Gnawing Problem

A flash fiction by J. Richard Jacobs

In Vienna the streets fall vacant and death silent several hours before two o’clock in the morning. Dr. Schiller, one of the ‘new’ psychiatrists of the Freudian school, unable to hide his aggravation over such a late night—or should that be early morning—appointment, scowled at his visitor and stroked his thin, graying beard streaked with tobacco stains.

The man sitting across the desk from him, tall, gaunt, and pale, sent his manservant, along with a purse of gold coins, early the day before to make this special arrangement. The messenger said his master recently migrated to Austria from somewhere in the east, a place that Schiller couldn’t pronounce, and claimed connection to royalty. Schiller was unimpressed with the man’s self-declared pedigree, but the size of his purse gave him plenty of reason to accept the meeting, but certainly not enough to feign happiness regarding the time. He took another nervous and quite obvious glance at his watch, then slipped it back into his pocket.

“If what you have told me is accurate and, judging from the nature and extent of the wounds on your shoulders, I have little reason to doubt your claim, I would say you are the victim of a rare form of schizophrenia that gives approval for the conditions you are suffering. Those voices you say you hear just before an attack tell you that it is all right. You are possessed of a condition in which you feel an overwhelming urge to inflict pain, but…but you are harboring a contrary and equally powerful desire to suffer. Both experiences are accompanied by sexual gratification and that, although it may not be the driving force behind the behavior, most certainly reinforces the motivation to indulge in it.”

“I understand, Dr. Schiller,” his wee-hour-of-the-morning client said. “Is there a cure for this problem? It is most distressing and interferes with my other…activities. I could starve if it gets any worse.”

Schiller leaned back in his low-backed leather chair and ran thin fingers through his beard like a four pronged comb. He could see the man was obviously distraught and wanted help. He could also see it was late and getting later.

“I cannot promise a cure, Sir,” he said after a moment’s contemplation, “but we are now able to treat many forms of schizophrenia with drugs that effectively inhibit excursions into abnormal behaviors. Their use will afford us the time we need to investigate the cause. However, the sooner you are able to come in for treatment, the better it will be for you. In the meantime, I am afraid your attacks will increase in frequency and violence. In short, my dear Count, until we have established a treatment regimen for you, you are doomed to continue in your efforts to bite your own neck.”