by Dr Harper
“No!” I spun around. “Do you have any idea how humiliating it is to stand here in this orange jumpsuit, while you sit there judging me? And now you think I’m some sort of sexual predator—”
“I’m sorry!” He stood up too. “I made a mistake, okay? Truce?”
He stuck out his hand.
I stared at it for a moment, but did not shake it.
“Adam Driscoll,” I said flatly, turning to leave. “Figure it out.”
As I walked away from the table, I heard him mutter:
“Pleasant as ever, Elliot…”
I stuck up my middle finger and stormed away.
◆◆◆
The following day in the prison yard, I sat on the bleachers while Chase did pushups by my feet.
“Can you tell me more about the football team?” I asked.
“What do you wanna know?”
“Were you close with them?”
He switched to one arm and looked up at me. “Yeah, we were tight. Why?”
“Well, I heard a witness talked about hazing.”
Chase scoffed and shook his head.
“Was there any truth to it?” I asked. “I mean, you were a freshman recruit. Hazing is almost expected.”
“No,” he said. “Okay? Nobody hazed me.”
After a moment of consideration, I decided to persist. “Then why do you think the witness said it happened?”
Chase switched to planks.
“Jenkins was a faggot who wanted to fuck half the team,” he said. “Probably wanted to get in my pants.”
I didn’t flinch. “Chase, therapy only works if you’re honest with me.”
“Yo, I am being honest!” he said, dropping to the ground. “Why are you being a dick about it?”
“You asked me to build you a conscience,” I said. “I can’t do that if you’re lying. What kind of hazing was it? Drinking? Physical?… Sexual?”
His face went dark red.
“Fuck off, Doctor H.”
“Chase, there’s no shame in—”
“I said fuck off.” He stood up. “Leave me alone.”
“Hazing can leave long-lasting damage—”
He lunged forward and punched me in the face.
“FUCK OFF, FAGGOT!”
As he walked away, I touched my face and felt blood pouring from my nose.
I probably deserved that.
◆◆◆
I lay on my bed later in the evening and changed out the tissues in my nose.
I knew it was wrong to push Chase on a topic that clearly made him uncomfortable, but if he actually had a healthy childhood (as he claimed), this alleged hazing incident was the only clue to his sudden shift in behavior.
“Harper.”
I jumped at the sound of someone at our cell door.
Hopping off the bed, I looked through the bars and saw the same guard from the visitor center. Pickowitz, I think was his name.
“Yeah?”
He handed me a small brown paper bag. “This is for you.”
I frowned and accepted the package.
“And if you need anything in here, just let me know, okay?”
“Uh — okay…”
He gave me a thumbs up and walked away.
“Wow, VIP status…” Tony sat up from his bed. “Who paid off Pickowitz for you?”
“I have no idea,” I said, bringing the bag up to my bed.
I opened it and sprinkled a few items onto my sheets.
First was an OraQuick box — the HIV home test kit. Next was a Ziplock bag of pills. Upon further inspection, I quickly identified them as Truvada.
And finally, a note.
I unfolded it and immediately recognized Zach’s handwriting.
Elliot,
I know you’re pissed at me, but please just take the test and — if positive — use the pills to keep your viral load down.
If you need anything in there, Pickowitz will help you out.
I looked into Adam Driscoll. His file is locked, but I did some digging and found his ID linked to some heavily redacted government projects. I don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into, but please stay far away from this.
Driscoll works for the CIA.
PART THREE
“Chase, I’m sorry about yesterday.”
“Leave me alone,” he mumbled, sliding his tray down the lunch table.
I followed and sat down across from him.
“Listen, I don’t think you were hazed,” I said quickly. “And I think I can build you a conscience.”
His eyes lit up. “Yo, really?”
“Well, sort of,” I said. “I think you actually already have one. It’s just been buried deep down.”
He nodded seriously. “I bet that’s why I punch myself after eating people!”
“Exactly,” I said. “That’s the part of you that feels shame, remorse, and guilt. But you’re disconnected from it.”
He made a duck face. “Like a shoulder.”
“No… Not like a shoulder.” I stared at him. “Think of your body and emotions like a highway.”
“Body’s a highway. Got it.”
“Now, imagine there’s a huge crash — 20 car pileup — so the police block off the highway and re-route traffic off an earlier exit. The detour works, but it uses more gas and takes you through a shady part of town. Months later, the cops still won’t let you back on the highway. Don’t you want to know why?”
“Yeah, what’s taking them so long?”
“They can’t clean it up,” I said. “So they’re hoping you’ll keep taking the detour forever.”
“That’s bullshit!” He smacked the table. “I want to get back on the highway.”
“Chase, the thing you have to understand is that our bodies and minds don’t create a ‘detour’ unless we’ve experienced some pretty serious trauma. If we want to get back on the highway, we have to be ready to see the crash.”
He crossed his arms. “I can handle it.”
“Great,” I said. “I’d like to try an alternative therapy with you. It’s called Somatic Experiencing. It focuses on body sensations that arise from trauma, and I think it can help you get back on the highway.”
