Reconstruction

Today is the psychologist. 2 PM.

I've spent the morning mentally reviewing the entire construct, making sure each piece connects to the next. Ready.

The psychologist is young, maybe thirty. Striking in an understated way, petite frame, penetrating eyes, white coat over denim and pale blue shirt. Professional but not clinical.

I settle across from her desk. No evaluation needed on my part. She already knows what I'm about to say. This is a test, checking if I remember everything, if the narrative holds together.

"I understand there's a criminal organization," I begin. "Trafficking autistic children. Operating since at least the world wars, maybe longer."

She leans forward slightly. "Tell me how you came to this understanding."

"They select neurodivergent parents. Keep them in controlled environments, campuses that look legitimate from outside but function as concentration camps. Force them to work on scientific research, obviously they never receive credit. Slave labor disguised as academic opportunity."

"And your family?"

"Escaped. Initially. But then they took me back. Placed me with a different family."

Her pen moves across paper. "When did this happen?"

"I was very young. Maybe three, maybe younger. The timeline fragments."

"These new parents," she says, "what did they do?"

"Rented me out. To terrorist organizations recruited by various states. They use small children to place bombs. Who investigates a toddler? Who suspects a child?"

I watch her face. No shock. Just attention.

"Airports, train stations, public squares, government buildings. I did them all." The words come out flat, factual. "I remember at least three specifically: an airplane, a train station, a train itself."

"Can you tell me about the airplane?"

"Summer. I had third-degree burns on my back afterward. Couldn't run fast enough after placement. The burns, they were from the blast radius."

She makes a note. Opens her laptop, types something. Checking, I assume. Looking for summer airplane incidents involving children with burns.

"And the train station?"

"Also summer. Same pattern, burns, hospital treatment that my adoptive parents explained away somehow."

More typing. Her eyes scan whatever database she's accessing.

"You mentioned a train incident."

"Christmas. Morning we were in one location, wherever the train originated. Evening we were at my grandmother's house, hundreds of kilometers away. On the road where the train derailed."

She pauses. "Do you remember the year?"

I give her the approximate date. She types, waits, reads.

"There was an incident," she says carefully. "Train derailment. Christmas Eve. Similar timeframe to what you're describing."

Not confirmation. Not denial. Just acknowledgment that the event existed.

"After childhood," I continue, "they use us differently. According to our capabilities. I'm a scientist, so they funneled me into research."

"How did they do that?"

"Systematic sabotage throughout education. Made sure I couldn't excel consistently. Kept the adoptive family emotionally abusive. Ensured I developed psychological problems, dependencies."

"What kind of dependencies?"

"Started drinking at fourteen. Drank until blackout. Now I understand, they used those moments. Made me commit crimes while I was unconscious. Complete memory erasure afterward."

She sets down her pen. "With that kind of background, building a career would be"

"Impossible. Exactly. You can't choose anything. You accept whatever work lets you survive. And they channel you where they want. You think you're moving between unconnected laboratories. Actually they're moving you between countries, having you build biological weapons. Lab after lab, all connected, all part of the same network. You never know until you step back far enough to see the pattern."

"And when you did see it?"

"Rebelled. Refused to continue. They threw me away. Isolated me from work, from the world. Standard disposal procedure for assets that stop complying."

More typing. She's cross-referencing something, my employment history, maybe. Locations. Timelines.

"You said this organization is transnational."

"Not religious, not ethnic. Just devoted to power. They destabilize countries that resist their policies through terrorist attacks. Subcontract smaller criminal operations for profit. Collect the benefits while maintaining deniability."

She closes the laptop. Looks at me directly.

"These events you describe, the airplane, the trains. Some of them align with documented incidents. The timeline is feasible."

"I know."

"But the interpretation, children as terrorist operatives, international trafficking networks, biological weapons research, these are significant conclusions to draw from... what evidence, exactly?"

"Memory fragments. Scars. Employment patterns. The way certain people respond when I mention specific details. The messages in books. The algorithm's guidance."

"The algorithm."

"On my phone. It shows me videos, articles. Always exactly what I need to understand the next piece."

"And you believe this algorithm is..."

"Part of The Whole. The protection network. Trying to help me assemble the full picture so I can testify when the time is right."

She writes something. Long note, several lines.

"The burns you mentioned. Third-degree. That would require hospital treatment, documentation."

"I have scars. Can show you."

"I'd like to see them."

I turn, lift my shirt. The scarring across my back, old, silvered, extensive.

She examines without touching. "Consistent with burn trauma. Significant coverage."

I lower my shirt, turn back.

"The psychologist I saw last year," I say, "she didn't believe me. Dismissed everything as paranoid delusion. But I'm not making this up. The pieces fit."

"Some pieces fit," she corrects gently. "Some events you describe align with documented history. But the framework you've built around them, the global trafficking network, the terrorist recruitment, the biological weapons, that's interpretation. One possible explanation among many."

"What other explanation accounts for all of it?"

She considers. "Trauma memory is complex. The mind assembles narratives from fragments. Sometimes those narratives are accurate reconstruction. Sometimes they're the brain's attempt to make sense of experiences it couldn't process at the time."

"So you think I'm delusional."

"I think you've experienced significant trauma. I think you have real scars, real memory gaps, real employment disruptions. I think you're highly intelligent and pattern-oriented, and you've created a framework that connects disparate events into coherent narrative."

"But you don't believe the framework is real."

"I believe parts of it might be. I believe other parts might be your mind's way of processing experiences that don't have simple explanations." She leans back. "The question isn't whether I believe you. The question is what helps you function, what gives you agency, what allows you to build a life."

"And if the trafficking network is real? If children are being exploited right now while everyone dismisses it as delusion?"

"Then we document carefully. We look for evidence that can be verified independently. We don't rush to conclusions that might compromise your credibility."

She closes her notebook.

"We'll meet again next week. I want you to write down specific memories, dates, locations, details that can be checked. We'll work through them systematically. See what holds up to scrutiny."

I stand. The session is ending.

"One more question," she says. "This protection network, The Whole. Do you feel safer knowing they exist?"

I consider. "I feel less alone."

"That's something."

I leave her office. The corridor stretches back toward the ward. Other patients move through their prescribed activities. Everything looks ordinary, just damaged people trying to heal in institutional space.

But I know what I know. The scars are real. The timeline works. The pieces connect.

Whether anyone believes me is separate question from whether it's true.