Penicillin (2)

"Hmm... The child has antisocial personality disorder."

"What?! Then what should we do?"

"First, let's inject some dope into his veins and observe the prognosis. If the results are poor, we'll have no choice but to perform a lobotomy..."

"Argh! No!"

Being treated like a lunatic was starting to give me the wildest nightmares. Nineteenth-century medicine was truly more terrifying than any ghost story.

To be fair, even I would have thought I was crazy. If my own son spent all day staring through a microscope, claiming, "The cure for COVID-19 is crushed brick dust!" would I think, "Ah! My brilliant son has seen the future of the twenty-second century and is destined to save humanity from pestilence!"?

Not a chance. I'd either call a child psychologist immediately or beat some sense into him with a switch.

Sigh. Nothing is ever easy.

My first problem, as I mentioned, was that everyone treated me like a delusional patient. My second problem was that I couldn't find the mold to make penicillin. At this point in history, identifying mold solely by its appearance was impossible. No matter how hard I stared into the microscope, they all looked exactly the same. That meant I had only one way to find Penicillium notatum: culture it alongside bacteria and see if the bacteria died.

But there was an even bigger problem.

I think I've personally killed over a million bacteria by now...

Culturing bacteria was incredibly hard! Bacteria are surprisingly delicate creatures. If the environment is even slightly too acidic or the temperature is just a fraction off, they drop dead instantly. They have no problem thriving inside the human body and killing people, so why on earth did they all die the moment I tried to raise them? Because of this, I couldn't even tell if the bacteria were dying of natural causes or if the mold was actually killing them.

Lastly, this damn Gymnasium was absolutely useless. At first, I thought graduating from a Gymnasium would be good for my social standing. But the reality was far worse than the South Korean Marines, where you supposedly have to eat a hundred bugs to discharge.

"Our Marx Stahl has been absent from the Gymnasium for some time due to typhoid fever," the instructor barked. "This is clear evidence of a slackened spirit. To restore discipline, everyone, face down on the floor!"

"What?"

"You chose to come to this Gymnasium. Grit your teeth and take your beating!"

My very first day back at the Gymnasium after my reincarnation began with a spirited beating. I couldn't comprehend how contracting typhoid fever equated to a "slackened spirit," but apparently, my classmates had already been beaten ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠like stray dogs over the break to "tighten up their discipline."

It would have been tolerable if they taught us anything practical. But no, this wasn't Hogwarts. We were stuck learning useless Latin and Ancient Greek.

"Wingardium Leviosa, blah blah blah..."

Consequently, most of my daily routine was spent memorizing Latin sentences to avoid getting thrashed, leaving absolutely no time for penicillin research.

"Goddamn nineteenth century!"

For three months, not a single one of these three problems was resolved. But then, an opportunity arrived to sweep them all away at once. Sigmund Freud came to our house for a consultation.

If I can butter up Freud, can't I borrow his lab and get his help with my research?

The plan was simple: get Freud to recognize me as a genius, and then subtly hint at my situation.

My god! Wouldn't that be infinitely more satisfying than bickering with half-brained middle schoolers at the Gymnasium just to be called a prodigy? After all, I was a former philosophy major who loved philosophy far more than chemical engineering. To become the disciple of the founding father of psychoanalysis, the man who reshaped twenty-first-century philosophy!

"Hehehe, hehehe..."

"Marx? Marx? Why are you laughing all of a sudden?"

Oops! Lost in my fantasies, I had let out a creepy chuckle right in front of Professor Freud. I was going to get myself diagnosed as an actual lunatic at this rate.

In any case, Professor Freud settled me onto a comfortable sofa and began asking various questions. Eager to make a good impression, I answered him with utmost sincerity.

"Could you tell me about the dreams you usually have?"

"Well... I often dream of being tied down and injected with a needle."

"And what about your family?"

"My father? Keep this a secret from him, but if you ask me, he's the one who needs therapy. Think about it. He's usually a mild-mannered man, but the moment the Gymnasium is mentioned, he flies into a rage."

"I see. And your mother?"

"My mother... she's probably the most sensible person in our house. Though she did throw a massive fit when I secretly ate pork instead of kosher food the other day. Aside from her obsession with Judaism, she's perfectly fine."

Freud diligently recorded everything I said. He puffed heavily on his cigar, lost in deep thought right next to a child. What would his diagnosis be? I swallowed hard, waiting for his next words.

"Hmm... You are fourteen, correct? Though you are still of school age, I believe you are mature enough to understand. You are quite grown-up compared to your peers."

"Is that so?"

"That is why I wish to speak with you directly."

After careful deliberation, Freud began to deliver his diagnosis, choosing his words with extreme caution.

"First of all, according to my research, the root of all mental illness lies in natural emotions being repressed by society, which then manifest as pathological symptoms. I call these repressed emotions the unconscious."

Oh, yes, yes. Excellent. Although The Interpretation of Dreams hadn't been published yet, he already had the basic concept of the unconscious down.

As Freud continued his psychoanalysis, I planned to casually drop a few future theories he hadn't discovered yet.

Alright, let's get this show on the road.

"Now, regarding your dream of being injected with a needle," Freud said. "That needle represents a phallus."

