I stepped into my shabby apartment, finally escaping the skin biting November air. I released a huff of air as I leaned against the door, allowing it to shut under my weight. I brought my hands to my face and began blowing my smoke scented breath in my icy palms, in hope of restoring some of my lost warmth.

I set my keys and the two hundred bucks I'd brought in last night on the wobbly side table next to my door. Two hundred, somewhat good. But not good enough to pay for the ever growing pile of bills, and my addiction.

I slid off my virtually useless, thin jacket, if you could really call it that. It did very little in trapping heat in, which was very necessary due to my revealing work attire. Whenever I stood outsider in the late hours of the night, my jacket would billow in even the smallest gusts of wind. Allowing the chill to enter and sprinkle goosebumps on my already freezing body. I suppose next weeks clients will help me pay for the new jacket I so desperately needed.

Although my job was self-ran and year long my uniform can never be cold weather friendly. My uniform usually consists of a tank-top that shows a more than friendly amount of cleavage, short skirts or shorts. Rarely a pair of skinny jeans. (I usually don't get good business when I wear any kind of clothing that covers my long legs.) Or a dress, one so short that I could barely sit in it without constantly tugging and pulling. All of this usually over a pair of my torn fish net tights. I guess another client would have to pay for a new pair of those too.

Along with my skimpy clothing - which trust me I do not like whatsoever- is my too-high high heels that leave blisters all over my feet. The shoes are so hard to walk in, which doesn't help the fact that I do a lot of walking in my work. All girls or boys in my field do. I had to walk to the quietest street corners, which I know sounds crazy to try and get a good business in a silent area, but the most needy and desperate clients know where to search for somebody in my kind of business.

Basically in my business the more skin you show, the more business you get.

But no I am not a stripper. Even they have more pride than I do.

I hung my jacket in my otherwise bare coat closet, with the exception of an umbrella, gloves and a pair of fuzzy warm boots. If only I could wear those in the cold hours of the night and still draw in a good number of clients.

I shut the creaky door and made my way to the bathroom on my aching legs. I felt completely awful, as I always do after a long night's work. My back was sore and a piercing pain under my belly button was starting to form. I'd have to swallow a few aspirins for that. I could also feel my muscles starting to tighten up in my shoulders and upper back.

But no I do not work lifting heavy boxes or other objects at night in a warehouse. If only that was my job.

Soreness usually meant my clients were quite pleased with me. However bruises and welts usually meant they were angry and taking it out on me, or displeased with my services. But it's not like I could ever call the police for the harsh abuse they induced upon me. Every one of my clients, the moment they came to me for my services automatically held massive blackmail over my head.

I walked down the narrow hallway and stepped into my tiny bathroom, flicking on the momentarily blinding light. My bathroom was in a pretty crummy state, which matched the rest of my apartment. The once rosy floral wallpaper was now faded to the point where you could barely see the once beautiful detailed roses. It was also starting to peel in several areas. The tile was filthy with dated filth sitting between each tile, waiting to be scrubbed out. However with my schedule that would never happen.

The shower curtain was torn and the shower-tub combo was filthy with dried up shampoo and mold growing in some of the crevices. Not that I cared about that little "health hazard." With my job you face several hazards.

The mirror was fairly clean except for some splattered, old rusty-brown blood around a crack I had caused out of anger. I still had the sloppy self-stitch job to prove it. My job doesn't really provide and medical insurance or compensation if my clients beat me till I can barely move let alone work or if I'm left dead in a ditch somewhere.

The sink was stained with spilled liquid foundation from the drugstore, and some black nail polish which I was currently wearing. Although it was starting to chip. There was also some toothpaste caked on the sides of my sink. AMong the grimy mess was the bottles and tubes of makeup I wear each and every night. Except for Sundays, unless I'm desperate. I'm sure God would understand.

