Krysta gazed at the gorgeous painting of Bathsheba, noting every detail in her mind. The brush strokes were immaculate, and the composition was sublime. “I could have spent my whole trip here,” she muttered, pulling out her phone and snapping a photo. The Louvre had definitely been worth the visit. 

The young woman navigated through the crowds from piece to piece, taking photos of her favorites. The mousey woman was the definition of unassuming. Her frizzy brown hair was done up in a lazy ponytail, the most effort she would ever put in maintaining her hair. Her plain face lacked any kind of makeup or concealer, leaving her not pleasant-looking acne exposed to the elements. Her pale skin further highlighted the red spots on her face. Large coke bottle glasses were the only accessory she wore, and her small body was hidden under unshapely jeans, worn-out sneakers, and an oversized sweater.

Krysta didn't feel any shame about her appearance. If anything, it was an asset for her. Who wanted to spend their time warding off the advances of creepy foreign guys on their vacations? There was so much to see and do on her trip, she couldn’t waste a second trying to keep her hostel mates out of her room. Raphael, Michelangelo, and Da Vinci would be her muses this trip.

“You must really enjoy these paintings, miss,” a chilling voice said from her right. Her head quickly spun around, and she saw a young man with a toothy grin ogling her. His hair was greasy and slicked back, and he wore black dress pants with a blood-red dress shirt. His eyes were supernaturally red like a demon in one of Krysta’s favorite TV shows. Krysta’s blood ran ice-cold just looking at him.

“Uh, they are good, I guess,” Krysta replied, eyes darting around to see if there was anyone who she could claim was a friend waiting for her to escape the unwanted conversation. 

“Ah, a fellow American on their pilgrimage to Europe,” the man said, his grin not leaving his face. “Are you enjoying your visit?”

“Uh, yeah, it's been okay, but I have a ticket for a presentation soon that I need to get going to, so I don't have time to talk,” she said, quickly pulling up a picture of her ticket on her phone and showing it to the stranger, praying it'd be enough to slink away.

In the blink of an eye, the phone was snatched from her hand. “Oh, come now, there is always time for friendly conversation,” the man said as he looked over the phone. “You have such amazing photos of your vacation. This one in front of the Leaning Tower of Pisa is so adorable,” he continued as he turned the phone to show a picture of Krysta giving a peace sign with a smile in front of the monument. “Why don’t you tell me about it?”

Krysta took the phone back, staring at the picture the man had brought up. Every part of her screamed to get away from this horrible person, but something in his words ate away at her mind and compelled her to answer the question.

“Well, my visit started in the morning at the luxury hotel I was staying at,” she began, though the words coming out of her mouth made absolutely zero sense to her. She was a broke postgrad with 70k in student loans, far from the type of person who could afford a swanky hotel stay. Yet something about the words began to make more and more sense as she looked at the first photo of herself on a balcony overlooking the Mediterranean. The dirty hostel she remembered staying at faded from view in her mind. In her place was a luxury resort hotel located on the coast, with beautiful ocean views and a king-sized bed with plush, extra comfy sheets.

“I showered and was sure to make use of all the luxury amenities. My spa appointment was at nine, so I wanted to be fresh before I got pampered,” she continued with a sexy purr wholly unnatural to her. In her mind, the quick and practical dirty shower she took that morning was supplanted by a long luxurious one, with water the perfect temperature running over her curvy body. She bit her lip, imagining her fingers roughly grasping her gorgeous C-cup breasts as she lathered them. They were so sensitive, but the boys loved them. Almost as much as they loved her supple ass.

“The spa amenities were top-notch. The masseuse knew all the right places to touch, and the mud did wonders for my skin,” she recalled as she looked at the next photo of her in a mud bath, as more and more of her memories of that day shifted. She recalled this being her splurge destination that trip, of reading the hotel’s brochure bragging about the wonderful healing properties their special volcanic ash mud baths provided when she booked her stay. Every girl deserves a little time to splurge and treat herself after all. 

And what a treat it was when she met the spa attendant. He had that classic Italian model look, buoyant, short, curly, and black hair mixed with perfectly bronzed muscled skin and a tight polo shirt and khakis straining to fit him. She blushed as she remembered him flirting with her in that sexy accent and broken English, her giggling and brushing against him during a two-hour pampering session. By the end of her session, Marco, as she remembered his name, asked her to join him for dinner that evening, a request she happily accepted.

