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

by Dr Harper

  Noah blushed.

  As the waves came crashing in around us, he moved a bit closer to me.

  “Doc, can I ask you something?”

  My heart churned. I knew what was coming, and it wasn’t a discussion I was ready to have.

  I cleared my throat. “Not today, Noah.”

  He winced, nodded, and took a small step away from me.

  “Come on, let’s pack our things,” I said. “It’s time to go home.”

  Human Trafficking

  PART ONE

  I fumbled with the key and unlocked Dr. Zhang’s desk drawer.

  Inside, I found various patient files, along with a folder full of polaroids.

  I took a quick glance, but had to look away almost immediately. Inside was the photo of Sam, along with hundreds of other horrifying pictures. I didn’t have the time or stomach to look through them all. So instead, I grabbed everything and shoved it inside my pants.

  Then I locked the desk drawer, kicked the key under her desk, and hurried back to the couch.

  “Mr. Harper…”

  I jumped as Dr. Zhang entered the room, holding some ice to her nose.

  “Needless to say, you’ve been a horrible nuisance to my operation here,” she said. “You’ve made it clear that you won’t cease with your relentless disruption, and so I’ve put in a recommendation for your transfer.”

  “You’re transferring me?”

  “Yes,” she said. “You’ll be moved tomorrow morning. Pickowitz will escort you back to your cell to gather your things.”

  “Okay.” I stood up and walked to the door.

  “And Mr. Harper?”

  “Yes?”

  She tilted her head. “If you’re thinking of… talking… about what you learned in this prison, I would seriously reconsider. Your life in the next prison can be very good, or very bad, depending on my request.”

  I nodded. “I don’t care anymore. I just want to get the hell out of here.”

  She gave me one last smile. “That’s very good to hear, Mr. Harper.”

  I knocked on the door and Pickowitz walked me back to my cell.

  As he locked the cell door behind him, I ran over to the desk, reached into my pants, and began organizing everything into folders. Then I hurried back to the door and whispered: “Pickowitz!”

  He turned back and said, “Yeah?”

  I took a deep breath.

  “My friend, Zach. Is he paying you to help me out?”

  Pickowitz gave me a wink. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Okay, good.”

  I shoved a manilla folder through the bars.

  “What’s this?” he asked, taking it.

  “An important secret,” I said. “If you don’t believe me, look inside yourself. But don’t show anyone else. Not until I’m back.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Back from where?”

  I looked him in the eye. “Trust me.”

  He nodded and put the folder in his shirt.

  As he walked away, I let out a sigh of relief and went back to the desk.

  Now, all I needed was a bit of good luck.

  ◆◆◆

  “Where are the photos, Mr. Harper?”

  Dr. Zhang stood at my cell door with a smile, but she did not seem her usual calm self.

  I walked slowly to the door to face her.

  “I gave them to someone who will send them to the FBI if I don’t check in every hour, on the hour.”

  It was a bit of an exaggeration, but she didn’t need to know that.

  She tilted her head stiffly. “Mr. Harper, I can’t help but wonder—”

  “No,” I interrupted her. “I’m calling the shots now. You’re not in control anymore.”

  She pursed her lips. “What do you want?”

  “I hear you take your favorite inmates on field trips,” I said. “Let’s go for one now.”

  Her eyes met mine. I could practically see the gears spinning in her brain as she tried to manipulate the situation. “I can’t make that happen right now, but if you’d like to wait—”

  “Your fingerprints were all over those photos, weren’t they?” I said. “What’s the charge for possession of child pornography? How about child sex slavery?”

  She glared at me.

  “We’re leaving now,” I said. “Call a guard and escort me from my cell.”

  Her smile faded completely. She waited a few seconds, and then she did as I said.

  Within minutes, we were walking down the halls to the building’s exit.

  “Elliot Harper,” she said to the guards at the front gates. “He’s joining me for a mental health retreat.”

  “Of course, Dr. Zhang.”

  It was incredible how everyone at this prison just did what she said. But it wasn’t surprising, given the political figures and lawmakers in her collection of photos.

  As we stepped past the walls into the cool night air, I looked up at the stars and my heart lit up. I hadn’t seen the stars since I got here.

  “This way.”

  I followed Dr. Zhang to her car and stepped into the passenger side.

  Neither of us spoke during the extremely awkward car ride. We drove about ten minutes, before she pulled off to a side road and parked in an empty lot next to an eighteen wheeler.

  “Where are we?” I said. “I want to see where you keep the kids.”

  She glared at me. “This is where I keep them.”

  My eyes went wide as I saw the text on the side of the truck:

  Glade Farm Milk

  “You keep them in a truck?”

  I was expecting some sort of abandoned warehouse, or an underground bunker.

  “For transport,” she said, getting out of the car. “We deliver them to the clients.”

  “Jesus,” I muttered. “Like some fucked up version of Prime.”

  She checked her phone briefly and I could have sworn I saw her smile, but then she led me to the truck and unlocked the freight container.

  I hopped in after her.

  Inside, both sides were lined with two levels of small covered cages, at least fifty in total. It looked like some sort of animal shelter.

