by Dr Harper
I’m a Therapist, and My Patient is In Love with a Pedophile
6 Patient Files From Prison
Dr. Harper
Copyright
This is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales,
and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2019 Dr. Harper
Book Cover Design by ebooklaunch.com
Story Illustrations: Sachi Amanze (Insta: @soliviaam)
Final Photo: Sachi Amanze
All rights reserved.
Dedication
For my two wonderful beta readers, who rated this book one A+ and one vomit emoji.
The Prison Files
In this folder, I have shared six of my patient files from prison.
Every file is connected by a company retreat from my past. I have scattered my notes about this unsettling day throughout the book. Hopefully you’ll connect the dots faster than I did.
I must warn you, prison was more brutal than I expected. Yes, the inmates were manipulative and dangerous — but I also encountered a monster in myself.
By the end of these files, you will know my greatest secret and my greatest shame.
You will learn the worst thing I have ever done.
You’re Invited to the Dr. Harper Therapy Company Retreat
Ready for some beach therapy? Join us for a fun day of waves, sand castles, and veggie burgers. Be sure to pack a bathing suit! Please RSVP by end of business week.
I put down the flyer and glanced at my assistant, Noah.
“What is this?”
“Our first company retreat!” he said eagerly. “Lots of places do it. It’s a way for employees to bond outside of the office.”
“No, I’m familiar with the concept,” I said. “But — we’re the only two employees.”
“Well, yeah!” he said, cheeks going pink. “But bonding is important for small businesses too. Here, I got us some corporate gifts for the big day.”
He tried to empty his bag on my desk but accidentally dumped most of it on the floor.
“Noah, this is—”
“SPF 80!” he said, scrambling to pick up bottles of sunscreen and drugstore sunglasses. “They say it doesn’t make any difference after SPF 30, but my skin is pretty sensitive, and I feel like it can’t hurt to go higher, you know?”
“Noah—”
He looked up from the ground with an anxious smile, beach items falling from his arms.
“Yeah, doc?”
I sighed, trying to ignore his excitement about the idea. But once again, I found the words coming out of my mouth in stark disagreement with my better judgment.
“It sounds… fun. Thanks for organizing it.”
His eyes lit up. “Really?”
“Sure,” I said. “But it’s almost 9am. I need to get ready for our patients.”
“Oh, right, of course!” he said, rushing to the doorway. Then he turned around. “Wait, just one more thing.”
I looked up from my notebook. “Yes…?”
“Can you RSVP—” He hurried back over and put the flyer back on my desk. “For planning purposes.”
I glared at him. “Are you serious?”
He held out a pen to me.
I rolled my eyes, grabbed the pen, and circled:
SHORE!
◆◆◆
We found a small break in the sea of people and set down our chairs.
I reached into my bag and pulled out a book, but I wasn’t even able to get past the first page before Noah stood up and bellowed:
“WELCOME TO OUR FIRST ANNUAL—”
He spun around dramatically and accidentally kicked sand in my face.
“Oh, sorry!” He handed me his towel and lowered his voice. “Welcome to our first annual company retreat—”
“Wait, there are going to be more of these?” I said, wiping the sand from my mouth.
“Well, only if you like this one,” he said quickly, flipping through some pages on his clipboard. “And I’m sure you will, because we have a super fun day ahead of us! Our first activity is the ocean plunge — to wake us up for the morning!”
“Noah, we just got here…” I said. “What if we just take a few minutes to settle in?”
“Well, we have a full schedule…” he said. “But I guess the sunscreen will need to set for fifteen minutes anyway. Darn, I didn’t plan for that.”
And then, to my great discomfort, he took off his shirt and handed me the sunscreen.
“Could you get my back?”
For some reason, my heart started to race — and my stomach lurched. What was wrong with me? This was a beach. That’s what people do at the beach.
I took the sunscreen and averted my eyes as I hurriedly applied the lotion, trying to ignore every part of his body that I touched.
“All set,” I mumbled.
When I opened my eyes, I saw that half of his back was covered in white.
“Thanks!” he said, twisting and bending as he rubbed the rest into his chest and legs. “Want me to do you?”
I choked. “No!”
His eyebrows raised in concern. “You okay, doc?”
“Yes, sorry,” I said, clearing my throat. “I’m feeling a bit car sick from the trip. I think I’m just going to read today.”
He frowned. “You’re not going to swim?”
“No,” I said, staring intently at the sand by my feet. “But you go ahead.”
He shrugged, put the sunscreen down, and ran toward the water.
As he disappeared into the waves, I let out a nervous, shaky breath.
This was definitely going to be our last company retreat.
◆◆◆
For the rest of the day, we built sand castles, tossed frisbees, flew kites, and played a couple of games that Noah invented. My favorite was “Ocean Wars”, where we had to dig a hole near the rising tide, and continually protect ourselves against the waves with walls of sand.
