TWIN DEMONS by Georgia Kennedy
Author's Notes
The portrayal of Harry's mental illness was inspired by Russell Crowe's performance in A Beautiful Mind, as well as the writings of Sylvia Browne and other noted psychics.
Axert is a medication used to treat migraine headaches.
DSM-IV is shorthand for the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders - Fourth Edition.
Just before he went on his final rampage as the Green Goblin, Norman Osborn embraced Harry and told him that he loved him. See Peter David, Spider-Man: The Official Novelization of the Film (New York. Penguin Books, 2002), p. 283.
"I did it my way." — Frank Sinatra
Disclaimer
This is a derivative work of fiction featuring characters copyrighted and trademarked by Marvel Characters, Inc. It is based upon: Spider-Man, copyright 2002 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; Spider-Man 2, copyright 2004 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; Daredevil - Director's Cut, copyright 2004 by Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, Inc., all rights reserved; and Hulk, copyright 2003 by Universal Studios, all rights reserved. The author is not connected with nor is this work authorized by Marvel Characters, Inc., or any of the aforementioned motion picture studios. This work is intended solely for posting on Fanfiction, for the benefit and enjoyment of its intended audience. No commercial or financial benefit accrues or is intended to accrue to the author as a result of said posting. Any unauthorized copying or redistribution of this work might subject the party responsible for such unauthorized copying or redistribution to legal action by the owners of the aforementioned copyrights and trademarks.
XXIII
FRANK'S WISDOM
Despite the tremendous, chaotic workload in Lenox Hill's psychiatric ward, Dr. Anwar Muhammed Al Shaddai somehow managed to pray five times each day. He kept a small rug in his office for that purpose. A lean, dark-haired, Egyptian-born Sufi with the eyes of a swami, Dr. Al Shaddai was a third-year resident at the prestigious hospital. His parents, both doctors, had immigrated to the United States when he was five years old. He started medical school with an eye toward internal medicine, but later switched to psychiatry because of the challenges that field presented to Western notions about health and disease.
From working among African shamans as a Peace Corps volunteer between college and medical school, Dr. Al Shaddai had learned to perceive the human body as the manifestation of a richly subtle, complex, and all-encompassing reality beyond the reach of the five senses, not merely an isolated organism. He believed that the ultimate goal of any treatment regimen should always be the restoration of the patient's natural state of harmony with that greater reality, whether it was called Allah, Jehova, God, or Krishna.
Dr. Al Shaddai had just finished his prayers on Friday morning when his buzzer chimed. It was the nurse practitioner who supervised the morning shift.
"Good morning, Mrs. Fisher. How is our friend doing today?"
"Well, his conversations with that empty chair are getting spicier. But other than that, there's been no change since he came to."
"Has he been getting much sleep?"
"Off and on, usually an hour or two at a clip. Do you plan to increase his meds?"
Dr. Al Shaddai paused uncomfortably. His patient was being given the newest and most effective anti-psychotic medication, but was barely responding. "I think we had better consult with Dr. Lyons," he told the nurse. "We already have him on eight hundred milligrams of Seroquel. Any more than that and he could start having convulsions."
"Dr. Lyons is booked up through the end of next month, I'm afraid."
"She's my shift supervisor. She'll let us cut in line if its only a consultation. I'll administer the treatment myself. How is he getting along with the other patients?"
"Well, his roommate complains a lot. Oh, and Judy Wilson from the night shift saw him throw a tray at the television."
"Hmmmm. Maybe he should have his own room. Are there any single beds available?"
"Just a minute, Doctor." Nurse Fisher paused briefly. "Yes, room 206."
"Very good. Have him moved there after his morning therapy. I'll see him as soon as he's settled in."
Do you want me to explain the procedure to him?"
"I think it would be better if I did it."
"Okay, Doctor. I'll have him in Room 206 by noon."
"Thank you, Mrs. Fisher."
As Dr. Al Shaddai read through his patient's half-inch-thick file, he found himself being drawn into the case as if it were a mystery novel. The young man had been brought in by Spider-Man on Monday night, unconscious and suffering from acute alcohol poisoning. Al Shaddai shuddered when he saw how much liquor had been pumped from the man's stomach in the emergency room. He thanked Allah profusely that his religion forbade alcohol consumption and prayed that there would be no permanent brain damage.
