I watched him come into the room. Big guy, always wore that same bulky coat. I signed him in and told him to take a seat. He was one of those staunch people who'd never read or watch the TV. He'd always just stare at his feet, or look around every ten minutes or so. Probably one of the ones ashamed to say he comes here twice every week. He must've had a rough couple of days: he kept shifting his weight around in his chair and fidgeting around with things on the end table beside him. Well, he'd be seen soon, and get everything sorted out.

I don't like waiting rooms. At all.

I don't like all the people around me that are all waiting for the same thing. I don't know why, it just creeps me out. I always watch everyone else there; try to guess what they're thinking. Some woman over by the TV always trying to keep her toddler under control, away from all the little pamphlets on the table. Sorry lady, not going to happen.

The old man directly across the room from me, leaning on his cane. It always looks like he's praying or something. He must be foreign; he has one hell of an accent, and if he is praying, its always in some other language. Sounds like its Spanish, maybe. I've never been good with languages.

That guy over there in the coat. I see him every time I come in. Must have the same appointment times I do. Always got that vacant stare going on. I can't ever tell what's going through his mind. I've never even heard him speak. He doesn't look too good today. Granted, we don't come here because we feel fine and happy, but he looks rougher than usual. Must've had one hell of a week. Maybe his wife dumped him. Or his bills are late. Or something like that. I wonder why he keeps squirming around. Its almost like he's got to take a crap or something.

Oh well, so much for watching him. He just got called up. Wow, he's bulkier than I remember. Must've hit the fast food joints hard this week.

For the love of…

I didn't get into this profession for the paperwork, I can tell you that.

All the years I spent in college working towards my doctorate, all that money wasn't so I could sit here and fill out these files in duplicate and triplicate and infiniticate. Christ. All I wanted to do is help people, and half of my time is spent doing damn case files. What a crock. I should get out while I can still save my career.

It isn't the people. No, no. The people are why I do this in the first place. After the traumatic experiences I had with doctors who were supposed to "help", I knew I was meant to lead this life, to keep others from that kind of pain.

God damn it. I hate paperwork.

I should be in the middle of a session right now. This is ridiculous. I've seen my colleagues and their patients walk by my door for the past hour. I need a break.

No, scratch that. I need a drink.

Why in the hell does Wolfsmann have to talk so loud? I can hear him through my walls clearer than a bell. I wonder how many of his patients still have their hearing.

Speak of the devil, there he is. Must've finished early. Guess that means its time for his next round. Why he takes pride in treating so many people at the same time is beyond me. This isn't a game of numbers. It isn't a game at all. There's no scoreboard. Pompous jackass.

Must have his next patient with him. I can hear him from down the hall, something about Triavil, I think. God only knows. The man's a walking drug library.

Holy cow. His patient is a big guy. Must be at least 6'6". Bulky, too, or maybe its just that coat he has on. Fidgety by the looks of it. Maybe that's why he was talking about Triavil. Probably gave him the shakes.

Christ, Wolfsmann, you don't have to slam the damn door.

I need some coffee.

I told him everything he had needed to hear.

He wanted a medication that would help him with his mental disorders, and I gave him the best one I could think of. Wrote out the prescription, sent him to the pharmacy, and I'll be damned if he said it made him worse. Oh well.

I walked out the waiting room door and got him, since it was his time. I asked him if he'd stopped taking the Triavil, and he said yes. At least, that's what I think he said. It came out kind of like a grunt. That and I was only half listening. Man, I really need to stop drinking decaf. Screws with my concentration

He took a seat on my couch when he got inside the door. Jesus, even sitting he makes me feel like a dwarf. He started describing some of the effects he'd gotten from the meds, and I wrote some of them down for reference. Not sure how many of them he actually had, though. He tends to exaggerate.

He always has this habit of getting up and walking around during the session. I would love to know why he can't just sit and talk to me like every one else. It's kind of disconcerting, honestly. He'll wander around my office and touch virtually everything, and he does it every time. I'm not sure if he thinks I purposefully change my things around while he's gone or what.

He stood in front of my door for a long time. For a little bit he talked to me facing it, then he finally turned around so I could hear him. Probably some sort of comfort thing for him to be in front of that door: ability to escape if the situation goes wrong. Thank God, he's finally sitting down again.

Wait a second…did he lock my door?

I hate him.

I hated when he wouldn't listen to me, I hated when he gave me that damn prescription, and I hated him more when it screwed me up more. Does he ever listen?

I hated sitting in that waiting room, too. Its like a stress test that's out of control. Sterile white walls, uncomfortable chairs, annoying TV playing the drug commercials. Why can't I just walk in and talk to him?

Damn. I keep getting this poking pain in the side of my chest. Every time I shift my weight or sit differently, it just keeps on. Figures.

You know, I wish I could just be alone in this room. Why's there always so many people in here? I can live with the old guy over across the room, but man, I could just slap that kid. It won't ever shut up. C'mon, woman, make him sit down and shut up.

That lady's looking at me again. The one who always looks at me. Makes me feel like she's studying my every move, like I'm under a spotlight. Go back to watching the old man, or that annoying little brat. I'm not your subject.

Finally, I get called up. He's already going on about that stupid med he gave me, Tri-something. I tried to say something, but he just kept on talking. The guy in the next office from him always has his door open when we go by. Always writing, every single time. Does he ever even talk to anyone? He's always been nice to me, the few times he says anything. Whatever. This guy was nice to me in the beginning, too.

Why the hell does he always have to be so loud? I'm not deaf. I hate sitting on that damn couch. Makes me feel like I'm back in my grandparents' house. I don't need that. Might as well walk around. Not like there's anything to look at on that couch anyway. Besides, it'll be easier to get to the door that way. He's not really paying attention anyway.

I tried to tell him about what side effects that Tri-stuff had given me, but it was even hard for me to remember. It's all really hazy, like I'm looking through smoke. He's writing it all down…Done. It's locked.

I sat back down, but he stopped looking at me. He's looking at the door now. Now. NOW.

I whipped it out of my inside pocket and pointed it right between his eyes. He's probably never seen a gun in real life before. He has now.

Crying? He's CRYING? I shouldn't be surprised. And I'm not.

He's paying attention, now.

It's too late for that.

I told him he should've listened.