You would think they know. But they don’t. They see us in our skirts and our hands ready for money. But they don’t know. We’re not nuns, you know. My name is Jeanie. I’ve spend most of my life thinking, “What the hell kind of name is ‘Jeanie’?” I hate my name. My name sucks. Normal girls had names like Anna or Cindy or Maria. Something common. Something inconspicuous. But no. My name was an unused noun these days. Then again, my mother’s name was Lucrecia. An immigrant of sorts. You couldn’t tell were she was from. She had that multi-cultural look going for her. My mother was old and haggard looking with moles and hair on her chin. And you think that would have stopped her. I was beautiful compared to my mother. I had big hazel eyes and curly blonde hair. She looked just like me when she was my age. If she ever was my age.

A car stops and I go into the car and he asks my name. “No names.” I say. No names. I already know his name. He doesn’t see my mother behind me when I get into the car and if he did then I would have told him that we came in a pair. He took me to his place and did what they all do. But then he noticed my mother and runs to me to ask who she was. But no words, no names, no sounds but a stab in the back of the head from the screwdriver my mother keeps and he lands with a heavy thud. I took his cash and left, cursing my mother for never letting me keep them long.

This goes on until she was caught but she blamed it all on me. That bitch. I tell the pigs that she killed them just as I saw her kill my dad after he got drunk and tried to rape her. But the don’t care. They say my mother died after she killed herself by crawling out the window afterwards. They also say because I saw all this that it caused some sort of psychological damage. That my mother killing the men that are “raping” me is really me disassociating and watching it happen, like a movie. They tell me that I’ve killed at least 20 men, men that all looked like my father when he raped my mother. They never listened to my side of the story. They don’t want to hear from me. But they’ll see one day that even though I, Jeanie, am still in this cell waiting to be executed (the woman ever in this state) Lucreicia is still out there killing who killed her and blaming it on some one else. I’ll know their names…