But it was not until the patient regained consciousness that Dr. Al Shaddai was able to grasp the magnitude and complexity of his condition. The social worker's findings were deeply disturbing, centering mainly around unresolved boundary issues between the patient and his father. According to Mrs. Kennedy's report, the patient had grown up amidst incredible wealth, but had been emotionally starved. He had lost his mother at an early age, and had to suffer a father who seemed to revel not only in withholding love from a son who desperately needed it, but in actually heaping ridicule and scorn upon the boy. Worse, he openly bestowed his fatherly affections on his son's overachieving best friend, this Peter fellow who figured so prominently in the patient's delusions.
And yet, through it all, the patient had remained loyal to his father, insisting over and over again that his father loved him, which is what made his statement that his father had tried to kill him all the more shocking. But when Mrs. Kennedy tried to elicit details, he went into a seizure.
Tragically, the father had lost his life just as their relationship was beginning to heal. And then, without any preparation, education, or training, this orphan was suddenly thrust into the chair of a major corporation. The pressures must have been tremendous, made worse by the Octavius affair and the resulting grand jury probe. It did not help that the attack on the subways had been launched from a facility owned by his company. Who wouldn't suffer a breakdown under circumstances like this? Dr. Al Shaddai wondered. For now, his working diagnosis would be paranoid schizophrenia coupled with major depression. But he was sure that there was more to this story than could be found in DSM-IV.
XXXXXXXXXX
Harry Osborn stared listlessly at the television suspended from the wall in his new room, watching the local news. He had taken his morning meds barely an hour earlier, and was hoping that they would start working soon.
For the umpteenth time, the media was playing up Spider-Man's heroics in thwarting the terrorist operation. Harry's mood plunged as he watched yet another replay of the President showering the country's praises on his friend-turned-enemy. "It looks like you won after all, you lousy bastard," He muttered.
"Giving up then, are we?"
Harry's eyes widened. Sitting in the chair of the local news anchor, was his father, still wearing his black shirt and trousers. The station logo behind him was now the Green Goblin's mask.
Harry grabbed the remote and tried to shut the television off. But the remote wasn't working. He tried again and again, to no avail.
Harry squeezed his eyes shut and buried his face in his pillow. When he opened them, the TV was off, but Norman was now in the room with him, pacing back and forth in front of his bed. "Do you think I'm just going to let you shirk your responsibilities, like you always do?"
"Let it go, Dad." Harry said. "It's over."
"IT'S NOT OVER!" Norman roared. "It won't be over until Peter Parker's shattered body is splayed out in the middle of the street!"
"Pete saved my life," Harry pleaded. He wanted so much to believe what Peter had told him about his father's final moments. But he was still captive to Norman's murderous obsession with revenge, an obsession that fueled his hallucinations and landed him in the psych ward.
"What the hell are you doing here, lying around on your ass, feeling sorry for yourself, when there's work to be done?" Norman demanded as he sat down on the edge of Harry's bed, his voice full of icy contempt.
"You ought to know," Harry said, still waiting for the drugs in his system to give him refuge from the ongoing hallucinatory assault. "It's because of you that I'm in this fucking place."
That set Norman off. "It was Peter Parker! He was the one who destroyed your life, who took everything away from you, even your manhood!"
Harry remained defiant, even in his weakened state. "It wasn't Peter who tried to kill me at the Unity Day festival!" Suddenly, he doubled over and buried his head between his knees. It was the only way he could escape the feeling that his stomach had just collided with his brain.
Fortunately, the doctor had just entered the room.
"He killed my father!" Harry screamed in the midst of his delirium tremens, a wave of nausea beginning to build in his gut.
"Who?" Dr. Al Shaddai asked.
"Spider-Man!"
The psychiatrist gave him a puzzled look. "I thought you said it was Peter who murdered your father."
Harry struggled to look his young physician in the eye. "Peter is Spider-Man. Don't you get it?"
It was obvious from the doctor's expression that Al Shaddai thought this was just another delusion.
"Of course he doesn't believe you, you weak, miserable little son of a bitch! Who would believe a nut case?"
