The following is transcribed from a court-ordered therapy session:

DARIA Hi, am I coming through? THERAPIST Yes, but there’s no video. DARIA Um. I’d er, I’d rather not if that’s okay? THERAPIST That might be something to dive into later, but it’s fine for now. DARIA Great. THERAPIST I’ve gone over the paperwork that doctor Khan sent over and there’s quite a lot to unpack so – DARIA I’m not crazy. THERAPIST Of course. I’m not a huge fan of that word at the best of times, but I am interested in what makes you lead with that. DARIA The last guy used the word “delusions” a lot, but that’s not… I know what’s real. And I need you to believe me. THERAPIST I think I can do that. I can try, at least. DARIA And don’t do that either. I don’t want your sympathy. I just want to get this over with. THERAPIST Normally I’d caution against that attitude, but I understand these are sessions that are court-ordered, so the situation is a little more complicated. How about we start with you giving your own account of what brought you here. How does that sound? DARIA Oh. Er. I didn’t think we’d be going straight into it… THERAPIST We don’t have to if you don’t want to. DARIA No, no, it’s fine. I just, I’m not sure where to start, y’know? THERAPIST Take your time. DARIA Sure. I’ve always hated the way I looked. I’m sure there’s some deep trauma behind it that you’re itching to unpack, but it’s a fact. And it’s not like I can avoid thinking about it. I’m a visual artist who gets most of her work from social media commissions. That means I’m spending four or five hours a day on Instagram minimum, and that messes you up after a while, y’know? Like, we all know it’s fake, it’s all filters and Photoshop and everyone pretending that they’re the “real deal,” #makeupfree! But just because you know that doesn’t mean you’re immune, and yeah, I’d ended up in a pretty dark place. And when I turned 30, I decided to do something about it. I started with my hair, grew it out to make my face look longer. It sort of worked. Then I chucked out all my older sister’s clothes and dipped into my savings to get myself a couple of pairs of my own jeans that didn’t make me look quite so much like an overloaded ice cream cone. I even shelled out for a cute LBD for when I did lose a bit of weight. Mum said I was being overambitious, but it hangs off me now, of course. Most clothes do… THERAPIST Daria? DARIA Sorry, where was I? THERAPIST You were giving yourself something of a makeover. DARIA Oh, right, yeah. So I’m stood there in the bathroom looking in the mirror trying to figure out what’s missing, and that’s when I decide I need a tattoo. I had a couple already – just little things on my shin and my wrist – but I decided I needed something big. Something that really changed my look. So I started trawling Insta for tattooists. At first glance it looks like there’s this huge amount of choice, but the more you look the more you realise that they’re mostly recycled designs, and even those were waaaay too expensive for me. It was actually when I was looking for some inspiration for a commission that I found them. I was meant to be doing a portrait for some generic witchy alchemist character, and it was when I was researching the symbols and stuff that I came across “Ink5oul” – it’s, uh, like “ink soul,” but the S is a number 5. You can look them up. They’re pretty popular these days. They didn’t have as many followers back then, but the designs were great, and they offered a massive discount if you agreed to a photo shoot afterwards. I figured I had nothing to lose by reaching out, so I got on their site, filled in the “about me” contact form, and got an immediate response inviting me into their “prestigious” London studio. I actually heard the studio before I saw it. Obnoxious dubstep was echoing out from the far end of the corridor, and when I turned the corner I found myself looking at the most “influencer” setup imaginable. A huge purple neon sign took up most of the shopfront with “Ink5oul” written in cursive, flanked by a pair of ludicrously huge speakers. Looking beyond into the interior, it seemed like more of the studio was dedicated to ring lights and photography gear than tattoos! Ink5oul themself was… to be honest, they were kind of underwhelming. Not a lot sticks in my mind, except that they had an absolutely gorgeous floral serpent design running up their arm and into their neck that was so vivid it looked ready to slither off their skin and onto the chair. They beckoned me over and we chatted for a bit. It was weird – they didn’t ask me about what design I wanted, they just kept pressing me about my life, about why I wanted the ink. I was honest, maybe uncomfortably so, but nothing really seemed to grab them until I told them what I did for a living. Then they broke into this huge grin and cried, “The artist becomes the canvas!” Before I could reply they hit a button on their setup, and suddenly we were live streaming with lights in my eyes and their arm tight around my shoulders. I don’t remember much of what they said to their viewers, but they kept telling everyone how lucky I was whilst they dragged me into the chair. And then suddenly they tilted it back, and before I knew what was happening, I cried out in shock as the needle hit my skin. They hadn’t discussed the design or anything, they just started working on the inside of my left forearm, my drawing arm. I could feel panic start to rise inside me, but all I could do was just sit perfectly still. I stopped being able to think about anything at that point, as it was by far the worst pain of my entire life. Vicious shooting pains leapt up and down my whole arm from my chest to my fingertips. Every muscle snapped taut automatically and my back arched on the chair. I wanted to scream but I couldn’t even breathe, as it felt like thousands of wasp stings ravaged my body whilst mediocre dubstep thrummed through my chest and Ink5oul chatted to their viewers, completely unconcerned. I must have passed out, because when I opened my eyes Ink5oul was at the other end of the studio cleaning their