The ocean eventually defeated us, but we put up a pretty good fight.
By the time the sun started to set, I think I was actually having… fun. The whole retreat was also showcasing a lot of Noah’s strengths that I had never seen (or noticed) in the office — especially his creativity and imagination. Kids were constantly coming up to us and asking to join in his games.
As we wandered back to our spots, I realized most of the beachgoers had cleared out.
“Looks like a storm is coming,” I said, pointing to the dark clouds rolling in across the sea. “Ready to head back to the office?”
“We have to stay for the sunset and tell scary stories!” he protested. “It’s the last item on the agenda.”
“Noah, it’s going to start pouring—”
“What if we move our stuff under the pier?” he said quickly, folding our chairs. “That way nothing gets wet.”
I sighed and helped him pack up our things. We walked to the opposite side of the beach, which was now completely deserted, and made our way under the pier.
Moments later, there was a low rumble of thunder as rain began falling to the dock above us.
We spent the next hour or so telling scary stories, waiting for the storm to pass, but the rain was unrelenting. If there was ever a sunset, we didn’t get to see it.
It was my turn to tell a story, but I’m not
good at stuff like that, so I was basically just copying the plot of The Shining.
“And then, with his family hiding in the other room, he broke down the door with an axe—”
“Oh my god!” Noah shouted, lurching backwards.
“Oh, come on,” I said. “It wasn’t that scary.”
But Noah wasn’t looking at me.
He was looking behind me.
I spun around and jumped when I saw a young boy standing just inches away.
“Hey…” I said nervously. “You lost, little guy?”
The boy didn’t answer, and his eyes were shut tight.
“Come on, let’s get you back to your parents.”
He just stood there, water dripping on him from the dock above.
There was a sudden flash of lightning, and that’s when I saw an eerie message illuminated across the boy’s shirt:
No See.
No Talk.
No Police.
Pedophile Love
PART ONE
As I watched Arthur caress Sam’s forearm, I shot them a glance — one that probably explained why half of my Yelp reviews described me as a ‘judgmental jackass’.
“I know what you’re thinking,” said Arthur, who was at least three times older than Sam. “But I don’t hurt kids anymore. I’m a reformed man now.”
“Reformed?”
“That’s right,” he nodded proudly. “My spiritual guides helped me clear unprocessed energy in my sacral chakra. That’s what was responsible for my dark urges.”
“Oh, good…” I muttered. And here I was, worried that this would be another cliche Christian redemption story. But a New Age pedophile? That was… different.
“Sam, how old are you?” I asked.
“Eighteen,” he said anxiously. “But I’m an old soul, you know? Other guys my age are into partying and stuff, but I like to drink tea and read.”
“Oh, you drink tea?” I repeated. “Well, that changes everything.”
Arthur looked at Sam, and then back to me.
“We were told that you work with… unique patients,” said Arthur. “And we have a unique situation. But you’re not—”
“What do you want me to say?” I interrupted him, putting my notebook away. “He’s eighteen. You’re — 100 or whatever. You’re both consenting adults, you can do what you want.”
“That’s the problem!” said Arthur. “I don’t know if he’s consenting. And consent is very important to me now.”
I slowly put my notebook down and looked back at them.
“How can you not know if he’s consenting?” I asked.
“He has a disease,” said Arthur.
“It’s not a disease!” Sam corrected him. “It’s a mental illness.”
“I guess that’s where we disagree,” said Arthur. “I view all mental problems as a disease of the spirit. I’ve done some energy work with Sam, and I sense a major blockage around his heart. Forgiveness is the key to opening the heart.”
“Let me stop you right there,” I said. “I’m a spiritual person too. And you know what I’ve found?”
Arthur looked at me, waiting for an answer.
“Abusive people love to use spirituality and forgiveness to manipulate their victims into accepting more abuse.”
“That’s not—”
“It’s pretty clever, actually,” I continued. “You can mistreat someone, and then make them feel worse by guilt-tripping and shaming them for the perfectly valid anger they carry. But real forgiveness does not require reconciliation or contact of any kind.”
“I don’t—”
“I’m done speaking with you,” I said flatly, turning to face Sam. “Sam, have you been formally diagnosed with a mental illness?”
Arthur sunk bank into his chair and Sam nodded.
“Dissociative Identity Disorder,” he said.
I raised my eyebrows and leaned forward. I had guessed this diagnosis for many of my past patients, and I had always been wrong.
“Are you receiving treatment here in the prison?” I asked.
I forgot to mention that — yeah, I’m in prison.
My patients got me thrown in here a while back. It took me a few months to adjust to my new life, but I’ve found my niche as the unofficial “prison psych”. During lunch break, I hold sessions with inmates and help them sort through their problems. I already have a waiting list.
