The weeks leading up to the 15th were a slow descent into a feverish state of obsessive readiness. The "cure" had clearly backfired; instead of repelling me, the trauma had become a blueprint for a new, even more intense craving. I didn't just want to repeat the experience—I wanted to prepare my body and mind to be broken more thoroughly.

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​Every night, I performed a ritual of visualization. I would lie face down on my bed, exactly as I had for Elena and Mara, and try to recall the exact sensation of the cold alcohol wipe. I would press my thumb hard into the lower quadrants of my buttocks, seeking out the fading, tender spots where the Vitamin C had sat for weeks.

​I practiced my breathing. I knew from the first session that when the 14-gauge hit, my breath had hitched and failed, leading to that humiliating, helpless wailing. I tried to tell myself I would be stronger this time, but deep down, a darker part of me hoped I wouldn't be. I wanted to be reduced to that sobbing mess again. It was the only time I felt truly seen.

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​My preparation wasn't just mental; it was physical. I became hyper-aware of the "target area." I began applying thick, unscented lotions to my glutes twice a day. I told myself it was to keep the skin supple for the needles, but in reality, it was an excuse to obsess over the canvas Elena and Mara would be working on. I would look at my reflection in the mirror, tracing the muscular curves and imagining where the 12-gauge veterinary spikes would enter. To prepare for Mara’s crushing restraint, I started piling heavy sandbags on my lower back while I lay on the floor. I wanted to get used to the feeling of being pinned, of the air being pressed out of my lungs while I was helpless to move my legs.

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​As the 15th approached, I followed Elena’s advice with a grim sort of excitement. I went to a medical supply store and bought a specialized "donut" cushion and a set of incredibly soft, oversized pillows. I placed them in the passenger seat of my car, a visible omen of the agony I was voluntarily walking into.

​I also prepared a "recovery kit" for my apartment:

​Easy-to-heat meals (because I knew I wouldn't be able to stand at a stove).

​High-strength anti-inflammatories (though I secretly wondered if taking them would "cheapen" the experience).

​A notebook. I wanted to record the feeling of the 12-gauge while it was still fresh.

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​The day before the appointment, the nervousness became a physical weight. I couldn't eat. My stomach was a knot of butterflies and dread. I kept checking the clock, counting down the hours until I would see that metal briefcase again.

​I spent the final evening scrubbing the motel-room-to-be (I had booked the same one for consistency) until it was clinical and cold. I laid out a fresh set of towels.

​The last part of my ritual was the most submissive. I took a long, hot shower and shaved every stray hair from the injection sites, ensuring there would be no barrier between the steel and my skin. I stood in the steam, my heart already thumping at a frantic pace, whispering to the empty room: "Please be mean. Please don't stop. Please break me."

​When I finally laid down to sleep, I didn't dream of peace. I dreamed of 12-gauge needles, the heavy weight of Mara, and the sound of my own voice begging for a mercy I didn't actually want.