I'm a Therapist, and My Patient Is in Love With a Pedophile- 6 Patient Files From Prison

by Dr Harper

  “Look at you, going all red…” Don laughed. “Jesus, it’s like you’ve never fucked another dude before.”

  My heart raced as I tried to come up with a way to change the topic. “We need to—”

  “Holy shit.” He leaned forward. “You’re a virgin!”

  “Don—”

  “What, are you saving yourself for prison marriage?” he asked. “Fuck, Harper, I’m gonna teach you how to have fun.”

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a syringe.

  “No!” I whispered, looking around anxiously. “Put that away!”

  “Relax, Harper.”

  As I tried to shield us from the view of any guards, he prepared the needle and stuck it in his arm.

  He took a deep breath in, and then let out a loud moan of pleasure.

  “Now you.”

  He held out the syringe to me, and I quickly saw it was red with his blood.

  “No.” I shook my head, sliding a few inches away from him. “Absolutely not.”

  “Suit yourself.” He shrugged. “Purity princess.”

  “This isn’t about purity,” I said, trying to regain control of the conversation. “It’s about health and happiness. Don, don’t you think there’s a chance you’re using sex and drugs to escape from some deeper issues?”

  He frowned. “Like what?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “That’s why I’m here. To learn more about you and your life.”

  “Woo!” His entire body shivered. “Okay, what do you want to know? I’m an open book.”

  “Are your mom and dad still in the picture?”

  Therapy with an addict under the influence was about as effective as punching a brick wall, but at the very least I could try to understand how his current state of mind led to such reckless behavior.

  “They kicked me out when I was a teenager.”

  “Because of your sexuality?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” he said. “The tragic gay boy cliche.”

  “Did that rejection hurt?” I asked. “From the people who are supposed to love you unconditionally?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I didn’t have time to think much about it. Had to find housing, money, all that.”

  “That’s a lot to face at such a young age,” I said gently. “No wonder you never had a chance to process the rejection.”

  His eyes met mine for a few moments, frenzied and dilated. And then, to my horror, he stuck his hand down his pants.

  “What are you—”

  But before I could protest any further, he covered my mouth with his other hand.

  “I’m so fucking hot for you right now.”

  I squirmed to get away, but he was much stronger than me. I let out a muffled scream and desperately scanned the prison yard around us. Don’s cellmate was the only one paying us any attention. I stared at him, eyes pleading — but he turned away.

  “You want this…” Don whispered into my ear. “You want this.”

  And seconds later, that’s when I felt it.

  The sting of a needle in my arm.

  PART TWO

  I waited inside of the infirmary while the doctor ran some tests, anxiously tapping my foot against the ground.

  I tried to stay calm, reminding myself that the risk of contracting HIV — even through needle sharing — was relatively low. And I still didn’t feel any sort of high from the incident, which hopefully meant that it didn’t even make it into my bloodstream.

  Finally, the doctor walked back into the room.

  “I didn’t find any methamphetamines in the syringe,” he said. “In fact, the only substance in the tube was Mr. Halverson’s blood — filled to the brim.”

  “He injected me with his… blood?” I repeated.

  “It seems that way,” said the doctor. “Now, given that Mr. Halverson has a high viral load, this poses a significant risk for transmission.”

  My heart started to pound. “I thought the odds were less than 1%.”

  “That’s for sexual intercourse and needle sharing,” he said. “This is a lot more like a blood transfusion.”

  I swallowed. “And what are the rates for that?”

  “92%.”

  My whole body went numb and cold. It was some strange combination of helplessness, terror, and shame.

  I had seen friends go through this — the panicked calls after a drunken night of unprotected sex. I guess I just thought I was immune from the problem, given my… solitary lifestyle.

  My ears rang as the doctor’s voice droned on in the distance.

  “We need to get you started on post-exposure prophylaxis. If taken within 72 hours, it can effectively prevent HIV infection—”

  “I’m a gay psychiatrist,” I said impatiently, snapping back to reality. “I know what PEP is.”

  “I see…” He raised his eyebrows. “Well, if you’re comfortable with the treatment and potential side effects, I’d recommend we get started immediately.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Excellent,” he said, walking over to the door. “Now, because this involved a high-risk LGBTQ encounter, our psychiatrist will complete the evaluation and prescription.”

  “Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding—”

  But I didn’t even get a chance to finish my sentence, before I was interrupted by a familiar sound at the door.

  “Hmmm…”

  ◆◆◆

  “Mr. Harper,” she said. “I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”

  Dr. Zhang sat across from me in her office, holding two prescription bottles.

  I bit my tongue, determined to remain polite, since my life was — quite literally — in her hands.

  “Now…” She crossed her legs. “I just have a few questions before we get you started on treatment.”

  “Sure,” I said pleasantly. “Anything.”

  “That’s wonderful,” she said with a smile. “Now, in addition to PEP, you may be aware of a medication called PrEP which can protect you from future exposures. Do you plan to continue engaging in these high-risk activities?”

