“Doctor Mander, lately I keep hearing some voices.”
Perhaps unable to adapt to the clean and tidy environment of the consultation room, Old Mark sat very straight, hands placed on his knees, like a student in a classroom.
“What kind of voices?”
Hearing this, Mander paused, a look of interest appearing in his eyes for the first time in a long while as he asked.
“Um... I can't really explain it.”
Having never been to school and spending his days dealing mostly with dead fish and seawater, Old Mark naturally lacked the ability to express himself fluently, replying in a stutter.
“It’s just, it’s just a lot of people talking.”
“Sometimes it’s men, sometimes women; some voices are loud, some are soft.”
“What are they saying?”
“I... I can't hear them clearly.” As if agitated by his own words, Old Mark's tone became hurried, “But I know, they—they are all talking about me!”
Mander sat opposite him, his facial expression unchanging, but his heart grew increasingly excited.
Having stayed in Fishhook Town for two years, it seemed his primary role as a “psychiatrist” finally had an opportunity to be utilized.
He displayed immense patience, using a gentle tone that had not appeared for a long time, and asked
“Besides that, is there anything else?”
“There are... there are some strange things too.” Old Mark's expression became hesitant, and he glanced nervously out the window.
Mander followed his gaze but discovered nothing.
“They're always on the periphery, like shadows. When I turn my eyes toward them, they're gone, but everyone else says they don't see anything.”
“Later, I stopped turning my eyes. I just stared straight ahead and looked with my peripheral vision; they were still there.”
Visual hallucinations, auditory hallucinations.
Mander held a fountain pen and wrote in the medical record.
“Have you suffered any stimulation recently? Insomnia? Changes in appetite?”
“I can't sleep,” Old Mark said. “At night, when it's darkest, I always suddenly wake up for a while.”
“I... I don't dare open my eyes...” The expression on the man's face suddenly became fearful, mingled with deep exhaustion, “Because I know it's standing by the bed, watching me.”
That day, Mander and Old Mark talked for a long time. Mander prescribed a few relatively cheap, mild sedatives that the other could afford, and they agreed to meet again in a few days for a further diagnosis.
The other's symptoms were varied: visual hallucinations, auditory hallucinations, sleep disorders, persecutory delusions... For a moment, even he found it difficult to determine the specific type of illness.
And this rekindled Mander's passion after a long hiatus.
After finishing work, he casually tossed a handful of dog food to “March,” letting it play in the backyard on its own, and returned early to his study. He pulled out the psychiatric books he had brought from the big city from the bottom shelf, searching for a disease that might correspond.
Three days later, two in the morning.
When he closed the last book, his notebook was already densely filled with symptom analyses and differential diagnoses.
But the conclusion column remained empty.
Mander stood up and walked to the window.
Looking at the young and decadent, stubbled, tired face in the window, his eyes were remarkably spirited, as if an inexplicable light were flickering within them.
He hadn't seen this light in a long time; the last time it appeared was when he graduated from the Royal Medical College with honors.
A brand new case.
A psychiatric disorder unrecorded and unnamed.
If he could fully document the course of the disease, propose a reasonable hypothesis for the etiology, or even find a treatment... the name “Mander” would appear in medical journals, on the academy's wall of fame, and in the mouth of his mentor.
Mander turned around, looking at the notes and books covering his desk, and suddenly felt that this small town he currently resided in was perhaps not so unbearable after all.
*Rustle...*
An indescribable light sound suddenly reached his ears, and a dark shadow seemed to flash in his peripheral vision.
He abruptly turned his head to look out the window.
What met his eyes was only a deep, profound darkness.
Perhaps it was the wind blowing the branches, or some mischievous stray cat.
Assuming he was simply too exhausted these past few days and lacked enough rest, he didn't pay it much mind.
Mander returned to his bedroom, lay on the bed, and fell into a beautiful dream, cradling fantasies of a bright future.
...
The residents of Fishhook Town were, of course, not all so mentally healthy that a man of his “psychiatric” background would have few cases in two years.
In reality, according to the theories Mander had studied, the current medical community generally believed that even those who appeared most cheerful, sunny, and open-hearted possessed psychiatric issues deep within their hearts; it was only a matter of degree.
Unlike the nobles living in big cities—who were well-fed, well-educated, and gradually became aware of the dangers of mental illness through the Physician Association's propaganda—the ordinary residents of Fishhook Town didn't even know what so-called “psychological illness” actually meant.
Even if Mander promoted it vigorously, those commoners wearing patched linen clothes and worrying about rent clearly would not spend their precious rest time consulting his clinic—let alone spend money on medication—just because they couldn't sleep, overthought things, or suffered from persistent low mood and loss of interest.
Under these circumstances, the various symptoms discovered in Old Mark and the possibility of a brand new psychiatric disease undoubtedly excited Mander, who longed to leave this town and realize his grand ambitions.
As long as he could become a formal member of the Physician Association, everything he desired would come to him one by one.
In the following weeks, Mander felt a hope and light he had never experienced since being assigned to Fishhook Town.
It was as if he were filled with energy every waking moment.
He no longer cared about his appearance; a beard grew across his entire chin. During the day, while seeing patients, he discussed the condition with Old Mark, recording the voices, shadows, and the feeling of being watched in the medical record without the slightest omission.
At night, he returned home, locked March in the yard, and organized the day's records alone in the study, consulting the works brought from the big city and working until the early hours of the morning.
As his communication with Old Mark deepened, he understood the other's experiences more and more.
“They don't like light, just like how you might hate a certain smell; it doesn't cause any substantial physical harm, it's just an instinctive aversion.”
“Those shadows always appear when a person is tired. Three in the morning, as I said before, even if I close my eyes, I can see something wriggling in the darkness.”
“At first, I could only feel those strange voices and dark shadows when I was alone, but now they appear more and more frequently.”
“Sorry, I don't mean to be offensive, but Mr. Mander, there is one standing right behind you at this moment.”