The psychiatrist had his office in a dingy building whose lower floor housed a flower shop, grocery, and liquor store respectively. The office was on the second floor.
There was no receptionist in the waiting room. There were some chairs, and soon there was the psychiatrist himself, who smiled pleasurably when he saw his visitor.
“Come in,” he invited. His smile showed large white teeth that almost overshadowed all other features of his face. He was a dark man. He looked the way a psychiatrist ought to look.
The thin man entered uneasily. Now that he was here he wasn’t sure he wanted any part of it. Suppose he was insane? It would be the asylum. There was a trembling within him, which the psychiatrist noticed professionally.
He led the way to a comfortable couch. “Just lie down and relax,” he said. “Then we’ll get down to what ails you.” He smiled reassuringly, but the thin man could see a sharp look of inquiry right behind the big-toothed smile.
He lay down wearily. He was tired — tired and puzzled. The only thing he knew for certain was that he was God. The rest was a blank.
The psychiatrist was all business. He pulled over a chair and sat down to talk, shrewd eyes collecting facts about the thin man before he said a word.
“My fee is $25,” he stated, with a longer look at the man’s attire. “I thought it best to mention it.”
“Yes,” agreed the man on the couch; and immediately imagined this sum of money into existence. He reached into a pocket, pulled out a billfold and extracted the money, which he handed to the psychiatrist.
“Ah…” said the psychiatrist, beaming. He leaned forward and spoke in a confidential tone.
“Now — what is wrong with you, or what do you imagine to be wrong with you?”
“I am God,” said the thin man.
The psychiatrist pursed his lips and tapped a pencil reflectively against his large teeth.
“Interesting. Very interesting,” he murmured. “And what makes you believe you are God?”
The man on the couch stirred uncomfortably. “God can do anything. He is all-powerful. I can do anything. I am all-powerful. Therefore, as you can surely see, I am God.” There was some impatience in the words, which the psychiatrist hastened to assuage.
“Of course, of course. That is plausible.” He hesitated, then asked, “But what do you mean you can do anything?”
“I can move buildings,” came the quiet voice of the thin man. “I can cause mountains to crumble. I can kill people merely by wishing them dead. I could even destroy the world, if I wished.”
“Have you ever done any of these things?” The psychiatrist’s voice still maintained its interest, but a trace of boredom was setting in.
“Yes.” The man who called himself God explained what things he had done.
“Then you remember nothing of your background. Nothing at all? Only these incidents?”
The thin man shook his head, and waited.
A few other questions; then the psychiatrist leaned back. “Your ailment is a simple one,” he said impressively. “You are — as far as I can determine from your first visit — suffering from schizophrenia, or what we call split personality. In your case, I should diagnose from your head injury that you have had a fall or received a blow that brought into existence your lesser “personality” that believes itself to be God.” The psychiatrist paused and studied his patient.
“Of course, you are not God. That is purely in the realms of your imagination. All it will take to start you back on the right path is to realize that you cannot… uh… be God. The instances of apparent miracles you related to me all sound like the imaginings of a mind that is ins—, that is tired. You will need more treatments.”
He stood and motioned the thin man to do the same. He laid a hand on the man’s bony shoulder confidently.
“But you are wrong,” the patient insisted. “I do perform miracles.”
“Nonsense,” the doctor told him quietly. “You must find a way to disbelieve that.” He considered. “Why not put your ‘miracles’ to the acid test? What would be hardest of all things for you to do?”
“Destroy the world, I think.”
“Then — destroy the world,” the psychiatrist advised, with a faint smile behind the words. “The failure to do so will convince you that you are not God.”
“But I wouldn’t want to do that. I made the world.”
The psychiatrist was losing his patience a little. “You can’t do that,” he insisted. “It’s all in your head. Try it, fail; and you’ll improve a thousand per cent. Here—” he scribbled some dates on a slip of paper — “I’ve made you these appointments. They end July 16th. We’ll get you straightened out. I promise you that.”
The thin man said hesitantly, “You mean that I can’t really destroy the world. That my brain is merely twisted, and you will cure me?” He glanced down at the slip of paper on which there were dates.
“Precisely that.”
The thin man needed more reassurance. “It would be right for me to destroy the world? Right now?” He was confused and showed it.
The psychiatrist’s voice was as thin as paper. “Yes. Go right ahead, my friend. Destroy it.”
The thin man drew himself up and revealed a certain dignity of manner as he folded his arms across his chest. “It will take a while,” he said.
For a minute he remained in that position, eyes half closed, body intent.
The psychiatrist waited, patiently and disdainfully. Finally the thin man turned to him and said, “There, it’s all done.”
A loud snort burst from between the big teeth of the psychiatrist. It was unprofessional; it was without dignity; he couldn’t help it.
“You say the world’s destroyed? Then—” he pointed a finger at the man before him — “what are we doing here — alive?”
He ran to the window. “Here, I’ll show you. Look out.” He himself did so, and his face took on a dough-like hue. His hands began trembling, not in a quick spasm of motion, but slowly and methodically. He turned back to the thin man. It was a while before he could speak. When he could, he said in a peculiar voice:
“But it’s all gray out there. All clouds. Nothing but clouds and haze. No buildings, no people…” He stared at his patient while the rush of words stuck in his throat.
“Yes. It would be that way.”
“But — it can’t be. I’m seeing things. You’re—” An animal cunning suddenly lit his eyes and his breathing reverted almost to normal.
“The world is not destroyed. I don’t know what’s happened, but I know that much. I could be hypnotized…”
He paused, and there was savage triumph in his next words.
“If the world has been destroyed, then what are we doing here? Tell me that! Why are we left?” He waited, almost defiantly, while the thin man looked at him oddly.
“Why,” said the thin man, “you should really know that.”
“I should? I know nothing about it.”
“It is so simple.” The thin man smiled. “The world has been destroyed. We remain to keep the appointments we made.” He pointed to the list of dates in his hand.
The psychiatrist walked slowly to the window. He stared out, then came back.
He started to say something, but only a scream managed to find its way past his lips.
“They end July 16th,” said the thin man.
1958
Arrest