May 20th, 2014

He's almost canceled the appointment a dozen times. And he's almost turned around twice on the way to the office. But he needs to do this. He has to do something and in this word, these psychiatrist-types seem to be the preferred way to go. Booker's still not sure he's not going to end up in an asylum somewhere, but if it stops these damn headaches and memory flashes he'll worry about breaking put later. But now with this ridiculous form in his hand he knows he's committed.

Tapping his foot on the ground, he stands up in the empty waiting room and starts to pace. This is ridiculous, it was one bad flash, he hasn't had another one like it, for all he knows he won't have another and at the same time.... Looking at the back of his right hand he winces at a pain he can't remember feeling. The pain of carving those initials into his hand. He knows he did it. He doesn't know why. But it's all connected with what's in his head, he knows that much.

"What the hell am I doing?" He asks the empty room.