Eddie checked his watch and glanced back at Shiller after picking up the phone. After spending a whole day with him, he had begun to understand the regular pattern in Shiller's recovery periods. It mostly happened around meal times, during which he could remain lucid for over an hour.
However, Eddie's own lifestyle was far from healthy as his meals were typically delayed by two hours, with breakfast at 9:30 a.m., lunch at 2 p.m., and then supper later in the night.
Eddie speculated that these timings probably coincided with Shiller's therapy sessions as a child. Lessons perhaps began at 9 a.m., followed by a lunch break around 2 p.m. and more classes until bedtime.
This schedule seemed deeply embedded in Shiller's subconscious, such that even during episodes of his condition, he would be more lucid during these periods, most likely the times when he was engaged with his teachers or doctors.
Eddie checked the time, figuring that he and Shiller should arrive just in time for Shiller's morning period of lucidity. So, leaving his luggage, he hurried with Shiller towards the street Bob had mentioned.
Upon arrival, Eddie was surprised to find Bob's rented accommodation even closer to Hell's Kitchen than his own.
It was a narrow and dimly lit back alley lined with low, squat buildings.
He knocked on the door of the furthest one, murmuring to Bob as he walked in, "Damn, you've got some guts renting a place here. What on earth gave you such courage?"
Bob sighed, "I was tricked into it… but thankfully my colleague, Brod, is a local here. He's helped me quite a bit… it's just that…"
Bob shook his head, pointing towards one of the rooms, "My daughter is in that back room there. I came home earlier to hear her crying. She said she could smell something odd. When I checked this room, it turned out that Brod had tried to commit suicide by burning charcoal. Luckily I was quick enough to open all the windows for ventilation. By then he was slightly unconscious, but recovered quickly."
Bob rubbed his mouth, "But when he woke up, he was in a bad state, even tried to slit his wrists. I've heard your friend Shiller's a psychiatrist. Can he talk him down? Brod has a son in college."
Eddie peeked inside the room. In that small confined space, sat a heavily bearded large man, slumped in a corner, his spirit defeated even as a bottle dangled from his hand.
Faced with this situation, Eddie felt helpless. He was an amateur in this field, his self-learning journey yet to begin.
While he understood the basic principles of asking the cause, finding the root of the issue, and then counseling trace by trace, theory and practice were worlds apart.
During diagnosis, how could he ensure that he does not provoke the patient? How would he ensure he identifies the root cause? If he identifies it incorrectly would not his further inferences be erroneous too?
Eddie then turned to look at Shiller standing behind him. So Shiller was not immediately moving forward, instead, he started stepping back.
Shiller walked out the front door of the flat, turned to leave, but as if he was unfamiliar with his surroundings, he stopped in the corner and squatted down against the wall.
Eddie sighed. He hadn't expected his life would take such a ridiculous turn where he would have to treat a psychiatrist before the psychiatrist can treat a patient. It was infinitely more thrilling than his time as editor-in-chief.
As Eddie squatted down next to Shiller, his humanities background enabled him to sense certain issues more acutely than those used to reasoning causality.
"Going by your significance, if Stark and the rest haven't looked for you after all this time, it implies some discord among you all, you don't want to deal with them, and they're avoiding you."
"Your current mental state indicates that you really value your friends. Perhaps some arguments between you all have upset you or the emotional stress of a cold war scenario has caused you to collapse."
"But what I don't get is why does this deny your identity as a doctor?" Eddie turned to Shiller, frowning. "I'm not trying to guilt-trip you, but shouldn't a doctor try to treat every patient as equally as possible under the given conditions?"
"Why can't you treat normal patients when you're okay treating the agents of S.H.I.E.L.D., superheroes, and super-rich people?"
Shiller slowly came to his senses, forced his eyes open, and said, "I don't treat normal people… I don't like them. I don't like average people…"
"Why don't you like average people? Because they aren't powerful enough? Or they don't have enough money? But I don't think you're that kind of person. Yes, it seems like you care about them, but are somehow unwilling to get close."
Shiller, stumbling over his words with his head bowed, replied, "I'm a normal person among superheroes. But among average people, I'm a madman…"
"I play the role of a doctor among superheroes." Shiller swallowed, "But among average people, I'm the patient."
Shiller took a deep breath, turned to look at Eddie, who was reflected in his eyes teeming with a pain he could not comprehend. Eddie then heard him say:
"Looking back on my life, I've always been learning how to impersonate an average person, as a patient."
"Among superheroes, even if my act isn't good, none of them would recognize it. They are not average either. They wouldn't notice my occasionally strange behavior or they are kind enough to tolerate them."
"However, among average people, if I behave oddly, they'd think I'm ill. Their feedback constantly reinforces the fact that I'm not acting well enough and haven't been cured... " Closing his eyes in pain, Shiller said, "it's proof that all the effort I put in over the years, has amounted to nothing."
Shiller, his eyes still closed, pressed a trembling hand to the side of his neck. He said with a shaky voice:
"What is worse is, it would mean, all those doctors and nurses who, with concerted effort, tried to heal me, delivering pain and blood, their endeavors were all in vain."