  “Oh,” I said with a laugh. “This wasn’t sex or drugs. He attacked me—”

  “Hmmm…”

  I took a deep breath and forced a smile. “Yes?”

  “Well…” She tilted her head. “I can’t help but wonder how you’ll ever get better, if you continue to view yourself as a victim of these events?”

  “I don’t see myself as a victim,” I protested. “It’s just what happened—”

  “Hmmm…”

  I took another deep breath, but this one felt much less relaxing. “Yes?”

  “Mr. Harper, you seem to find yourself in a lot of these situations where unfair things just happen to you.” She smiled sadly. “And at some point, I can’t help but wonder if it’s time to notice the common denominator?”

  I closed my eyes for a moment, then looked at the prescription bottles in her hands. That was all that mattered.

  “You’re right,” I said. “I tend to take on dangerous projects so I can play the hero. Then when it blows up in my face, I feel victimized and betrayed.”

  She gazed at me silently for a few seconds. I could hear her Buddha clock ticking from the wall as she tried to read my mind.

  Every tick was a reminder that PEP became less effective by the second.

  Tick. Tick.

  “Mr. Harper…” She took a sip from her Kombucha. “Could you tell me more about your affinity for younger men?”

  I accidentally let out another small laugh. “What?”

  “Well,” she said. “Between this STI from Don—”

  “He stabbed me with a needle.”

  “And your time with Sam in the broom closet—”

  “It was a grounding exercise!”

  “And your missing assistant…”

  I froze. “What did you say?”

  She smiled. “Your assistant. He was all over the news. Noah, right?”

  I gritt
ed my teeth.

  “Did you care for him?” she asked. “Or were you merely using him to satisfy your more… primal urges?”

  Unfortunately no amount of deep breathing seemed to help me relax anymore. But even as my heart began to race, those bottles in her hand managed to keep me from exploding.

  Tick. Tick.

  “I did care for him,” I said quietly. “And I still do.”

  She studied me for a moment. “That’s very nice to hear, Mr. Harper.”

  “Thanks,” I mumbled.

  She leaned forward and put the bottles on the coffee table between us.

  “Now,” she said. “As you know, every second counts with PEP. The sooner you take it, the better. The first 48 hours are most effective, but it has been shown to work up to 72 hours.”

  I let out a huge sigh of relief and leaned forward. “I’ll start right away.”

  “Hmmm…”

  I hesitated, hands just inches away from the pills. “Yes?”

  “Mr. Harper, we seem to have a funny situation.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “How is this funny?”

  “Well,” she said with a smile. “We both have something that the other person wants.”

  “What do you mean?” I said, heart pounding. “What do you want from me?”

  She tilted her head.

  Tick. Tick.

  I thought for a moment, then realized — Sam’s photo.

  I had hidden it somewhere safe. It was the only evidence of the possible pedophile ring. I couldn’t just give it back to her, especially if she was somehow involved.

  “I don’t have the photo,” I said. “I swear.”

  She smiled again. “Hmmm…”

  “Really, I don’t,” I said. “Please, you have to believe—”

  “Mr. Harper,” she interrupted me. “Assuming Noah is found some day, how do you think he would react to the news of your HIV status?”

  I bit my lip.

  “Surely, losing him can’t be worth a silly little photo.”

  I finally realized that this wasn’t a prescription. It was a negotiation. And now I had to make a choice between protecting my own health, and protecting a polaroid.

  Tick. Tick.

  My brain raced as it tried to analyze every possible outcome.

  Despite Dr. Zhang’s attempts to weaponize and stigmatize HIV, it was actually highly treatable these days. Millions of people lived normal, happy lives with it. But was it worth protecting a single piece of evidence? The truth was, I had no proof that the photo was evidence of anything. Maybe there really were hundreds of children in danger. Or maybe it was just paranoid ramblings from my cellmate.

  I listened intently as the inner debate carried on — heart versus mind.

  My heart held onto the possibility of kids being hurt, and the far-fetched hope of obtaining PEP from other inmates. But my brain made much more logical arguments. Why should I martyr myself for a photo? If there really was a pedophile ring, surely there would be more opportunities to find evidence down the line.

  Finally, I leaned forward and took the pills from the table.

  She smiled. “A good choice, Mr. Harper. Now, the photo?”

  I stood up, walked past her chair, and dropped the pills in her lap.

  “Mr. Harper…” she said, standing up. “Don’t be irrational. Without PEP, you’ll almost certainly be infected with HIV — and all for something as insignificant as a photo?”

  I turned to face her.

  “Here’s what I think.” I leaned in close, so our eyes were just inches apart. “In all my life, I’ve never seen someone so desperate for a polaroid that they threaten a person with a life-threatening illness. So by my estimates, the photo is pretty fucking significant.”

  Dr. Zhang stared back at me. No smile. No head tilt. No patronizing hum.

  I got the feeling I had just made a horrible mistake, but it was too late to turn back now. Heart racing, I stepped around her and knocked firmly on the door.

  As I waited for the guard, the uncomfortable silence in the room was broken only by the Buddha clock on her wall.

  Tick. Tick.

  PART THREE

  “I need your help.”

