My name is Molly Rawlings.

I stood on the corner. The skimpy dress I wore showed off my shaven and shapely legs. I needed the money. I had no food. My cleavage spilled over the top of the dress. I froze my ass off. A car rolled up nonchalantly, as if the person inside has done this before. I couldn't see the driver through the heavily tinted windows. The person rolled down the passenger side window and told me to get in. I did what he told me, as I did with most of my clients. I greeted him with false innocence. It was all a cover for the vulgar thoughts I thought. He responded with: My name is Krizstian. I climbed in the passenger seat, and realized that it wasn't any warmer in the car than on the streets on Budapest. I studied Krizstian's face. It was dirty and unshaven, but not a hint of shame, like most of my clients. He had sandy brown hair, that was also filthy.

I live in South Africa, and go to Mansa High School.

His eyes were shielded by a pair of dark sunglasses. I could still see his eyebrows, which were furrowed. He probably thought deeply about something. Soon, we reached a motel. Krizstian threw me a jacket, he said that he didn't want people thinking I was a whore. We walked inside casually, so we would not draw attention to ourselves. We would have to, people would have been disgusted if a man allowed himself to lower his standards to a prostitute. He checked us in, and then he led me upstairs to Room 315 on the 4th floor. He slid the key into the door and opened it, then just as quickly closed it. I examined the room and plopped down on the bed, which was surprisingly comfortable. Krizstian took off his glasses and coat.

I have a dog named Rubix. She's a Beagle.

He had grayish-greenish eyes. They were pretty, I didn't understand why he hid them. He commanded me to get undressed. I did, but hid myself under his jacket.

"Come on, don't be shy," he coaxed. I saw a glimmer of something in his eye, that I didn't understand at the time. His hand clutched something in his windbreaker's pocket, and I saw the glint of metal in his hand. Maybe it was some fetish of his. He climbed on the bed next to me, and took out the metallic thing in his pocket. It was a dagger. My eyes widened in horror. I clambered my way out of the bed, and held the jacket in front of my naked body. I ran into the closet, and held the door shut. I heard little disturbances in the room. Soon, I saw Krizstian out the cracks of the closet.

"Come out Mariska!" I hated the way he said my name, it dripped with mendacious sweetness. I wished I hadn't told him my name. In my moment of hatred, I loosened my grip on the door. Krizstian wrenched the door open. He poised the knife over his head . I dropped the jacket and he stared in marvel.

My mother and father make me go to a therapist. Although, I don't think I need one.

I tried to lure him into letting me free in exchange for my "services." After I said that, he soon lost interest and resumed in what he was trying to do: kill me. I stood limp in the closet, with my mouth agape. He brought the knife down repeatedly . Blood poured out of my chest, and warmed my body. Krizstian put me on the bed and covered me with a sheet. I looked down over Room 315, where he busied himself in taking my clothing and his jacket. He closed the closet door and tried to scrub my blood out of the plush, tan carpet. I occurred to me that I was not in my body. I was hovering over the Magyar Springs Motel. I looked down at my arms and legs and discovered I was gray. My features were still on my body: I still had my shaggy blond hair, and dark brown eyes. These are my most prominent features, I guessed they stayed with a person after they die. Before I could find out more about my new figure, I was transported to a dark chamber, that I later learned was Molly Rawlings mind. Jo napot kivanok!! My name is Mariska Koszma. I am one of Molly Rawlings's many personalities. The others are sleeping tired from their journey here, but I am awake waiting for my chance to take over.

My name is Molly Rawlings, and I am a chrismatic phsycopath.