I stared at the blinking cursor for nearly twenty minutes. My butt was thumping with a rhythmic, hot pulse that seemed to sync up with my heartbeat. Every time the office chair pushed against those deep, Vitamin C-scorched knots, my resolve crumbled a little more.

​The "cure" had been a spectacular failure. Or perhaps, it had been a terrifying success.

​I opened the encrypted app, my thumbs trembling as I began to type.

​To: Elena

​Subject: Monday Morning Update

​Elena,

​I’m sitting at my desk right now—or rather, I’m trying to. I’ve discovered that an "ergonomic" chair is a lie when you have 12ml of trauma sitting in each cheek. I just had to explain to my boss that I "strained a muscle" gardening, but the truth is I can barely breathe when I shift my weight.

​You and Mara were right. Every jiggle, every step, every time I have to sit down or stand up, I feel you. It’s been three days and I still feel like those 14-gauge needles are buried in me. I cried like a child on Friday night, and honestly, the memory of it is making me shake right now in the middle of my office.

​I thought this would make me hate the idea. I thought the pain would be enough to break the fantasy forever.

​I was wrong.

​The pain is the only thing I can think about. The way Mara held me down, the way you didn't listen when I begged... it’s all I want. I don't want the "moderate" ones next time. I want to skip straight to the fire.

​If I can walk by next month, I want to come back. I want you to be meaner. I want Mara to be heavier. And I want to see if there's anything thicker than a 14-gauge.

​Are you and your friend available for a "follow-up" session on the 15th? I promise to cry even louder this time.

​I hit Send before I could talk myself out of it. The "Whoosh" of the sent message felt like a needle prick of its own—a sharp, sudden hit of dopamine that momentarily eclipsed the burning in my hips.

​Ten minutes later, my phone buzzed on the desk.

​From: Elena

​“We knew you’d be back. Mara is already looking at a catalog for specialized veterinary needles. They’re 12-gauge and very, very long. If you thought you wailed like a baby for the Vitamin C, you haven't felt anything yet. See you on the 15th. Bring extra pillows for the drive home. You’re going to need them.”

​A cold shiver raced down my spine, ending right in the center of the throbbing bruises. I leaned back into the chair, letting the agony wash over me, and for the first time all day, I smiled.