"Harry, are you having another migraine?"
"Y-yeah," Harry panted as he reached for a bedpan.
Just in time . . .
Dr. Al Shaddai turned away as Harry vomited, touching the intercom on the wall. "Jamal, I need two Axert tablets right away," he told an orderly, who quickly appeared with a cup of water and the requested medication.
Al Shaddai gently prodded Harry to lift his head while the orderly cleaned him up. "Take these. They'll start working in a few minutes."
Desperate to get his head out of the vise, Harry swallowed both pills.
Dr. Al Shaddai moved the rolling tray table aside and sat down in the space vacated by Norman. The elder Osborn, meanwhile, had resumed his highly agitated pacing near the window.
"I take it that your father is in the room with us?" Dr. Al Shaddai observed.
"Don't listen to this quack, Harry! Be your own man. Stand on your feet and be strong . . ."
Harry stared at his doctor in amazement. That was the last thing he expected to hear from a shrink. "You mean, you actually believe me?"
"Tell this ignorant fool to mind his own goddamn business!"
"I do." Al Shaddai seemed to be following Harry's head and eye movements very closely. "I think you might be psychic. Unfortunately, your gift seems to be getting the better of you at the moment."
"He doesn't know what he's talking about!"
"Shut up!" Harry yelled, his strength and courage somewhat renewed by the pain killer he had just taken.
"I'm sorry, Harry. I didn't mean to upset you."
"I wasn't talking to you," he snapped at his psychiatrist.
"You'd trust a complete stranger more than your own father? Harry, you're my flesh and blood!"
"You're dead!" Harry closed his eyes tightly once again and slammed his hands against his ears, trying to exorcize Norman.
"Very good, Harry," Al Shaddai encouraged. His empathic spirituality made him a favorite among the patients. "It's important to recognize that he is no longer a part of this world."
"Noooooooooooooo! Harry! Goddamn you! Don't you dare betray our secret."
Harry opened his eyes again. He appeared exhausted. "I could really use a drink right now."
"I know you've been under a great deal of stress these past few years," Al Shaddai soothed. "Drinking will only make your visions more vivid."
"Don't you mean hallucinations?"
"That depends on the context, doesn't it?"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Have you ever heard of Saint Bernadette?"
Harry gave Al Shaddai an uncomprehending look.
"Bernadette was a young French girl who claimed to have had visions of the Virgin Mary. Those visions were as real to her as I am to you."
"Did they burn her as a witch?"
"No. The Church made her a saint and consecrated the place where she had her visions as a holy shrine. Her visions gave hope to thousands of people, which was why she was made a saint. Do you see how powerful a label can be?"
Harry was utterly baffled. "What's your point?"
"Some of my colleagues might have diagnosed Saint Bernadette as being schizophrenic."
A faint glimmer of hope appeared in Harry's eyes. "Hold on a minute, doctor. Are you saying that there might not be anything wrong with me after all?"
Dr. Al Shaddai shook his head. "You have a condition that enables you to see things that other people can't. What you call that condition doesn't matter from a medical perspective, but in the eyes of the larger society, it impacts significantly." He gazed thoughtfully into Harry's eyes, hoping to put his shattered mind back together. "You think about your father a lot, don't you?"
"Every single day."
"Bernadette was brought up in a very religious household. From the time she was a little girl, she ate, drank, and breathed the mother of Jesus."
"So?" Harry was still not sure what to make of what the doctor was telling him.
"Isn't it obvious? Aren't you seeing and hearing exactly what you're thinking about?"
Harry lay back in his bed, feeling emboldened, now that the Axert was taking effect. "Well, I've got a question for you . . ."
"I'm part of you, Harry. I LIVE in you."
" . . . Is my father really here, or is he just in my mind?"
"That is something which I am afraid science and medicine can't tell us." Dr. Al Shaddai smiled reassuringly. "But the fact that you are questioning the reality of his presence bodes well for your prognosis."
Harry sighed and stared straight up at the ceiling. "I can't even look into a mirror anymore without seeing his face."
"I take it he wants you to think and act in a certain way, and makes things very unpleasant if you don't toe the line."
"That's when I get these really bad headaches and start throwing up."
"And does that happen whenever Peter comes up in the conversation?"
