A voice, maybe the little devil on my shoulder who’s probably high on crack, convinces me that an opportunity like this will never come again. I woke up at dawn, I came all the way here, I gathered all the offerings. All because I wanted a Sak Yant. Tonight I’ll leave, tomorrow I’ll be back home, and all of this will be over.

As if this were just a dream. As if this weren’t real.

I turn around, open my backpack and place flowers, candles, incense and cigarettes on the silver tray. I’m not the one controlling my body anymore. I feel like something has taken over me. The same thing that leads me toward the monk. The same thing that makes me take off my shirt when he asks.

I kneel on the cushion on the floor. The monk looks at me and walks around me. Is he studying me? What is he going to tattoo? And where? A dragon across my back? A shitty eagle on my neck? A crippled tiger on my face? I don’t know. I only know that time has frozen. A freeze that lasts an eternity and a split second at the same time. Then it shatters the moment I feel the sandpaper scraping the skin behind my neck.

It still doesn’t feel real. Is this actually happening? Am I really doing this? My thoughts are cut off the moment I feel the needle piercing my skin.

The anxiety turns into fear and then into terror. In that moment, all the most disturbing images from the day flash before my eyes, like bad omens my subconscious tried to ignore until now: the deformed dogs, the mummified body, the pissed-off Pomeranians, the smell of rot, the dirty sofa, the stained floor, the Malaysian guy running away, the worn-out faces of the people taking part in the ritual.

What diseases could I catch? Will I ruin my body forever with an image I didn’t even choose? What will my family think of me? Will it get infected? Will I die?

All questions that no longer make sense, because I can’t go back. I bitterly regret this shitty decision. Could this be the biggest stupidity of my life? I try to ignore my fears and focus on the sensations. I feel something tickling my back, slowly moving down toward my lower spine. When the monk pauses to grab the filthy rag, I realise what I felt a moment ago was my own blood running down my back. Now wiped away with that piece of cloth loaded with dirt and probably diseases.

Tears fill my eyes. I stare at the floor while the two strangers hold me still. I don’t know how long this physical and mental agony lasts. But I’ve decided that the damage is done and there’s no point stopping halfway. I’ll carry the mark of my stupidity forever. And I’ll never even be able to see it directly.

Then I notice a new spectator: the taxi driver, who I thought was waiting outside. He’s lying on the floor, on his stomach, head resting on his fists, elbows bent. Feet swinging in the air. Like a teenage girl lying on her bed listening to her friend’s bullshit on the phone. A comic scene in the middle of a tragic one.

Then it’s over. And I know it because of the slap I received on the back of my neck. I hear voices, the monk’s prayer. I stand up. People are staring at me. I pick up my shirt from the floor and walk toward the exit. I have nothing to say. I feel empty.

The taxi driver walks me outside, smiling, and says, “Congratulations!”

Never in my life had I wanted a nightmare to end so badly. I thought that was the end. I was wrong. The worst was still ahead.