Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.

<passage>:
Certainly I see things that aren't there and don't say what my voice says—but how can I prove that I don't have my health? When he began his talk with "You got your health, don't you?" it touched those spots inside me. That was when I did it. Why couldn't what he said have been "The best things in life are free, succeed, man"? No, he had to use that one line. You wouldn't blame me. Not if you believe me. The first thing I can remember, the start of all this, was when I was morning the bed would sit there dispassionately soiled and convict me and I was left there in the dark. Being four or five, I didn't know any better, so I thought Dad made it dark to add to my punishment. But I learned he didn't know the light lying. I stayed in the dark longer for lying about the light. Alone in the dark, I wouldn't have had it so bad if it wasn't for the He looked the way I did in the mirror. They did unpleasant things to him. Because they were real, I talked about them as if they were real, and I almost earned a bunk in the home for retarded children until I got smart enough to keep the beasts to myself. My mother hated me. I loved her, of course. I remember her smell mixed on my ninth birthday. The trouble came from the notes written in my My mother and father must have been glad when I was sent away to reform at night. There was reason for me to steal, if I could have got away with it. The myself, rolling sailors and the like. Who had the price of a bottle? Some skin-and-bones character I didn't know struggled out of his seat, amening. I could see he had a lot to be thankful for—somewhere he had scampering after water soup and stale bread. As soon as I got cleaned order such expensive food and leave such a large tip for the waiter and send one to the chef that they were going to think I was rich, and some "Hmm, executive material. Just the type we need. I beg your pardon, sir—" just like the razor-blade comic-strip ads in the old magazines that Frankie the Pig sells three for a quarter. wall. Crockery was ringing and men were slurping inside. No one had couldn't. It had to be a one. Who drops anything but a one into a Skid creased or worn. I knew what the trouble was, of course. I was in a monkey trap. The myself. Calm. inside like a chicken having its neck wrung. "This," Brother Partridge said, "is one of the most profound the preacher explained in wonderment. "Cold turkey," he corrected. "Are you scoffing at a miracle?" even when they aren't around. I should have known it would come to that." wasn't dumb enough to murder. Somebody, somewhere, would be a witness to even try anything but the little things. and a conscience." "I've got something better than a conscience," I told him. special about you, for your apprehension to come through miraculous intervention. But I can't imagine what." always get apprehended somehow, Brother," I said. "I'm pretty special." it was a twenty, and that was almost the same thing to me. I creased it We took a couple of camp chairs and I told him the story of my life, or most of it. It was hard work on an empty stomach happened to me when I thought back over my life. The same thing. "Remarkable," Partridge finally said when I got so hoarse I had to take a break. "One is almost— —reminded of Job. William, you are being punished for some great sin. Of that, I'm sure." "Punished for a sin? But, Brother, I've always had it like this, as long as I can remember. What kind of a sin could I have committed when I was fresh out of my crib?" "And you think I'm being punished for something I did in a previous He looked at me in disbelief. "What else could it be?" bad in this "William, if you atone for this sin, perhaps the horde of locusts will It wasn't much of a chance, but I was unused to having any at all. I shook off the dizziness of it. "By the Lord Harry, Brother, I'm going "Perhaps this will help in your atonement," he said. pretty sure he hadn't noticed it was a twenty. And then the bill seemed to lie there, heavy, a lead weight. It would You know how it is. Money you haven't earned doesn't seem real to you. It was all an accident, but killing somebody is reason enough to get punished. It didn't have to be a sin in some previous life, you see. "What do you do, Jack?" the fatter one asked. "Application?" They sighed. I think they hated to do it, but I was bucking the system. beating. That's one thing I knew. There was a big man in a heavy wool overcoat and gray homburg spread on a damp centerfold from the News brains out. I suppose I was to blame anyway. If I hadn't been alive, if I hadn't been there to get beaten up, it wouldn't have happened. I could see the point in making me suffer for it. There was a lot to be said for looking at it like that. But there was nothing to be said for telling Brother Partridge about the accident, or murder, or whatever had to eat since the day before, it enervated me. few grains of white stuff. But he managed to hold still enough to keep from spilling more from the spoon. The librarian at the main desk looked sympathetically hostile, or hostilely sympathetic. "I didn't want to see the ," I said, fast. "Don't you have any News I heard my voice say, "A pleasure. What about after work?" I didn't say it, but I was used to my voice independently saying things. Her neck got to flaming, but she walked stiffly ahead. She didn't say anything. She must be awful mad, I decided. But then I got News and left me alone with It didn't take me long to find the story. The victim was a big man, that they had paid a lot of money for. I remembered Fredric March's double-breasted in Executive Suite while Walter Pidgeon and the rest wore Ivy Leagues. Maybe I would look like an eccentric executive. countermen, "give me a Milwaukee beer." It was cold and bitter. All beer is bitter, no matter what they say on It felt like another, but I checked myself. I needed a clear head. feeling of words in my throat. It just came out of the air the way it dead behind the store last night. His skull had been crushed by a vicious beating with a heavy implement, Coroner McClain announced in difficulties.... I ignored the devils and concentrated on reading the withered, washed-out political posters on the telephone poles. My neck ached from holding it so stiff, staring out through the glass. More than that, I little human being of some sort. eyebrow. They couldn't do anything worse to the small man than they had done to the young boy. It was sort of nostalgic watching them, but began to dose. The shrieks woke me up. For the first time, I could hear the shrieks of the monster's victim and listen to their obscene droolings. For the very first time in my life. Always before it had been all pantomime, like Charlie Chaplin. Now I heard the sounds of it all. They say it's a bad sign when you start hearing voices. I nearly panicked, but I held myself in the seat and forced myself to be rational about it. My own voice was always saying things could hear but which I didn't say. It wasn't any worse to only one who could hear other things I never said. I was as sane as I ever was. There was no doubt about that. But a new thought suddenly impressed itself on me. Whatever was punishing me for my sin was determined that I turn back

<question>:
What affliction is the narrator most likely suffering from?

<options>:
A multiple personality disorder
B bipolar disorder
C antisocial personality disorder
D paranoid schizophrenia

<answer>:

D