Generally speaking, having over a thousand personalities inside one body could hardly be called a mild illness. Most people who learned this fact would make a huge fuss over it, exclaiming that it was absurd.
And it was indeed absurd. How could one shell contain over a thousand souls?
But now someone was telling him, "You're not as sick as I am." David wanted to see just how sick Schiller really was.
"How many personalities do you have?" David asked.
"I only have one."
"That's impossible."
"There really is only one. It's just shattered into over two thousand pieces."
David was speechless.
Compared to stuffing over a thousand souls into one body, it did seem more serious for one soul to be shattered into over two thousand pieces.
"How are you still alive?" David asked curiously.
"I muddled through. Kept muddling through, and somehow stayed alive."
If someone had answered David's question like that before, he would definitely have thought they were brushing him off. But Schiller seemed serious right now. Then again, in a situation like this, what else could one do besides muddle through?
"Why did your soul shatter?"
"An accident," Schiller answered succinctly.
"You think I came here to talk to you about Mutants?" David said. "Why would you think that? Do you think I represent them?"
"No. I think you don't care much about them. You care more about yourself. But your problem is still that you're a Mutant, so if we want to solve your problem, we still have to talk about Mutants."
David frowned deeply.
Clutching the pen in his hand, Schiller said, "You may think the root of your current condition is Dissociative Identity Disorder. That's why you came to me—you believe that, as an excellent Doctor in the Psychiatry Department, I have