With his head sinking to his chest and his shoulders slumping, Harry nodded. "That's the only time it happens," he whispered.
"We can help you, Harry, if you'll let us."
Harry gazed at Al Shaddai, his expression of hope laced with a suspicion that was not really his. "How?"
"Without me, you're nothing . . ."
"There is a physiological component to psychic phenomena, just as there is with mental illness." Al Shaddai explained. "That's the part that we can work with, the brain. You see, all of us are born with some level of psychic capability. We're like radios. Most of us never use these abilities. But there are those who can tune into much subtler frequencies that other people cannot reach. Are you with me so far?"
"Yes."
"In most people, psychic visions are harmless, and are often beneficial, as with Saint Bernadette," Al Shaddai continued. "But in some people, particularly those who are vulnerable to stress, the visions can be quite frightening, especially if they cause the person to lose touch with themselves. In your case, your father seems to want to live again, through you."
Norman shrieked like a vampire being exposed to the sun.
Harry tried to ignore him. "Are you saying that I'm able to conjure up my dad from wherever he is?"
"I'm not sure that I would go that far," Al Shaddai continued. "But it is Mrs. Kennedy's learned opinion that you're having quite a serious problem in defining your sense of self. In our business, it is what we call 'setting boundaries.' If you allow him to take over, your own personality might be extinguished. The only way we can prevent this from happening is to shut down the channel."
"Don't you dare!"
"How can you do that?"
"As I said earlier, we have to tweak your brain chemistry a little bit. This is usually accomplished through medication. Unfortunately, your symptoms are unusually resilient. We can't increase your dosage anymore than we have, and quite frankly, I have concerns about addiction."
"So, what are we supposed to do, Doctor?"
Al Shaddai stroked his chin. "I think you would make an excellent candidate for electroconvulsive therapy."
"YOU CAN"T SILENCE ME, HARRY!"
"Shock treatments?"
"We call it ECT now."
But Harry did not like where the conversation was leading. "No, no way. I don't want to end up like a zombie."
"Trust me on this, my friend. It's nothing like what you see in the movies. There won't be any after effects, other than a slight headache for an hour or two. But more important, we'll be able to reduce your medication quite substantially. After ECT, we won't need more than one hundred milligrams to keep your hallucinations at bay."
But there was more to Harry's resistance than his misplaced fears about the treatment. "You don't understand. My father told me he loved me before he died. He still tells me he loves me." Tears started to form in the corners of Harry's eyes. "We have a relationship now that we never had when he was ali— . . . around. I can't lose him again."
Dr. Al Shaddai recognized right away that, as tormented as Harry was, he depended on his father for validation of his worthiness. His answer was deeply sympathetic, but firm in its resolve. "It seems to be a very one-sided relationship, Harry. Is it worth losing your selfhood, giving up everything makes you unique, spending the rest of your life doomed to live out your father's obsessions? Is that the price you're willing to pay?"
Harry cast his eyes toward the floor. "My father loves me," he reiterated defensively.
"Then why did you tell Mrs. Kennedy that he tried to kill you?"
"Are you going to let this little worm stand in our way? Damn you, Harry, Peter is out there now, trampling over my grave, taking all the glory that should have been mine . . ."
Without warning, Harry bolted up, his eyes ablaze. "Peter didn't kill you, goddammit!" he screamed at the top of his lungs, startling Dr. Al Shaddai. "You did it to yourself!"
Norman screamed as if a stake had been driven through his heart.
Harry sat back, closed his eyes, and waited for the wave of nausea to wash over him. When it did not come, he cautiously opened his eyes. Norman was still there, glaring furiously at him. But he was no longer speaking.
Regaining his composure, Dr. Al Shaddai gently patted Harry on the shoulder. "You obviously want to be your own person."
A newly confident Harry turned toward his doctor. "See," he asserted, "I can think for myself. I don't need shock treatments."
Dr. Al Shaddai did not waver. "It's good that you're able to defy your father. But your resolve might be hard to sustain once the meds wear off. ECT is still your best line of defense."
Harry was beginning to see the wisdom of the psychiatrist's position. "If I undergo this treatment, does it mean that I won't see my father anymore?"