bloody tools. The stream was over and I was apparently forgotten. The pain had dulled, so I dared to look down at my forearm, expecting to see a tattered and bloody mess. Instead, a pristine paintbrush design spanned from the interior of my elbow to the inside of my palm, a flurry of colourful floral patterns entwined with symbols I didn’t recognise. Despite the pain I twisted my arm back and forth to admire the work, and those symbols almost seemed to glitter in the light. It was… It was beautiful. Just as suddenly as the lights had turned on, they were off and I was bundled towards the exit. No debrief, no aftercare. They said they had the shots they needed and before I knew it, I was stood outside, dazzled and unsteady. I considered going back in, but I was so tired… Instead I just stumbled back home, my new tattoo still completely exposed. Back in my flat, I cleaned it, moisturised it, and then covered it as best as I could, but it was already pristine. If it weren’t for the pain, it could have been there for weeks already. I stood before the bathroom mirror and looked myself over and for the first time I saw someone interesting. Someone I wanted to know more about. I went a bit manic at that point. For the first time ever I wanted to attempt a self-portrait. Something real and physical, I wanted to feel the brushes in my hands and the oil on my fingertips. I worked through the entire night with a passion like I hadn’t had in years. There were thick globules of paint all over the room; my hands, arms, face and clothes were covered, but when I surveyed the finished work, it was spotless. Not only that, it was by far my best work, a luscious Impasto that leapt off the canvas. I had been calling myself an artist for years, but this was the first time I had felt it. I don’t remember falling asleep, and I didn’t wake up till past four in the afternoon. I was still tired and had a pounding headache along with my throbbing arm, but I still awoke with a smile, because when I opened my eyes, my own face was staring back at me. And for the first time, I wasn’t ashamed. At least, not initially. As I stared at it, though, I noticed that whilst it was accurate, it wasn’t perfect. The eyes were still slightly wrong, the angle of the smile was off, and obviously the nose still wasn’t quite right. Looking around me, I realised that all of my paints were still out. I looked at my new tattoo, and realised that I would be fine to do just a quick touch-up. Nothing major, just a slight adjustment, just for me. Despite the headache, my hunger, my fatigue and my painful arm, I began to take a pallet knife to the left eye. Just a small tweak. It was a subtle change, barely noticeable, but I knew I was making progress, because I could feel when the knife scraped bone. When I went into the bathroom to check, I was pleased with the result. There was no discolouration, no bleeding, no damage at all but the face around my eyes was definitely more symmetrical. It looked so much better. But not quite perfect. I should have stopped then. I should have taken a break. I should have called my mum, put everything away and gone outside, but… the power was in my hands. I could finally make myself perfect. It was small tweaks at first, giving a fresh gasp of pain each time. I slightly lengthened my fingers, made my ears a little more delicate, straightened my nose and reangled my cheekbones, tapered my chin, slimmed my waist and increased my bust, narrowed my frame, lengthened my legs, adjusted my calves, thinned my wrists, shortened my feet… Nothing much, really. But it was when I reworked my shoulders that I ran into a problem. As my brush and knife made their alterations, the tattoo on my arm began to leak. Not out of my skin, but along my upper arm, spreading out and flowing its rivers of colour into the new contours I was creating. And the tattoo, of course, was the only thing so far that was actually perfect, so I had to work around it as best I could. I worked solidly for days. Each time I slipped the knife into my skin and reshaped it I got just that little bit closer to perfection, but each time I had to make more and more compromises around the spreading tattoo. I was close though, so close. It was almost there, that wholeness you only feel when the canvas is finally complete… But I just couldn’t bridge the gap. Each time I would fix up one spot only for two others to become undone, and the whole time the tattoo just kept spreading and spreading and my masterpiece kept receding. That was when my housemate Sarah got back from visiting her parents. I’d lost track of time and didn’t realise her trip was already over. I had hoped that I could show off my new look to her when it was finished, but I never got the chance. She walked in the door just as I was finalising my mouth, so I couldn’t say anything. If I could, I’m sure I could have been able to explain and make her understand. Instead, she started screaming, and when I made reassuring noises and reached out to her, she backed away. I did manage to hold her for a moment, but the work I’d done on my hands the day before meant that I couldn’t grip her. That was when she punched me. I’m sure she was just surprised, but it was still heartbreaking. Her hand went right into my cheek and undid days of work and the way she carried on, you’d think it was her face she’d messed up. Anyway, I’m sure you’ve read the rest in the court reports. When the ambulance came, Sarah told them I’d tried to kill myself with some acid she found in my art supplies. They put me on suicide watch and only agreed to release me when I agreed to attend counselling. I haven’t made any more adjustments since then. Just, waiting for inspiration I guess. THERAPIST I see. That’s quite the story. DARIA You don’t believe me, either. THERAPIST I didn’t say that. I would, however, like to ask you directly: did you try to harm yourself with acid? DARIA Of course not. I never wanted to hurt myself, I just wanted to be… better. THERAPIST That’s good to hear. DARIA If I wanted to clear the canvas, I would have used turpentine.