Part 11

They sat together in the doorway of the balcony for the longest time, Grace with her arms around him, rocking him like a child. She couldn't help the impending feeling that he wouldn't make it through this. He was constantly getting worse, not better. Now he couldn't sleep, couldn't be alone, and more importantly, wouldn't eat.

After he finally calmed, she tried making him eat something, but he just pushed the plate away and dropped his head into his palms. The wound on his right hand was almost completely healed, but it was the least of Grace's worries.

She called down to the offices and had Mr. Campbell bring all of her paperwork up to Veidt's apartment, not even caring to give an explanation on why she was there anymore. She usually sat on her pullout bed and did the paperwork, but as the week went on, Veidt would have memory-loss spells, and he would forget where she was, and panic looking for her. So she resorted to sitting on his bed, while he either lay there with her, motionless, or stood on the balcony for hours on end. He was now almost wholly dependant on her, and when he wasn't, he was dependant on Atavan.

He began to panic every morning when he woke up, and had to take a shot of Atavan just to make it through the day. She knew she shouldn't let him become dependant on it, but what else could she do? He would panic, and now she couldn't talk him down. Nothing mattered anymore, and he was regressing into his own mind, not speaking for days, and when he did, they were choppy, non-articulated sentences. She had to cancel all of his upcoming meetings, fearing that he wouldn't be able to handle them.

She eventually got so worried that she called a doctor, against Veidt's word. He was a middle-aged, very highly recommended man named William Schiaca. Dr. Schiaca didn't usually make house calls, but of course, he made an exception when he heard whom the patient was. She paid him extra to keep this confidential, and he gladly obliged. She met him in the foyer of the Veidt building, and led him up to Adrian's penthouse, explaining while on the way.

"It started after the attacks," she was saying as they rode the elevator up. "He hasn't slept well, if at all."

"What do you mean by that? He tosses and turns, or…" Dr. Schiaca asked.

"No…" she said, wondering exactly how much to tell him. "He has nightmares. And he didn't eat much, but in the last couple of days, he really hasn't eaten anything. He has frequent panic attacks, too. He's just… he's just falling apart, it seems."

"Alright. I think I have an idea, but I'll have to look at him first. Has he been taking anything?" Dr. Schiaca asked as the elevator stopped on twenty.

"Yes," she said, lowering her voice. "He's been taking Atavan to get to sleep."

"Okay," Dr. Schiaca said, shrugging off his coat and handing it to Grace so she could hang it on the coat rack.

"And Doctor," she said, continuing to keep her voice low. "He doesn't know you're here. He told me not to call you, it's just…" she paused, wringing her fingers. "I'm worried."

"Not a problem," he said, smiling graciously. "It happens frequently."

"Okay. Just let me go tell him you're here," she said, and he nodded as she turned to walk into Veidt's bedroom. "He's not gunna be happy with me," she said under her breath.

When she opened the door, he was lying sideways on his bed, on top of the covers, staring blankly out the glass doors. She sat on the bed behind him, but he didn't even acknowledge her presence.

"Adrian," she said, rubbing his shoulder. "Adrian, I'm worried about you. You've just been getting worse and worse, and I don't know what to do anymore."

He didn't reply, just kept staring out the doors. The afternoon light was pouring in, warming their clothes and the bed. She would have considered it wonderful, in any other circumstance.

"So I called someone," she said hesitantly, and sure enough, he bolted upright, staring at her.

"I told you," he began, and she could hear half panic and half anger in his voice. "I told you not to."

"I know, but you've just been…" she paused, searching for a word but failing. "He promises to keep it confidential."

"That's what they all say," he said angrily, clenching his jaw. "Grace, I told you…" he began, but didn't finish. She could tell he was angry, but it seemed like he would panic again. His breathing was quickening, and his fists were clenched tightly on the bedspread.

"Hello, Mr. Veidt," Dr. Schiaca said from the doorway, and Adrian rocketed to his feet, trying his best to pull off "fine."

"Hello," Adrian said in that same charade of a voice that was meant to fool everyone. "I don't know why she called you, everything is…"

"Mr. Veidt," Dr. Schiaca said, interrupting Adrian's sentence. "I realize that you have to hold a reputation amongst the general public, and I understand that. But I'm not the general public, and I have proven many times, through various celebrities, that when I say 'confidential', I mean confidential."

Adrian considered him for a moment, then balled his fists again and slumped back onto the bed, obviously giving up on trying to fool Dr. Schiaca. Grace gave the doctor a "see what I mean" look, and he nodded.

Dr. Schiaca set down his briefcase, and approached Adrian where he sat slumped on the side of the bed.

"Mr. Veidt," Schiaca said, kneeling in front of him. "I am a professional. I want to help you. So I need you to tell me the truth."