"...Excuse me?"

"The doctor symbolizes your father. Your violent tendencies stem from the repressed desire to have your father's phallus inserted into your body. Thus, by taking your father's phallus into your own..."

"What?!"

I was utterly speechless at Freud's insane drivel. My illusions of the great Sigmund Freud shattered into a million pieces, leaving me completely drained of energy.

"You exhibit a love-hate relationship toward your father," Freud continued. "You refuse to acknowledge this about yourself, which is why you display such violent—"

"Are you completely out of your mind?!"

"Ah, yes. Since you are clearly intelligent, let me add one more thing. Your agitated reaction is merely a defense mechanism, a reaction to having your unconscious desires exposed."

Well, at least he acknowledged my intelligence.

"So you're saying every single person who is afraid of needles is a homosexual who wants to commit incest with their father?!"

"It is natural to experience denial, but you must acknowledge and accept it. Only then can healing begin."

Hearing such absolute madness delivered in a calm, logical tone was driving me insane. But regardless of my dumbfounded expression, Freud pressed on.

In a hyper-masculine society like the Austro-Hungarian Empire, the moment I was branded a homosexual who fantasized about incest, my plans for changing history would be completely ruined. I'd have to flee to America immediately.

"I think you can stop coming here. I'd honestly prefer a lobotomy," I muttered.

"Of course you want to escape. That is because you cannot face your inner homosexuality, and so you are projecting it back onto your father."

"I said, stop it."

"But it is alright. You are a brave boy. Most fail to accept their father's phallus and develop severe psychosis. But you have accepted it with your entire being..."

"Hey!!!"

Ah, right. I had forgotten. This man was indeed the pioneer of dreams and the unconscious, but he was also a phallus-obsessed, dark-sided urologist.

Sigh, my life...

I needed to synthesize penicillin and nitrogen fertilizer as soon as possible! I was supposed to act like a hidden genius, casually dropping future knowledge like a classic alternate-history protagonist! Why did I keep running into these existential survival crises?

Being branded a homosexual in the nineteenth century was at least ten times worse than getting beaten at the Gymnasium. Not only would I be socially ostracized, but I could also be lynched to death in the streets.

The moment my imagination reached that point, a wave ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of pure hostility toward Freud surged within me.

I wasn't trying to invent penicillin and nitrogen fertilizer for the money. I wanted to become famous so I could secure a foothold in politics.

"A great chemist who showed extraordinary achievements from his youth and saved countless lives now seeks to save humanity once more in the political arena!"

The moment the label "Jewish homosexual" was attached to that carefully crafted image, it would be game over. Especially if a rising star like Freud went around claiming, "I successfully cured the Jewish homosexual, Marx Stahl!"

Instead of saving lives, Freud was practicing a dark art of destruction. To stop this dark-sided urologist, I resolved to rattle him.

"Mister. I have a question," I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠said.

"Yes?"

"Could your habit of constantly puffing on those cigars actually stem from a repressed, unconscious desire to do... something with a phallus using your mouth?"

"...A cigar is not always subject to such interpretations," Freud stammered, his composure slipping. "I simply smoke because my mouth feels empty."

"Ah. So because your mouth feels empty, you have a constant urge to put 'something' inside it?"

Freud's eyebrow, which had remained perfectly still throughout the session, twitched violently.

"That... is merely you projecting your own unconscious onto me. You are viewing me as a father ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠figure."

"You're Jewish too, aren't you, Mister? You must have faced a lot of discrimination. Did you become a doctor because you wanted to mentally manipulate others to compensate for having a powerless father?"

"You are not a medical professional. Do not make such reckless assumptions!"

"No, I'm right. You became a doctor out of hatred for your father, just like Oedipus. And you smoke so many cigars because you were never properly breastfed by your mother."

"What do you know?!" Freud roared.

"It's alright. You're a brave man, Mister. It's perfectly natural to resist aggressively when your unconscious is exposed."

In the end, we spent the remainder of the consultation locked in a fierce, screaming debate.

"I shall see you next time," Freud spat.

As expected, mirroring was the ultimate weapon in any argument. Having experienced psychoanalytic mirroring for the first time in his life, the phallus-obsessed Freud looked like he was about to burst a blood vessel.

With a face flushed crimson, he fled the house without even giving my parents a proper explanation.

"Whew... I survived!"

I had successfully driven that demon out of my house with sheer, desperate struggle! Success!

But then...

"Son."

"Yes?"

"What on earth did you say to Professor Freud to make him flee the house in such a crimson-faced rage?"

"Well, uh, that is..."

I couldn't exactly tell my father that Freud had claimed I wanted to accept my father's phallus with my entire being. My father was a man of high standing among intellectuals. If I spoke carelessly and Freud ended up permanently ostracized from the academic community because of it...

Is this also a butterfly effect?

This was madness. History could be altered by the smallest actions, triggering massive butterfly effects. I had no idea what would happen to the world if a giant like Freud vanished from history.

I quickly scrambled for an excuse.

"Haha, hahahaha... Professor Freud just really had to take a dump, and—urk!"

My father had always been strictly against corporal punishment. But at that moment, he had undoubtedly realized that for a crazy child, a good thrashing was the only cure.