  My heart sank. “Are they… Are they in there?”

  “Yes,” said Dr. Zhang, glancing at her watch. “They’re currently sedated. Now, what do you want?”

  “I want you to drive the truck to my friend’s house,” I said.

  She scoffed. “What?”

  “Here’s the address,” I said, shoving a piece of paper at her. “Let’s go, now.”

  “Mr. Harper…”

  “It’s Doctor Harper.”

  She gave me a forced smile. “Dr. Harper… What exactly is your friend going to do? Why not just call the police?”

  I laughed. “Nice try. I know about your police connections. We’re going to his house. Now.”

  She gave me a curt nod.

  But as we returned to the back of the truck, I heard another car pull up.

  “Who is that?” I demanded.

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  “Bullshit,” I said. “Who the hell is that? Did you call someone?”

  But my question was quickly answered when Pickowitz emerged in the cargo container with us, carrying the manilla folder.

  Dr. Zhang was beaming.

  “Mr. Harper… I believe you’ve met Todd Pickowitz. In fact, the two of you were neighbors in solitary. As I’m sure you learned, he has a very unique skillset when it comes to mirroring identities.”

  I groaned.

  “That’s right,” she said triumphantly. “You gave the photos to my most loyal colleague. Please come along and give me the folder.”

  Pickowitz nodded and walked over, handing the folder to her.

  She greedily tore it open, and then frowned.

  “What is this?” she said, flipping through torn-out pages of a notebook. “Pickowitz, these aren’t the photos. They’re journal entries from that Zombie
kid — Chase Collins.”

  “Yo, that’s what Doctor H told me to read…” said Pickowitz in Chase’s voice.

  Dr. Zhang looked at him in confusion. “What are you doing? Why are you talking like that?”

  I stepped forward. “I know who Pickowitz is.”

  She turned to me and frowned. “How?”

  “A long time ago, I met one of your victims,” I said. “A little boy named James. And he described a ‘minty man’ who stole personalities.”

  She scoffed. “So what?”

  Pickowitz smelled his armpits. “Yo, I do smell minty!”

  “He reeks of menthol,” I said. “I could smell it from my cell.”

  “So you turned him into an idiotic college jock,” Dr. Zhang laughed at me. “Good for you. Pickowitz — or Chase — whoever the fuck you are. Search Mr. Harper for the photos.”

  I took a deep breath.

  “Dr. Zhang, you should be more careful about the tricks you teach to monsters.”

  She gave me a puzzled look, and then her eyes went wide.

  But she was too late.

  I pointed my finger at Dr. Zhang, and shouted to Pickowitz: “BULK UP, SKINNY FAGGOT.”

  “No!” Dr. Zhang shrieked.

  Pickowitz lunged forward and bit her in the neck.

  She let out a scream and fell to the ground as Pickowitz began attacking her torso.

  I knelt down to her level and watched as blood spurted from her neck.

  “Help…” she choked. “You’re not a murderer.”

  I held her hand in mine, because nobody should pass onto the next life alone.

  I saw the panic in her eyes — the panic of a person who knew they were going to die.

  “You’re a protector! You see the good in others. You believe in redemption.”

  For the next several minutes, Pickowitz continued to tear her apart and I listened as she desperately spewed various methods of manipulation to garner my sympathy.

  I did not respond.

  Instead, I simply waited and watched as she bled out.

  ◆◆◆

  As Pickowitz fed on Dr. Zhang’s corpse, I hit him in the skull with a rock by one of the cages. He fell to the ground, writhing and groaning. I leaned forward and fastened his hands behind his back with some rope. Then I tied his legs together as well.

  “Sorry,” I muttered. “When you get back to prison, read up on mindfulness. Learn to become comfortable with that empty feeling, rather than trying to fill the void. Eventually, it will reveal its truth to you, and you will be free of this miserable addiction.”

  He continued moaning as I rolled him toward the back of the truck. I hopped off and carried him over to the side of the road.

  I had just used a person’s mental illness against them, which put me on the same level as Zhang, but there was no turning back now. So I jumped back up to the bed of the truck and pushed Zhang over the edge.

  Her mutilated body hit the pavement with a sickening crack.

  And finally, I held my breath and prepared myself for the worst part.

  I turned to the dozens of cages around me and began ripping the curtains open.

  What I saw will haunt my dreams for the rest of my life.

  Young boys, some naked, some barely clothed — caged like dogs, surrounded by filth and feces. Not even enough space to stand up. All of them seemed to be sedated.

  I kept tearing away the curtains as my heart screamed in agony.

  And finally, I found James.

  Dirty, malnourished, and alone.

  So alone.

  We had every chance to save him from this living hell, and instead we returned him to his abusers.

  Tears welled in my eyes, and I suddenly felt the overwhelming urge to throw up.

  I bolted out the back of the truck and went into the woods.

  I needed to run — to sprint. Anything to release the unbearable anxiety gnawing at my core.

  And so I ran.

  I ran through the woods, and I screamed.

  I screamed every curse word I could think of. The sounds came deep from within my soul. Anguish, heartbreak, and rage.

  So much rage.

  What kind of God could let children go through this kind of torture and humiliation?