“After I was finished, I went back to my room and played with myself,” Krysta said without thinking, just recalling the feelings she had when she got back to her room. Her mind was consumed with fantasies of Marco romancing her. Her favorite vibrator slid easily into her, while she imagined Marco taking her to a secluded alley and having his way with her. She moaned as the mechanical dick pulsed inside her while she daydreamed of Marco slamming into her while looking lovingly into her eyes. She quickly climaxed with the sleek purple dildo whirring inside her, covered in her juices. 

“And then I cleaned myself up and put on my nicest sundress for both the trip to the tower and the dinner with Marco after,” she said, swooning at the hunk’s name. The original photo of her in front of the tower shifted to match her new reality, the oversized baggy sweater and jeans, buoyant expression and pose changing to glamour shots featuring a tight silk number which hugged her curves tightly.  “There were some assholes who tried to push some fake ass Gucci shit on me at the tower, but I know the real thing when I see it.”

“I’ll bet,” the man replied. “You look like a girl who knows what real luxury stuff is like,” he said with a gesture at Krysta. 

“Of course,” Krysta replied with a sly smile. “A girl like me never leaves home without her Chanel.”

With those words, her plain outfit shimmered and disappeared. Gone was the loose-fitting sweater and worn-out blue jeans. In its place was a stylish leather skirt, Chanel belt, and designer blouse with a plunging neckline, which showed bountiful cleavage. Krysta didn't notice her eye level was raised while her dirty sneakers turned into stylish pumps, nor did she seem to realize the garish round lenses of her glasses were changing to sleek Versace frames.

“Did Marco appreciate your outfit that night?” The man asked with a smirk.

“Oh yes, very much so. He took me to a lovely restaurant and got me some amazing lobster with a fantastic sav to pair it with,” Krysta answered, flipping to a photo of her delicious lobster risotto, the succulent flavors of the dinner filling her mouth. “His English wasn't the best, but Marco really laid it on thick.”

Krysta flashed back to that night, delicately eating the Tiramisu he had gotten for dessert.

“I know you have heard this many times, but you must be the most beautiful woman I have seen,” Marco said, in a low husky voice. “And I've seen many beautiful women in my work. But you, how you say, stand out from the pack.”

“So you aren't always this forward with your customers?” Krysta replied, taking a sip of her wine as she gazed at her date with bedroom eyes.

Marco shook his head with a smile. “Only for you, beautiful.”

Krysta put her wine glass down with a smile and looked at Marco in his gorgeous hazel eyes. “I want to see how generous you are in my room tonight,” she purred.

“So scandalous,” the man cooed, enthralled by her story. “Was he good in bed?”

“Well, his foreplay left much to be desired, but he made it up with stamina and enthusiasm,” Krysta purred memories of quietly reading a book in her hostel bed, replaced with a raucous session of lovemaking in her luxury accommodations. She felt herself growing wet at the memories of that night, of Marco pressing her against the wall, while he hilted himself deep inside her. He muttered some phrases in Italian into her ear. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re saying, but keep hitting that spot,” she demanded with a lurid moan she was sure the other guests could hear.

“It was a wonderful night, though I would have wanted more sleep before my flight the next morning,” she said with a happy sigh, gazing at the nude candid shot Marco had taken when she told him she was leaving that morning. A text notification from a contact, saved as the 'Italian Stallion' with an eggplant emoji, popped up at the top of her phone. “When are you coming back, my princess?” it read with a sad face emoji.

“Sounds like a very eventful day. I can see why you took this vacation,” the man said with a smirk.

Suddenly, awareness hit Krysta like a ton of bricks. The tight clothes, the expensive travel, the trysts that seemed so real in her mind also seemed so wrong. Vertigo set in almost immediately, and Krsta collapsed on her hands and knees, retching uncontrollably at the memories that invaded her mind like a parasite. Her stomach could not tolerate the dissonance, and soon she was vomiting on the floor of the Louvre. A security guard ran up to check on her.

