaction around my throat. I tried to claw my way to his face; tried to get some skin, some fiber so they’d at least know my name. He smiled knowing exactly my intention. And moved his face farther away.

That bastard was one step ahead of me.