Member-only story
I ate a wonderful meal in a family-style restaurant before Ritual Check-in. Six feet distant in the booth next to mine, a couple my age, maybe older, finished their lunch, chatting and laughing, with eyes that adored the other. I paid my check, left a 20% tip, fitted my mask, and returned to my car. Less than a mile, the Ritual Site presented as a big block building. I locked my car and entered.
An elevator carried me upward; an exhale of preparation. I pulled the steel and glass front door towards me with my biceps forward and, inhaling an elevator descent, stepped inside. A Ritual Assistant walked me down a long hallway to the very back, and gestured me to enter a small room. She explained the ritual to me in clinical terms, and I understood the emotional journey would be mine to access at my discretion.
Momentarily left alone, I removed my shirt and laid face down on the segmented doctor’s operating table. The doctor arrived, and the assistant adjusted the head section so I could breathe better. Then, seated to my right, the Ritual Doctor opened the ritual with a simple foot tap, and the Ritual Assistant joined in with a soft beatbox, using her mouth to shape water sounds arriving on the shore.
I followed the comforting music, and as the foot tap grew in complexity, the voice popped three times, letting me know the Ritual Needle had come into play, Skin pricks faded into nothingness, and the music filled the void with a simple croon chant. I had signed an acknowledgment that the Ritual Surgery would remove a patch of skin…
