Being the younger brother of the prolific serial killer Jeffrey Dahmer has certainly set up our hero for a difficult life.  Everything from people’s perception of him to his own feelings about himself, nothing is rational or logical, nothing has come easily.  David Dahmer lives in a constant storm cloud of depression and judgement even though he had absolutely nothing to do with his older brother, The Milwaukee Monster, and the grotesque serial murders he committed.  Due to these facts, poor David is under doctor’s care and heavily medicated at all times.  You never know when you may fall into the darkness, especially when it is in your genes.

No one, and I mean absolutely no one, enjoys a doctor’s waiting room.  The decorum is set to be neutral, relaxing, calming, but what the professionals don’t realize is that the lack of character and depth in their waiting rooms causes a nauseating anxiety and deep soul-sucking depression.  The worst waiting rooms on the planet are the psychiatrist’s queue rooms.  This is where our heroine finds himself now, right in the belly of the beast, his one-thirty appointment with Dr. Allan Winchester.

Subconsciously staring straight ahead, David Dahmer sat awkwardly on his own foot, folded under his butt to add some cushion to the manufactured plastic chair.  Hanging pictures of luscious landscapes with flocks of soaring birds and a salacious sun took center stage on each of the four walls with an off-white drywall as the backdrop.  Bright yellow ‘DISCLAIMER’ signs adorned the open frame of the access hole that led the patients to the dreaded examination rooms.

‘Payment is due the same day as the appointment’

‘Insurance updates are to be noted immediately upon arrival’

‘There is a $50 cancellation fee for all missed appointments’

David thought to himself out loud, “Why is it called a cancellation fee if the appointment is missed?  That doesn’t make much sense, but it is what it is, nothing much to be concerned with, I have never missed an appointment without a forty-eight-hour notice.  I can’t afford to; the doctor and the meds keep me going.”  He patted his denim pockets, a plastic clanging sound escaped into the waiting room.  David always had his pills on him; things could get out of control if he missed a dose.

The receptionist, a young lady wearing a doctor’s overcoat, looked over the rim of her thick framed glasses at David as he vigorously talked to himself.  With a very obvious screech, she reached up with her French manicured fingers and closed the safety partition keeping the loonies on the outside and securing her safety, contently sitting behind a ten-year-old computer in an oddly small room.  To her left, a stack of loose papers, literally a real-life version of ‘Jenga’.  The worker that placed a stack of papers on the file tower causing it to topple over was the loser and had to spend the next three days reorganizing each patients’ deepest secrets and darkest truths.    

The entry door opened; a burst of sunlight struck out at the feeble skin wrapped around David’s frail skeleton.  Into the room walked Sasha Walker, a ten-year veteran of this particular facility, mentally no better than the first day she strolled in but as long as the doctors continued to provide the meds, she continued to come.  Immediately after the door nearly hit her on the ass on the way in, Sasha scrunched her face at David as he continued to speak to the empty room, “Who the hell are you talking to?  Come on buddy, Erin is shaking in her little fluffy boots back there.  Hold it together now, you could ruin this gig for all of us.”

Sasha didn’t bother to stop when she addressed David, she stomped right up to the plexiglass partition and slid it open with one swift motion, “Sasha for Winchester, I’m after that nut bag over there.”  She pointed with her thumb over her shoulder, almost poking herself in the eyeball.  David looked up and accepted her insensitive term of detriment.  Erin popped the cap off of her yellow highlighter and scoured her checklist for ‘Walker, Sasha’.  Finding her target on the roster of mentally ill patients, the ever-quiet squeak of the highlighter highlighting over her name gently yelped out in a lame attempt to combat David’s deep voice yapping about the pros and cons of caffeine as a stimulant. 

The center of this tale, our haunted hero, continued to hold a raucous debate with himself, never noticing the small young lady shielding herself from what she perceived as craziness behind a quarter inch piece of plastic on a rusty metal rail, a false sense of security.  The type of false security like making sure not a centimeter of your body was hanging off the bed at night, ensuring the monsters wouldn’t be able to take a vicious bite.  As your trusty narrator, I can tell you one thing for certain, nothing can provide safety once you have ventured into the darkness.

Officially being checked in, Sasha turned, looked over her brown sunglasses at David, and grabbed a seat.  There were only two seats in the depressing waiting room, and they faced one another.  There they sat, David and Sasha, apple and orange, pen and pencil, polar opposites, “Caffeine is fine in moderation, you’ll kill yourself worrying over the tiniest of details before too much caffeine will hurt you.”  This comment caused David to smile at Sasha, Sasha did not reciprocate.  

With an obviously fake clearing of his throat, David worked up the nerve to engage Sasha, “Well...Hi...umm...never seen you here before...I’m...uhh...David.”  Sweat formed a barrier at David’s brow line; social interaction was not his forte.  His large green eyes scanned Sasha, head to toe and back again.  