I shoved some of my makeup away and splashed my face with some cool water from the faucet. I glanced up to the mirror and stared at the disgrace I'd grown to be. My raven black was oily and my once neat ponytail was now falling down in greasy strands. My face was pale and my onyx colored hair didn't help my pallor whatsoever. My face was gaunt and my cheeks sunk in slightly, emphasizing my cheek bones a little more than I'd like. My eyes were a light brown and completely lifeless. They had no spark or joy to them. Just the sadness of a young woman who hated everything she'd become in the last few years.

I bore the scar of exhaustion around my eyes- dark circles. Which may as well be tattooed there around my eyes, as it was unlikely I'd be well-rested again. My black eye makeup was smeared sloppily around my eyes making me look somewhat like a raccoon. At one point I'd been a beautiful girl with so much going for her. I still wonder whatever happened to the girl I once was.

I stripped off my lacy red tank top and my black denim skirt, revealing my sickly thin body. All of my ribs were so prominent, you'd think they were trying to tear through the surface of my pasty skin. My collarbones and hip bones did the same. My stomach was sunk in too much and my legs were like little sticks. It was a wonder I wasn't dead.

Along my hips were large red finger prints from one of last night's clients. He'd enjoyed me very much. The way he pulled me from behind, not realizing his strong fingers were bruising my tiny hips. I let out a sigh as I shook away the memory. I unhooked my bra and slid out of my thong, turning away from the mirror. I could no longer bear to look at myself. I was disgusting.

I turned the faucet on, and pressed the knob in so a shower would begin. It weakly sputtered out a few lines of water before it succeeded in pouring out several hot streams of water. I stepped in allowing the water to pour down my body. I picked up a bar of soap I'd stolen from one of my client's house before climbing out the window and rubbed it into a ragged washcloth. Maybe I could take a new one tonight. I'm sure they wouldn't mind. I began scrubbing pretty roughly on my body, hoping to scrub everything away from last night. All the filth and dirt that was on my body.

But no I am not somebody who works in mud or anything. My job is much dirtier than that.

I picked up a small bottle of cheap shampoo I'd picked up from a corner store and poured some into my palms. I lathered it between my palms and began scrubbing my hair with my nails. After rinsing and repeating, I closed my eyes and faced the rain of water, feeling the water drip down. But some of that wetness wasn't from the rusty shower head. Some of it came from my own tear ducts. Tears of shame.

No matter how hard I scrubbed, the filth would always be there. The hands of men that slid up my body, and weaved through my hair whispering, "You're so beautiful." or "I love you babe." even though they were lying just to get more from me, the times I had acted sassy or sexy just to earn a few more bucks, and the times I'd been beat by my own clients and dropped off at a random spot in town, left to stagger home. It would always be there. No matter how much soap I lathered onto my body or how much I tried scrubbing it away, all of it would always be there.

I choked on a few more sobs and stood silently under the warm water, until it started to get slightly chilly. I turned the faucet, the water cutting off and grabbed a thin towel and wrapped it around myself. I then walked out of my bathroom and into my cluttered bedroom.

My bed was a simple double and unmade. Clothes of night's past were thrown all over my stained carpet. A few empty pill bottles were scattered among the piles of clothes. There were a few boxes of cheap cigarettes on my nightstand, along with an empty bag next to a bong that had the stain of red lipstick around the mouth piece. My own lipstick. Also next to my nightstand were a few bottles of empty beer, that I had drained in previous nights.

I grabbed a hoodie off the floor for a college that I'd never attend, and pulled it over my head. I shook out the excess water from my hair then tugged it in a messy bun over my head. I found a pair of underwear, I wasn't quite sure if they were used but they looked clean so I pulled those on. Then I found a pair of black sweats and stepped into those, allowing the waistband to snap against my small waist. I kicked the towel into the corner of my room, and then dropped down onto my lumpy mattress.

I rolled onto my side, pulling the covers up to my wasted body. I glanced at my alarm clock which read 7:22 a.m. Another long night gone, until I;d have to get read for yet another night of risks, guilt, shame, and lies. But that was normal for a prostitute. That's right.

I Arianna Grace Detillion am a prostitute.