Hi,

I’m kind of tired today. Sort of. You know that sensation, when your body is going to commit suicide if you move one more finger? Yet, your mind didn’t get the message because thoughts, ideas and a surplus of energy that never reaches your limbs is stepping all over your grey matter and it’s not letting you sleep. I feel like that today. My feet hurt, my legs hurt, I can barely lift my arms and my hands hurt as I’m typing all this. My neck is stiff, my back is aching and even my is pulsating with pain. However, I can’t sleep even if I threatened my brain with a pistol… okay, that’s a bad metaphor, but you get it, right? I’m tired, but not tired. Does that make sense? Eh, whatever.

I’ll spare you the details of why I transformed in an old man overnight (it’s actually a short story that involves me, mom and other relatives, harvesting – nothing glamorous, unless you consider falling face first into mud glamorous, then I had bedazzled everyone!). I’m not sure if I want to tell you about Min anymore since I realized that some actions in the past explained a lot of the present. Maybe that’s why it took me so long to decide whether to continue the story or not. But, I know I should tell you everything now that I have started and maybe, just maybe, it will help me understand things too.

I left off where I bawled my eyes, right? At Min’s home. I didn’t want to mention it last time, but the other pair of stairs weren’t to his torture chamber.

Actually, after I showered, as he suggested, and took on the clothes I brought with me, he wanted to show me something. Hair still wet, he every light before we went down, just so my dumb self wouldn’t break something. I was surprised not to find chains, metal beds and an Iron maiden (though, there was a poster with Iron Maiden – does that count?). Instead, downstairs was a large, well-lit room. Numerous posters littered the walls. There were three black chairs, one of them stretched in a table. Next to the stairs was a desk. Above it was a sign that read ‘tattoo shop’ in bold letters and a diploma in Japanese. I at Japanese, but I could recognize ‘Min-chan’ on it because I learned enough katakana from anime (hah!).

I turned to Min and he was radiating with pride.

“This is my job,” he said with the same composed tone in his voice, “this is what I do.”

“You tattoo?”

“Yeah.” It’s illegal. Without a doctor’s license, at least. You know that too. Remember when you really wanted to get a tattoo, so we found this shady place down 54 and you changed your mind when you heard the guy before you scream in agony? Yeah, Min’s shop reminded me nothing of that place. It was clean, light, colorful even and made me feel like I was in good hands, despite the undergro