“That’s bomb.”
“Yeah, it’s pretty cool,” I said. “Now, since I don’t really have an office, are you comfortable doing it here?”
He shrugged. “Whatever.”
“Okay,” I said. “We’re going to experiment with entering the disregulated state.”
“The what?”
“The crash on the highway,” I corrected myself. “So in order to get there, I need to know what triggers the murders. How exactly did Coach Adam tell you to kill your victims?”
Chase looked down.
“It’s okay,” I said. “You can take your time.”
After a few moments, Chase mumbled: “Bulk up, skinny faggot.”
“Chase, come on. I’m trying to help you.”
“No, that’s what he says to me!” said Chase. “He points to the person I’m supposed to kill, and says bulk up, skinny faggot. Just don’t ever say those words around me, okay?”
“Understood.” I raised my eyebrows. “And how does it feel when he says it to you?”
He rolled his eyes. “It feels great, Doctor H.”
“Sorry, dumb question,” I said. “Can you describe any body sensations that come up when you think of that phrase?”
“I dunno,” he mumbled. “I’m not gonna start crying like some pussy, if that’s what you’re after.”
“Focus, Chase,” I said. “Close your eyes and do a body scan from the top down… Start with your head. How does it feel?”
He closed his eyes and shook his head. “It feels like a fucking head.”
“Now your neck,” I said.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Like a neck? Or a throat?”
“Good,” I said. “Heart?”
“Fuck, Doctor H!” He opened his eyes. “You’re annoying as
fuck, anyone ever told you that?”
“Yes, actually.” I nodded. “Now, please close your eyes and focus on your heart. Any unusual sensations?”
He sighed and closed his eyes again. After a few seconds, he shook his head.
“And now your stomach,” I said. “Anything there?”
He touched his stomach. “Hungry as usual.”
“Good,” I said. “Can you tell me more about this hunger feeling?”
“What, you never been hungry before?”
“I’d like to hear you describe it.”
He shook his head. “It feels — I dunno. Empty.”
There we go.
“Can you describe what emptiness feels like?” I asked.
He looked visibly irritated with my questions, but answered: “Like a… black hole. No matter how much I put in, it’s never enough.”
“There’s your highway crash,” I said with a smile. “You can open your eyes.”
He frowned. “I have a car crash in my stomach?”
“Yes, I’d guess that’s where the pain lives,” I said. “Do you want to go further?”
“Fuck yeah,” he said, lifting up his shirt and rubbing his abs. “Yoooo! Hello in there!”
Talking to the physical sensation actually wasn’t a bad idea… But a crowded lunch room was possibly the worst place to dive deeper into trauma. Then I remembered the guard — Pickowitz — had offered to help me.
“Chase,” I said, standing up. “I’m going to see if I can get us some privacy for the next part.”
“Why?” He made a duck face. “You wanna get in my pants?”
“Will you fucking stop with that?” I snapped. “Just because I’m gay doesn’t mean I’m attracted to you. Do you want to bang every woman you meet?”
“Well, only the hot ones—”
“Exactly. And I don’t think you’re hot. At all.”
He frowned and looked genuinely offended. “Then what do you want privacy for?”
“Because we’re going to explore what caused the highway crash,” I said. “When everything went empty.”
“I journaled through it all,” he said. “You think that would help?”
I stared at him incredulously. “You’re just telling me this now?”
“So it would help?”
“Yes, Chase…” I sighed and rubbed my eyes. “It would help.”
◆◆◆
That night, I sat in bed and read through hundreds of pages from Chase’s notebook.
Earlier entries painted the picture of a pretty typical college freshman — enthusiastic, slightly insecure, and eager to find a sense of belonging.
He met his girlfriend, Sara, through a 10am Intro to Sociology class.
He partied and drank like everyone else in college, but nothing out of the ordinary.
He joined the football team, and was quickly welcomed thanks to his skills on the field.
He built a strong bond with the football coach, who he described as a “second dad”.
Basically, he seemed like a promising young athlete who was on track to enjoy the ideal college experience.
But some time around his second semester, everything started to change.
April 21
Dinner at Coach Adam’s tonight. Whole team is gonna be there!
April 22
Blacked out last night. No idea what happened. I didn’t even drink that much.
April 24
Guys on the team are acting weird around me. Hope they get over it for playoffs next week.
April 27
Bombed final exams. Thought I did pretty well, but failed every single one. Going to lose my scholarship.
April 29
What the fuck is happening to my life. The guys are calling me a fag and sending around some picture. No one will show it to me.
April 30
Just kill me. During playoffs, people passed around a picture of me with some guy. Whole crowd was laughing. I swear I never did the shit in that picture.
May 1
Sara dumped me. I hate my fucking life. Everywhere I go on campus, people just laugh at me. Feels like I’m going insane. My mind won’t stop racing. My body hurts.
May 3
Someone sent the picture to my dad. He told me not to come home this summer. I seriously think I might be suicidal.
May 5
Coach Adam said I can stay with him. He’s the only person who’s still good to me.