The red-eyed man backed into the growing crowd around her with the same sick grin on his face, “We will talk more later, Krysta. I’m dying to hear about the rest of your vacation,” he muttered as he vanished from sight.

Krysta was helped to her feet by the security guard, her legs quivering as she rose unsteadily to her feet. He held her against him as she struggled to stay upright.

“My shoes,” she cried with tears pouring down her face. The stylish heeled pumps were tight and uncomfortable on her feet, a far cry from her comfy and familiar sneakers that should have been there.

“You can take them off, miss,” the guard said in a comforting accented tone. “We have called someone with medical experience to meet us in the back.”

Krysta struggled to nod between sobs, slipping off her shoes and feeling the cool museum tile under her feet, while the security officer held her steady. The crowd that had stopped to watch her began to dissipate, while a custodian pulled up and began to mop the vomit. 

Confident Krysta could move, the guard began walking the sobbing woman to the back area of the museum.”Our staff with nursing experience does not speak English, but we will assist as best we can. Do you feel you need to go to the hospital?”

Krysta shook her head no, her eyes blurred with tears as she was guided to a small office. The guard pulled a chair to her and gestured for her to sit. Krysta sat down, her hands covering her face as she cried.

Another staff member showed up dressed in a polo with the museum's logo on it. He asked the officer something in French, which the officer translated.

“He wants to know if you can describe what is ailing you.” 

“Ailing me?” Krysta sobbed as she looked at the two men. “I look fucking ridiculous!”

“That's not true ma'am, you look quite lovely today,” the security officer replied placing a comforting hand on Krysta's shoulder, handing her a tissue from a box on the nearby table. Krsyta wiped her face, dark mascara staining the white kleenex. The security officer turned to the other staff member and spoke with him in French. The staff member shrugged before replying, and then the security officer turned back to Krysta. “He wants to know if you have any complaints of any kind of physical injury.”

Krysta shook her head and sniffed, the tears slowing. “I just need some time to myself,” she said, realizing the futility in trying to explain what had happened to her. She wasn't trying to end up in a foreign psychiatric ward.

The security guard gave a gentle smile. “It is quite all right, madame. You are not the first person to fall ill in our museum and will most certainly not be the last. Is there anything we can get you, perhaps a water?”

“I-I just need to know where the nearest women's restroom is,” Krysta stammered out, swallowing the lump in her throat.

“Of course, madame. Let me escort you to the workers' bathroom so you may have some privacy,” the security guard said while gesturing for Krysta to follow him.

The women's restroom was just down the hall. Krysta thanked the gentleman for his help after he instructed her on where she could return to the public part of the museum after she was done in the bathroom, while stressing she could take all the time she needed to compose herself. Krysta thanked him and made her way to the mirror by the row of sinks, scared at who she might be staring back at her.

As she gazed into the reflection of the beauty in the mirror, sensations both foreign and familiar filled her mind. Seeing her smudged makeup, there was a compulsion deep within her to touch it up, while a separate part of her screamed to wipe it all off. Trembling, she opened the designer handbag that had been hanging from her shoulder, finding a stash of brushes, blushes, and bountiful lip care items. The compulsion to fix rather than remove won out, and she began to reapply her mascara and smudged foundation with the precision and expertise of a makeup artist. How she was able to do this was lost on Krysta, but soon she was screwing the top back on her concealer, gazing at a now flawless reflection.

As she placed her belongings meticulously in her purse, her phone began vibrating with unfamiliar notifications. As she brought the device to her face, notifications telling her that some unknown user had favorited her newest photo flooded the screen. Hesitantly, she tapped the notification. 

Instantly, the Instagram icon appeared and brought her to the photo in question, which was a nice shot of her gazing at the sea on a boat. She did recall being on a boat in Malta during her trip, so that made sense. But the details weren’t adding up. 

This wasn't a tour boat; the sleek white fiberglass and metal railing was totally different from the tour boat she recalled being on. She looked through the gallery she posted that day, finding multiple pictures of her in a bikini, tanning on the beach. She was certain she hadn't been doing anything like that at any point throughout her vacation.

Peering at the pictures, familiar and foreign at the same time, Krysta shuddered violently.

“Who am I?” she asked the stranger in the mirror, terrified of the answer.