  “FUCK YOU!” I screamed into the sky, tears streaming down my face. “FUCK YOU!”

  I tripped over a root and fell down at the base of a tree.

  I tried to scream again, but instead I vomited all over the ground.

  As I laid there panting — alone in the woods — I looked up at the night sky one last time.

  The constellations sparkled, but I could not see beautiful things anymore.

  PART TWO

  Forgotten Children, Forgotten Man

  Zach Johnson is an award-winning investigative journalist with The Sun. After breaking the Glade Farm story last month, hundreds of high-profile individuals have been arrested. Johnson will detail the entire investigation in a major book deal coming this fall.

  You know the Glade Farm victims.

  You’ve seen their faces. You’ve learned of their unimaginable trauma. You’ve seen them reunited with their families. You’ve heard many of their harrowing stories.

  You know their abusers.

  You’ve seen billionaires, congressmen, and celebrities handcuffed on live television. You’ve seen their attempts to circumvent justice with money. You’ve seen those attempts fail.

  You know the paper that broke the story.

  You’ve seen the front-page Sunday exposé that shook a country. You’ve seen us publish the names of every single perpetrator, despite repeated attempts to silence us.

  But you still don’t know the man who unraveled it all.

  One month ago, a prisoner by the name of Dr. Elliot Harper approached me with concerns about a child sex-trafficking ring. He told me that prison inmates and staff were using criminal connections to abuse hundreds of boys. He told me that he had been given a life-threatening illness for trying to expose the conspiracy.

  I dismissed his story.

  His outlandish claims of a pedophile ring reminded me of his outlandish claims of his own innocence.

  One year ago, Elliot was given a life sentence for kidnapping, torture, and attempted murder. He vehemently denied those accusations, insisting that he was framed by a cult.

  Like the rest of the world, I dismissed his story.

  But when dozens of boys appeared on my doorstep in the middle of the night, I realized I had made not one — but two — horrible mistakes.

  If every single one of Elliot’s bizarre claims of sex trafficking turned out to be true, what did that mean about his bizarre claims of innocence?

  And so, over the past month, I set out to investigate those claims.

  What I have found will shock you, just as the Glade Farm story shocked you.

  Imagine a deep-web cult that kidnaps and brainwashes homeless people, forcing them to play the role of father, mother, and child for false families.

  I have found evidence of this cult, including a homeless father and his daughter who were rescued from their false families.

  They were rescued by Dr. Elliot Harper.

  In the coming weeks, I will share the findings of my investigation.

  I cannot change the court’s ruling on Elliot, but I can try to change the court of public opinion. Perhaps once you’ve seen the evidence yourself, you’ll start to reconsider your assumptions — just as I did mine.

  It is my hope that someday Elliot will feel safe turning himself in, so that he may receive a fair trial. I am confident that he will be exonerated.

  But until that point, I understand why he must hide.

  I have known Elliot since we were young boys. He’s always been a bossy know-it-all — unyieldingly stubborn, and relentlessly rude too. Let’s not forget, this is a man who delivered a truckload of traumatized children at my doorstep with a sticky note that read: “I told you so, fuckface.”

&nb
sp; But he is a good man. A chaotic good — for sure — but good nonetheless.

  Elliot, I hope you will accept my most sincere apology.

  I know you enjoy horoscopes, so I will leave you with this week’s forecast:

  With mercury retrograde in full force, things are quite difficult now. But with the waning moon disappearing on Monday evening, the stars will soon shine bright. Recover from the retrograde with a delightful viewing of constellations like Ursa Major and Horologium.

  The weight will soon pass, and your dreams will come true.

  ◆◆◆

  I put the newspaper back on the stand. I liked coming to this drugstore at 6am to buy food and supplies for my tent. It was always empty and the owner was blind, making it one of the few places that I felt comfortable being in public (wearing a hat, of course).

  “Mercury retrograde…?” I muttered to myself, still staring at the front page.

  What the hell was Zach talking about? He knew that I hated horoscopes.

  Not to mention, the two constellations couldn’t be more different. Ursa Major was the brightest and best-known constellation in the sky. Meanwhile, Horologium was an obscure collection of stars in in the Southern Celestial Hemisphere — not even remotely visible here.

  When I first met Zach in church choir, he only knew the Big Dipper, which he thought was the same as Ursa Major. And I remember teaching him about Horologium, even though we couldn’t see it. I wouldn’t have bothered mentioning it, but the constellation represents a clock, and we were at the top of—

  I froze.

  Zach and I used to spend our evenings watching the stars together — from the church’s clock tower.

  Was this some sort of hidden message to me?

  “Monday evening… Clock… Big Dipper…” I thought out loud.

  Holy shit. He wanted to meet at our old spot tomorrow night.

  I quickly gathered my things and hurried up to the cash register. Nearby, I spotted a display of OraQuick HIV tests and felt my heart tighten. If there was ever a sign from above…

  After a few moments of hesitation, I bit my lip and grabbed one of the boxes.

  But as I paid for my things, I started to get the uncanny feeling that I was being watched. I slowly turned my head to the front door and saw that I was not alone.