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~February 26th, 1844
“I’ve seen a lot in my time as a psychologist. I’ve come to expect the unusual in my day to day life, with mental illnesses and disorders causing even the most ordinary looking men to do the atrocious. Still, on occasion, there are cases that surprise me.
“Can you please tell me your name?” I repeat, only to be met with silence again. This man has refused to say a single word, glancing around, mumbling. Of course I have had patients like this; Ones that were paranoid, and suspicious, worrying where the next threat is. I find that this tends to cease once they've been asked the right question. More often than not, this is something concrete, like their name, their address, or…
“Aright. Fine. Can you at least tell me your point of view on what happened that night?” At that question, he seems to snap back to reality, and stare at me. It seems I’ve hit the mark, and I take note of his reactions. The room is deathly quiet now, and the hair on the back of my neck stands up.
“Villains… You think to trick me, and make me speak- You seek to prove me mad!” He finally says with the passion of an actor on stage. I take note of this, as it’s something people come in here with frequently. That’s when things start looking down, as those patients are more often than not the ones who end up being cursed with insanity.
“I assure you, I don't want to do anything like that. I simply want to help you. Do you know who I am?” I try to speak softly, and make no sudden movements. Due to this, though it is small, I see a small shake of the head in response. “Alright. My name is Dr Martin Browne, and I’m here to help you, and listen to your part of the story. Most people are accusing you of being a lot of things, and I’m here to either prove or disprove that. Now, we could talk about that night, or, if you’re nervous, we could-”
“True! - nervous - very, very dreadfully nervous…”
___
And so began his tale of woe, and I couldn’t help but notice a few things. The story was dreadful, and I have a knot in my stomach from the way he describes it. So, I let him finish, before starting to ask him questions. “So you say you heard the heartbeat of a dead man?”
“Yes, I did. I heard it loud and clear I heard from the floorboards, in my head-”
“Alright, I’m going to ask you a silly question now.” He nodded slowly, still not trusting me completely, mumbling god knows what under his breath. “Where was the sound coming from, and is there any chance, even a small one, that the heartbeat could have been your own?”
“None! I promise you, I acted as needed! I know what I heard as well as I know the status of my sanity!” I don’t care to comment that even that is unclear at the moment. After all, there is no way in the world he could have heard the heartbeat of his victim, unless he was confusing it for his own, or there was nothing there to begin with.
“Alright then sir. You also said you hear things in heaven and hell? Can you tell me what that’s like?”
He looks from side to side, seemingly debating whether or not to tell me the details. Debating with who, I don’t know. I’m tempted to think it’s himself, but the pit in my stomach tells me otherwise. There is something wrong with this man, something deep. By now, I have all I need to have him claim insanity. Still, my curiosity bests me. “I hear them. I hear their voices, they call to me.” He whispers, and it’s quite clear that’s all he intends to say on the subject.
“Alright sir. That will be all.”
****
~March 20th, 1844
Neary a month ago, I had a fellow come into my office due to his upcoming trial, and it became quite clear quickly that the poor man suffered from clear insanity. Today was the trial, and the man got a sentence of life in a psychiatric hospital. Poor fellow will have to live with himself for the rest of his life, though based on the way he talked about the crime it becomes apparent that he will have no trouble with it. I’m writing here to keep a record of one of the most interesting cases of insanity I’ve ever seen. I realize in the entry I made on his visit I did not list the symptoms as I typically would. For that reason I list them here:
- The fear that people were after him and watching his every movement
- Hearing things that weren’t there, ranging from the voices of people in hell, to what I suspect to be a heartbeat
- Fidgeting, to the point where there seems to be an inability to stand still
- Lack of response/Fatigue
- Delusion”
“Now class, based on the descriptions in Mr Browne’s notebook, what do you think his patient had?” I ask after finishing reading the passage. I was met with silence and a classroom filled with the raised hands of psychology college students. Then I picked on the girl in the front, Olivia, I think her name is.
“Schizophrenia, I think.” She says quietly, glancing between me and her classmates.
“That is correct. This is a textbook case, and I think it will be very useful to study it.” I glance at the time. “Now, class will be over soon, and you have homework. Research and write an essay on the details of this case. You may draw from Mr Browne’s journal if you’d like.” Just then the clock struck twelve. “That will be all. Have a nice weekend!”
Everyone filed out of the classroom, and all that was left was me, the notebook, and the beating of my own heart.