May 14
Moved in with Coach Adam. He says he’ll try to get me back on the football team, but I’ve gotta bulk up. At this point I’ll do anything he says. I just want my life back.
June 19
I’ve started having blackouts. I think I might be doing some really bad shit. Coach Adam says it’s time to stop journaling for a while.
◆◆◆
The next day, Chase and I sat outside on an unusually chilly summer day.
“Chase, have you ever heard of Ted Kaczynski?”
“Who’s that?” he asked.
“The Unabomber,” I said. “He killed multiple people in the 80s with mail bombs.”
“Never heard of him.” He shrugged. “Why’s he important?”
I took a deep breath before continuing with my very far-fetched hypothesis.
“Before his murder spree, Kaczynski was the subject of a government experiment.”
He leaned forward excitedly. “Yo, like aliens and shit?”
“No,” I said. “A psychological experiment.”
He looked disappointed. “Oh.”
“It was actually quite serious,” I said. “A professor befriended him, and he was asked to share his most personal beliefs about morals, humans, and philosophy.”
Chase yawned. “You’re losing me, Doctor H.”
“Kaczynski trusted this professor, and formed a strong bond with him. The professor’s validation meant a great deal to him — almost like a parent.”
Chase snorted.
“But the experiment was all about stress and humiliation,” I continued. “So the professor eventually began tearing apart Kaczynski’s deepest beliefs and personality traits. Fellow peers and instructors relentlessly mocked him — taunting and screaming at him until he was reduced to tears and panic attacks.”
“That’s fucked up,” Chase mumbled. “But what does that have to do with the bomb shit?”
“Chase, it’s extremely painful to experience betrayal and abuse from the people we trust most,” I said. “Humans are social beings — we thrive on a sense of approval and belonging. But when we experience disgust and exile from others, that’s when the agonizing sensation of shame is born.”
He swallowed. “The highway crash?”
“Yes, exactly!” I exclaimed. “I think Coach Adam intentionally created that crash inside of you.”
“What the fuck? Why?”
“Because when you reduce someone to toxic shame, you destroy their core identity. Then you can create the detour around the crash, and design it in a way that suits you. It’s a form of mind control.”
“Why would he want to control my mind?”
“A friend of mine found links between Coach Adam and the CIA,” I said. “I think he was trying to groom you as a weapon — an asset. First, he gave you the world: popularity, success, and belonging. Then he manufactured public shame and humiliation, pushing away your entire support network. And finally, he stepped in as your savior. The process is actually a lot like an abusive relationship.”
“You think he made up that picture?”
I paused for a moment. “I think he drugged you and photographed you in a precarious situation. And then I think he distributed the picture at the game — and sent it to your father.”
Chase kicked a pebble on the ground.
“And when he tells you to bulk up—”
“Don’t!” said Chase.
“Sorry,” I said quickly. “When he gives you… the command to kill, I think it activates the old wounding
and humiliation. It messes up all of your brain chemicals and gives you this overwhelming compulsion to resolve the shame by doing whatever the savior says.”
“So how do I stop it!” Chase slammed his fists onto the bleachers. “I have to learn how to stop myself, before the new coach tells me to…”
He cleared his throat and looked down.
“Chase,” I leaned forward seriously. “I need you to tell me who your new coach is, and what they want you to do.”
He shook his head.
“Chase,” I repeated his name. “I know your killing command, and I would never use it against you. You can trust me. But this other person… They’re using you. Just like Coach Adam.”
“Yo, how the fuck do I know I can trust you, Doctor H? What if this is just another experiment!”
“Because, I would never use a psychological condition against you,” I said gently. “I’m trying to help you fight it.”
Before I could get another word out of him, we were interrupted by Pickowitz.
“Harper. Collins. Come with me.” Then he laughed. “Heh. Isn’t that a book or something?”
“It’s a publishing house,” I said.
“Well, come with me,” said Pickowitz. “Dr. Zhang wants to see you.”
I frowned. “Both of us?”
“Yep. Both of you.”
◆◆◆
At this point, the mere act of sitting in Dr. Zhang’s office gave me anxiety.
Chase and I sat on the couch across from her desk, waiting for her to say something. For at least a minute, all she did was gaze at us and smile.
But I had learned my lesson. I would never be the first to speak in her office.
“Mr. Collins,” she finally began. “The guards tell me that you’ve been spending a lot of time with Mr. Harper these days.”
He nervously began inspecting his bicep. “Yeah, and what’s it to you?”
“Well, it’s just that Mr. Harper has a worrisome reputation of trying to psychologically ‘treat’ inmates here,” she said. “And thus far, all of his ‘patients’ have ended up dead or seriously wounded.”
I bit my tongue, trying to remain silent.
“I’m just trying to keep you safe,” said Dr. Zhang with a smile. “You’re my patient, and I care very much for you.”
“Y—You do?” he asked.
“That’s right.” She nodded. “So I need you to tell me why you’re spending time with Mr. Harper. You haven’t been telling him about our little sessions, have you?”