“You’re David Dahmer.  I know you, no need for intros, you know me as well.  We have met before, I assure you.  You must be having a rough one today.  No meds?”  Sasha leaned forward placing her elbows on the tops of her knees, propping her head up with the combination of her palms pressed together.  Her posture played exactly as she intended with her low-cut shirt.  David instantly turned blood red, as if an invisible person had just run a red soaked paintbrush right over his stunned face.

Before David had time to even think about forming some sort of odd balled sentence, Sasha pointed down at her pant-covered crotch, “My eyes are down here, David.  Don’t be rude now.  Three, two, one.”

The door leading to the doctor’s office opened immediately at the end of Sasha’s countdown and the sturdy lady holding a neglected manila envelope said, “David Dahmer.”  Up he stood, knees shaking like a little puppy in the middle of a snowstorm.  Sasha had officially rattled him, a deep to the core sort of rattle, “Come on Mr. McNally, the clock is ticking, let’s get you back to see Doc Winchester.”  The large lady looked around the small waiting room while she waited for David to get himself together, looked back at her folder, and stepped back into the fray with David in tow.  The door slammed shut behind them, David was officially property of the practice for the next fifteen minutes.

Every so often, I am going to chime in, narrator or not.  It is imperative that you understand what you are reading.  There is always a chance that you, dear reader, may find yourself traveling into the darkness.  Use this cautionary tale to guide you back to the light.  There aren’t many humans strong enough to turn themselves away from the grasp of the darkness.  There is a certain seduction to it, a temptatious pull, that demands attention, unabbreviated attention.  Nothing good has ever happened in the darkness, not one single positive thing.

Entering the office, there sat Doctor Winchester waiting impatiently, tapping his pen to some annoying song that was stuck in his head from this morning's drive in, “Mr. Dahmer, my number one patient.  How are you today, buddy?  Anything pressing any buttons I should know about?”  Once he stepped foot in the doctor’s office, every single thing he did was noted, everything was calculated, conversations were information grabbers, not social interactions.  Such is life when you are under a shrink’s care.

The dizzying pace that David's brain was operating at would have short circuited ninety-nine percent of the human population's little pea brains, "Well Doc, I just had an interesting interaction with your patient Sasha out in the lobby.  It, well, it was rather aggressive and had an erotic overtone to it.  I'm not sure, I've...I've never been with a…you know."  David's face flushed red again, slowly but surely this time.  The doctor’s bulky assistant gently pulled the door shut and went on to her 7-11 cupcakes that had been calling her name since she'd arrived.

Judging from past visits with Doctor Winchester, this one was almost a direct parody of all the previous ones.  They basically had an unwritten script, ask a question, receive an answer, write it down.  The process helped speed along these weekly visits, "David, I cannot disclose anything pertaining to a patient that may or may not be on my roster."  This exchange was eloquently noted in David's growing file as there had never been talk of a girl before.  In fact, there had never been a discussion of anyone other than David's dead parents, no one walking this planet had ever been even remotely brought up during a session.  

Pulling the ‘check-in’ session back on course, David answered the questions the same way he always had, being very deliberate and concise with his answers, to guarantee he would receive his typical medications without any deviation.   It was hard to believe one had to earn a master's degree to sit and listen to other people’s problems but that was a fact, plain and simple.

"Again, how are you feeling?"  Doctor Winchester paused there, an answer was needed from David so his mental health survey could be completed and checked off the list of things to do.

"The same." This was an outright lie, David did not feel the same, but the medication drove the answers, not the truth.

Doctor Winchester scribbled some random notes as he acknowledged David, "Okay, good.  Have there been any changes in your life that you deem substantial, anything I should note in your file?"  

The interaction with Sasha in the waiting room was substantial to David.  A deep fear of losing his edible life controlling pills coursed through his veins, "No."  Another lie, Sasha had already begun to lead the way, even though their meeting was nothing more than a crossing of paths, a coincidence.

David stared on at the notepad Doctor Winchester was holding, watching his hand dance across the paper, noting everything that was said, everything he perceived as relevant.  "Well, no changes to the medication regimen you are on.  We will continue on with our weekly visits and proceed from there.  Just don't go out there eating anybody."  The doctor let off an enormous belly laugh at his poor attempt at humor.

This was easily David’s hundredth or so visit to a psychiatrist.  He knew the drill, the system, the verbiage, everything to ensure that his thirty-eight-year-old body would have a working thirty‐eight-year-old brain running the show.  This was all, to put it simply, a means to an end.  

One final word from the trusted doctor, "Dave, don't forget, lithium in the morning and after lunch.  That's very important."  One could only imagine what it would look like if a shrink’s patient went haywire and went out into the world with some devilish activities on his mind.  That would be a career ender.  Especially one with the fact tree David had.

David nodded as he clutched his paper prescriptions, his lifelines, and went on about the procedure to get out the door and on his way.