The waiting room is ivory and powder. Soothing marble shades split with a metaphorically literal giant screw. I'm faintly confused.
"Your appointment will be up soon, Mr. Seven", says the my internal nurse with a slightly Romanian accent. Her mascara chokes her eyes and runs streaming down her face.
I frown. My appointment? Something tugs at the back of my brain. I *did* need some home surgery. Needed to crack my skull open like a walnut and pull out the broken bits.
Didn't I?
This was the short eternity of a week ago.
"I don't. I don't think I need to see the doctor, any more. My symptoms are gone." I intone with no conviction.
The lights flicker and she looks at me. Her vaguely bored gaze says "What does that have to do with anything?"
I lower my head. Cowed.
She's right, of course.
10:32 p.m. - 2014-09-07
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