The problem is, the actual prison psychiatrist hates me. I’ve never even met or seen the woman, but she’s already complained to the warden twice. Something about ethics.
“Yes, I’m being treated by Dr. Zhang.”
“Look,” I sighed. “I don’t want to step on any toes here…”
“Please,” Sam pleaded. “She just gives me pills and sends me away.”
“Pills?” I said. “Anti-psychotics aren’t typically recommended for DID.”
“They’re antidepressants and nightmare pills, for my PTSD.”
I could already feel my analytical brain bursting with excitement. Sam had a co-morbid case of PTSD and DID, and something in him that felt attracted to a deeply dangerous man. This had to be the most interesting couple’s therapy session of my life. Was I really willing to lose that, in order to keep the peace with some other therapist?
I bit my lip, and then spoke again.
“Can you tell me more about this consent issue?”
Sam nodded with relief. Arthur smiled too.
“I love him” said Sam, gazing into Arthur’s eyes. “He’s kind. He treats me well. He listens. He’s sensual and passionate.”
Arthur began rubbing Sam’s arm again. They reminded me of newlyweds.
“So you two have… been together… physically?”
“Yeah, tons of times,” said Sam.
“And you explicitly consented to those activities?”
“Yeah!” said Sam. “They were awesome.”
“I’m sorry.” I frowned. “I guess I’m just confused about the issue of consent.”
“He changes,” said Arthur.
Sam’s ears went red and he looked down.
“What do you mean by ‘changes’?”
“His disease,” said Arthur darkly. “His other personality.”
“We actually use the term alter instead of personality,” I said. “So you’re saying, you don’t like this alter?”
“No, you’ve got it backwards.” Arthur shook his head. “The alter doesn’t like me.”
Sam’s eyes watered with tears and he leaned into Arthur’s arms. “I love you… I love you…” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”
“There’s nothing to apologize for,” I said, growing more and more interested in their situation by the second. “Are there any particular events or activities that trigger the alter switching?”
“Yes,” Arthur nodded. “His secret envelope.”
“His secret… envelope?”
Sam looked at Arthur uncertainly.
“Go on,” said Arthur encouragingly. “You can show him. I’ll be here for you the whole time.”
Sam nodded, reached into his pockets, and pulled out an envelope with no label.
“I have no idea what’s in it,” said Arthur. “He keeps it on him everywhere he goes. Refuses to show it to me — or anyone else.”
“I can’t remember what’s in it,” said Sam quietly. “All I know is that I’m the only person who’s ever supposed to look.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “But maybe if you shared it with me, I could—”
“No. Only me,” said Sam, carefully opening the envelope. “Just, please don’t listen to anything I say after this, okay?”
“Actually,” I said hurriedly, realizing what was about to happen. “I’d really advise against triggering yourself in the middle of lunch—”
But before the words finished coming out of my mouth, Sam had opened the envelope and was staring wide-eyed at a polaroid photo.
At first, nothing happened.
But then Sa
m’s pupils dilated into a look of pure terror.
“DON’T TOUCH ME!”
“It’s okay, baby,” Arthur rubbed his back. “I’m here for you—”
“DON’T!” Sam lurched away from him. “YOU’RE A BAD MAN!”
A few of the nearby inmates laughed, and the guards started walking our way.
“Let’s all calm down,” I whispered urgently. “Sam, can you just hand me the envelope?”
“PLEASE, HELP ME!” Sam begged, eyes streaming with tears. His face somehow looked younger, like a frightened child. “Help me.”
Arthur tried one more time to comfort him, but Sam spat in his face and sprinted away, screaming as shoved the envelope into his pocket.
The guards chased him and tackled him to the ground.
“Do you see now?” said Arthur, standing up from the table. “I don’t know which alter to believe — Does he love me? Does he fear me? Does he even consent to our relationship?”
At a loss for words, all I could do was stare as Arthur ran off to help Sam.
Five minutes ago, consent seemed like such a simple thing — yes or no. But what about a traumatized brain, where one part consents and another does not?
Were both alters speaking for Sam? Or was one of them more valid than the other?
Unfortunately, the answer seemed to live in Sam’s pocket.
“I guess that’s why they say it’s never a good idea to get back together with your ex.”
My cellmate, Tony, took a seat next to me at the lunch table.
“Ex?” I said. “What are you talking about?”
Tony adjusted his arm sling, even though his arm wasn’t broken. He claimed it blocked mind-controlling chem trails from the sky.
“Arthur and Sam.”
“What about them?” I pressed. “Did they have some sort of relationship before this?”
“Well,” he said through a full mouth. “I wouldn’t exactly call it a relationship.”
“Why not?”
He looked up from his tray and raised his eyebrows.
