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completely ad-free, that's patreon.com slash drno-sleep I sat in the overstuffed chair,

puddling my thumbs and crinkling my nose at the rich aromas of the room.

The psychiatrist's office was a symphony of overwhelming and conflicting smells, sandalwood

incense mingled with Dr. Lloyd's cheap aftershave and the heavy tang of cigarette smoke.

A faint, but identifiable odor of ammonia, probably can't piss, seemed to follow him

when he walked through the door.

My body shifted uncomfortably in the chair, and I adjusted the patch over my right eye.

The empty socket beneath, throbbed with low but singing pain.

I had lost the eye, useless as it was, two weeks earlier, and the pain medication didn't

seem to take the edge off.

The stitches under my left eye didn't hurt as badly, but the itching swollen skin was

maddening.

The smells made my eye water, but it was easy enough to play off.

We thought I was upset about our sessions, and that was natural enough.

Most people who see a psychiatrist probably cry for valid reasons.

No one goes to see a shrink because things are going well.

Not that things were going well for me either, but no.

It was the smell of the piss and smoke and aftershave.

It nauseated me.

That wasn't his fault though.

...