Uh oh, Grace thought, and Adrian's head whipped up so he could look the doctor straight in the eyes. He started to breathe heavily again, and she noticed his hands shaking.

"Don't say that," Grace said, knowing she was speaking as if Adrian weren't there but not caring in the least. "Don't say that. He can't. He can't tell you the whole truth. He hasn't even told me the whole truth."

Dr. Schiaca nodded, obviously noticing Adrian's panicky reaction to that statement.

"Alright, then," he said, looking back at Adrian and studying him. "Then you don't have to tell me anything. I'll just ask you a series of simple questions, and you answer them if you choose, okay?"

Adrian nodded shakily, and his hands thankfully slowly stopped trembling.

"These panic attacks," Dr. Schiaca said, pulling what looked like a pen from his coat pocket. "Are they sudden?"

He clicked the end of the pen thing, and a light came out of the end of it. He held it up and started examining Adrian's eyes.

"Yes," Adrian said, and she noticed that the fake voice was gone; it was just his broken, weak new voice. "Every time I wake up in the morning."

"And what are the symptoms?" Schiaca asked, returning his penlight to his jacket pocket and writing something on a clipboard he pulled from his briefcase.

"I feel like I can't breathe," Adrian said, staring forward as if the doctor wasn't even there. "Like there's an anvil on my chest. And I shake really bad. And I feel… afraid. More afraid than I've ever been."

"Is there a thought, or something to that regard that sets them off?" Schiaca asked, and Adrian snapped out of his trance to stare at the doctor.

"Uh, yes," Grace answered for him. "I think there is, but he can't tell you what it is."

Adrian looked at Grace, and she could see the pure relief he felt at not having to answer that question.

"Alright, that's fine," Schiaca said, but she could tell he was reeling to know. "And what about the sleeping problem? Is it that same thought that is provoking your nightmares?"

Adrian shuddered all over, obviously thinking about whatever it was he'd done that was torturing him so. "Yes," he said, and it sounded like saying that one simple word was incredibly difficult.

Dr. Schiaca then put his pointer and middle finger on the pressure point on Adrian's wrist, and took his pulse over the span of a minute.

"You take the Atavan every night?" he asked.

"Yes," Adrian said, but he didn't elaborate.

"He's actually started to take it during the day, too. In smaller doses. He needs it to be able to function," Grace said, and Adrian tossed her a look that clearly said "you didn't have to share that information."

Schiaca then nodded to Adrian, stood, and beckoned Grace to follow him as he exited the bedroom. Grace looked back to see Adrian sitting stone still, staring straight out the window. She sighed in defeat as she slowly shut the door.

"So," she asked, turning to face Dr. Schiaca. "What do you think?"

"Well, with everything he's told me, his symptoms exactly match post-traumatic stress syndrome," Schiaca said, removing his glasses and cleaning them. "Was he in one of the cities that was attacked? If he watched people die, that could easily be the cause."

"No, no he wasn't anywhere near any of the cities," she said, but didn't elaborate.

Dr. Schiaca paused, obviously disheartened that he hadn't found the answer.

"Is there a treatment for it? Because, I mean… he can't barely function anymore," she said, wringing her fingers. "He hasn't gone to any of his meetings, nothing. He just stays here and tries to stay… well, sane."

"Well, usually in cases like this, I recommend cognitive behavioral therapy, but obviously with his… celebrity status, that isn't really an option," he said, returning his spectacles to his face.

"Yeah, probably not," she said.

"Well, he's proven to be a textbook case. Usually the sufferer has a dependence on alcohol or benzodiazepines, which Atavan is. We've found that it can be worsened by that dependence. Treating dependency has shown to improve the sufferer's state of mind tremendously."

"You mean… make him stop taking the Atavan?" she asked.

"Yes," Schiaca replied.

"But… he can't sleep without it. He can't get up in the mornings without it," she said, and the doctor sighed.

"It will be very difficult at first, because it would get worse before it got better. But if he severed his dependence on it, he would start to recover," Dr. Schiaca said.

"Doc, look at him," she gasped. "You think he can handle it getting worse? Isn't there something you can give him?"

"Replacing one substance dependence with another is not the answer. Also, medications have proven to be less successful than therapy and addiction management."

"He's not addicted," she clipped. "Not yet, anyway."

"Well, Ms. Turner, there is only one other treatment that comes to mind," he said, running a hand through his graying hair. She raised her eyebrows questioningly. "It's called Critical Incident stress management. I usually don't recommend it, but it seems to be your only option."

"What is it?" she asked.

"It's kind of like cognitive behavioral therapy. The individual has to face whatever it was that caused their reaction."

"But… he wont tell me," she said.

"Well, you'll have to find out if you want any hope of helping him."