  I was surprised to see Don’s cellmate, Bernard, slide down next to me at the lunch table.

  “Yeah, like you helped me yesterday?” I grumbled.

  “Would you just listen to me?” said Bernard. “I’m his sponsor, and I think he’s in danger.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Sponsor, like for AA?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I’ve been sober for thirty-two years.”

  “Congratulations,” I said, loosening up a bit. “That’s really great.”

  Bernard was an older man, but he still looked like he could knock the crap out of most of the guys here.

  “The 12th Step is all about helping others achieve sobriety,” he said. “That’s why I took Don under my wing. But Jesus, that kid tests me.”

  “He’s resisting the step work?”

  “I’ve tried everything,” he said, frustrated. “I even requested our living arrangement — so I could be more involved in his recovery.”

  “You weren’t worried that he might try to infect you?”

  “No, I’m guided by God,” said Bernard simply. “And before I changed cells, I asked the doctor for some emergency meds — the ones you can take after an exposure. I carry ‘em with me all the time.”

  “You have PEP?” My eyes went wide.

  “Yeah, probably the same stuff they gave you.”

  I shook my head. “They didn’t give it to me.”

  “What?” he exclaimed. “Why the hell not?”

  “It’s a long story,” I said quickly. “Listen, can I borrow your meds? I promise, I’ll get you more. But I only have 48 hours left to start treatment — I already lost a day.”

  “Sure,” he said, reaching into his pocket. “Here.”

  My heart soared when I saw the two bottles. I had been desperately asking other inmates to help me, but HIV meds weren’t really the kind of drugs floating around the prison black market.

  “Thank you,” I said, sprinkling a pill from each bottle into my hand.

  Paranoid from Dr. Zhang’s last stunt, I studied both pills to ensure their authenticity. The larger blue oval pill was inscribed with Truvada’s signature “Gilead 701”. The other was a tiny circular yellow pill with “50” stamped on one side. It was Tivicay.

  A perfectly safe and effective PEP regimen.

  I let out a huge sigh of relief and swallowed the two pills with a swig of water.

  “Is it okay if I keep these?” I asked Bernard, holding up the bottles. “I’ve got to take them every day for a month, otherwise they won’t work.”

  “Be my guest,” he said. “Now, are you going to help me?”

  I looked up, remembering that everything in here was a negotiation.

  “Yes, of course,” I said. “What do you need?”

  “I’m with that kid every second of every day, and somehow he still manages to get high.” Bernard moved closer to me. “Someone in here is dealing to Don, and I’m going to stop them.”

  “I don’t know who,” I said quickly. “I swear if I did, I would tell you.”

  “I think you do know, Dr. Harper,” he said. “But you just don’t know that you know.”

  “What?” I screwed up my face. “What does that even mean?”

  “The other day, after that shit-show with Sam and Arthur, Don came back to our cell in a drug-induced frenzy. Rambling on about how he had to do something horrible, or his dealer would cut him off.”

  “Wait, his dealer told him to…?”

  “Prick you with a dirty needle,” said Bernard. “That’s right.”

  “What!” I said. “Who the hell would want that?”

  “That’s exactly what I want to know,” he said, lowering his voice. “Dr. Harper, do you have any enemies in here? Someone who could somehow… benefit… from you being inf
ected?”

  I thought for a moment, and then it finally all clicked.

  The attack. The PEP negotiation. The photo demands.

  This wasn’t some sort of an unlucky coincidence. It was an orchestrated plan.

  “Dr. Zhang,” I said quietly. “She’s the dealer.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “The psych doctor?”

  “Yes,” I said. “She’s had it out for me since the day I got here. And now she’s withholding PEP because she wants something from me.”

  “Christ…” he muttered. “I’ve heard stories about the woman, but I always thought they were urban legends.”

  We both sat there in silence for a while. Then he stood up from the table with his tray.

  “Wait, where are you going?” I asked.

  “To talk with Zhang.”

  “What?” I stood up too. “No, it’s too dangerous.”

  “Don’t worry.” He walked over to the trash. “I won’t mention you.”

  “No, I mean it’s dangerous for you!” I trailed after him. “You don’t want to get on her bad side.”

  He leaned against the garbage can and looked at me.

  “Dr. Harper, do you know the serenity prayer?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  He recited it for me anyway. “God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can—”

  “And the wisdom to know the difference,” I finished impatiently. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “In this case,” he said, “God has granted me courage, because this is something I can change. Someone is intentionally hindering my sponsee’s progress, and I have a chance to help him.”

  “But—”

  “Dr. Harper, I’ve been here a lot longer than you,” he said, taking his leave. “I can take care of myself.”

  As Bernard walked away, I bit my lip and got the sinking sensation that we’d never talk again.

  ◆◆◆

  In the evenings, Tony would work on his crossword puzzle while I wrote in my journal. It was a peaceful routine, and it gave us both a break from bickering about conspiracies.

  But tonight, our quiet time was interrupted by the blaring prison alarm.

  Tony and I both jumped from our beds and ran to the cell door as the inmates around us shouted and hollered.