"I can't promise you that," Dr. Al Shaddai said. "The best we can hope for is that he remains on the periphery. But I can definitely say that he won't be able to hurt you. You will be the one to dictate the terms of your relationship, not him. That's what our goal should be." Sensing that Harry needed more time, Al Shaddai added, "You don't have to undergo ECT if you don't want to. But the course of your treatment will progress much more quickly if you do. I suggest you think about it."
"I will."
"Alright then. I'll see you this evening."
XXXXXXXXXX
Harry sat by himself in the patient's lounge, long after his group therapy session was over. It was an eye-opening experience to be surrounded by real people who had experienced hardships beyond anything he could imagine.
Many of his fellow patients were victims of severe and prolonged trauma. One young woman had been raped repeatedly by her father. An older man had been diagnosed with severe autism and was barely functioning. For these people, the goal was just to get through one more day. Harry vowed that when he got out, he would set up a charity to help the mentally ill.
Unfortunately, his father was in the lounge with him. But Norman neither approached him nor spoke to him. He merely continued his agitated pacing in front of the windows on the opposite side of the room, throwing a menacing glance in Harry's direction every once in a while.
Harry had to admit that his father was right about one thing. Now that he had been officially diagnosed as schizophrenic, his credibility was down to zero. He could shout out Peter's secret in the middle of Times Square, right in J. Jonah Jameson's face, for all the good it would do him.
But for a few more hours at least, Harry would be able hold his own against Norman without suffering physical repercussions.
"Coming up on CNN Headline News . . . The fate of Oscorp . . ."
Harry's head jerked up and his heart started racing as CNN's business reporter came on the air.
"CNN has learned that the grand jury looking into allegations of criminal conduct by the huge defense contractor has recommended that all charges against the company and its youthful chairman be dropped . . ."
Harry gasped. Between the civil and criminal cases, he had been expecting a legal avalanche.
Another patient, meanwhile, was reaching for the remote, intent on changing the channel.
"Leave it!" Harry barked.
Startled, the man jumped back.
The broadcast cut away to the District Attorney's office. Standing in front of the podium was the D.A., Pat Hamilton. Her expression was subdued as she delivered a brief announcement. "The grand jury concluded that there was not enough evidence to go forward with an indictment . . ."
"Bitch!" Harry grumbled.
"What about the civil suits?" a reporter asked the D.A.
"Well, it's hard to make a case when you have a mentally incapacitated defendant," Ms. Hamilton responded. "But I wish them well."
Harry could not believe his stroke of good fortune. He was off the hook, which meant that they never connected him to Otto Octavius. And that meant . . .
He looked around the lounge for his father. But Norman was nowhere to be seen.
"You were wrong about Pete, Dad," he whispered. "He kept his promise, just like he said he would."
For the first time in weeks, thoughts of Peter Parker did not torture him. As Harry pondered those thoughts, a question popped into his mind. How did he get his powers in the first place? The first inkling was when Peter flattened Flash Thompson, the day after . . . the field trip . . . Of course, that had to be it! Something happened to Peter that day . . . His mind was racing now . . . M.J. told them that a spider was missing . . . Oh, my God .
And then, it came to him.
Harry had to stop to catch his breath as a flash of light exploded inside his head. Ideas were spinning out of his mind so fast that he could not keep up with them. Without any conscious effort on his part, those ideas coalesced into a plan of action, a vision that was both dazzlingly brilliant and elegantly simple.
What if the phenomenon that had spawned the wallcrawler could be replicated? Oscorp could create a whole army of spider-men, the most formidable soldiers in the world. Just one platoon of spider-soldiers could wipe out entire armies . . . . or terrorists.
And he had the resources to make it happen. He would be rich beyond his wildest dreams, a billionaire many times over.
All he had to do was unlock the secret that lay hidden in Peter's DNA.
But first, he would have to get out of here and finish settling his business affairs.
Harry could faintly hear his father's screams of protest. "No, Dad. I'm not going to fight your battle with Peter anymore. From now on, we're going to do this thing my way! And when it's all done, I'll have succeeded where you failed."
He ran to the nurses' station.
"Yes, Mr. Osborn?"
"Tell Dr. Shaddai to schedule me for ECT as fast as possible."