Aberrant Dreams (I): The Wedding Massacre
As soon as my therapist sees me walking through the door, he knows I’ve got a dream story to tell him. We’ve been doing this for a year, now. He’s got enough material to make H.P. Lovecraft sound like Roald Dahl already, but my mind continues to frighten us both.
“You look like crap. Sit down,” he says, nodding at the sofa.