His white skin feels like frozen silk below my hands. His blue eyes, lidded and humored, connect with my own. His mouth moves, words are formed.

But I cannot hear the words. All I hear is my past.

My mother, who is scolding me on my choice in men. Starr, who is calling me a whore. Marvel, who is telling me to wash the dishes. Olivia, who is saying she's proud of me. Amelia, who is locking the fridge. Claire, who is rattling a pill bottle. Rena, who is in the next room.

I think of all my mothers, think of what I've leared from them. Then I think of Paul.

Paul, the boy who draws comics and sings me to sleep.

Upon returning to reality, I catch Sergei's brilliant smile.

"So devushka, we do again soon?" He asks, getting up. He glides to the pile of garments and untangles his jeans and crisp white shirt. He puts the clothes on slowly, every movement flexing his body, rippling the pale granite.

"Sure," I respond absently, lighting up a black Sobranie, not caring that I'm naked on the ghastly yellow blanket.

My eyes follow Sergei's form as he squats down in front of me. He grabs my cigarette and takes a long drag from it, closing his sleepy eyes on his inhalation. His eyes open slowly, his mouth in a smirk as he kisses me softly before giving my cigarette back.

"I be seeing you, krasavitsa." He smirks again and leaves. I hear Rena's laugh a minute later, telling me that Sergei has forgotten about our encounter once again.

Mashing out my Sobranie, I stand up and pull on a white sundress Rena found. She sold it to me for only five bucks because, "Pretty girls need pretty things."

Yes, pretty girls do need pretty things. But I am not pretty.

My face is marred by the gnash of a canine. My body is corrupted by the touch of a father. My mind is clouded by the substances and the smoke. My soul is ripped by the yanking of my being.

And yet I carry on. Because the pain I cannot bear will kill me outright.

The words of my mother are etched into my corpse and stained into my entity.

Mud has been doused on my existence. But my many mothers have soaked me in bleach.