Page 1 of Imprisoned

1

WILLOW

The metal gates clang shut behind me, sealing me into my new Mountain View Correctional Facility workplace. My heels click against the concrete floor—impractical footwear for my first day, but I wanted to look the part. The guard leading me through security barely glances at me as I fumble with my ID badge.

I clutch my files, willing my racing heart to slow down. I’ve prepared for this moment through years of training, yet doubt creeps in now that I’m here.

Can I really help these men?

Will they see right through me?

“First day?” The guard’s gruff voice startles me.

“That obvious?” I smooth down my skirt.

“You’ll either quit within a week or tough it out until this place drains the life from you.”

Great. That is just the reassurance I needed.

Catcalls and whistles pierce the air as we pass rows of cells. I keep my eyes forward, grip tightening on my leather portfolio. The rush of blood in my ears drowns out everything else.

“Here’s your office.” He gestures to a small room with a desk and two chairs. “You’ve had your orientation yesterday, right?”

I nod in reply.

“Perfect. Your first patient arrives in ten.”

I settle behind the desk, arranging my nameplate: Dr. Willow Matthews, Correctional Psychologist. The title feels like make-believe, transporting me back to when I was a kid playing dress-up in my mother’s clothes.

The case files spread before me blur together until one name catches my eye—Axel Morrison. Three pages of violent offenses, diagnosed psychopathy, manipulation of staff and other inmates. My stomach twists as I read the details of his crimes. I should feel revulsion; instead, a forbidden thrill runs through me because men like him are exactly what drew me into this field. I want to understand what makes a psychopath tick.

I slam the file shut, ashamed of my reaction. This is exactly what I feared during my training—that twisted side of me that draws me toward the kinds of people I should run from. I press my fingers against my temples.

Focus. Maintain clinical detachment.

As I stare at his intake photo, those piercing green eyes stare back as if he already knows my secrets.

The door creaks open, and a heavyset man with tired eyes shuffles in, hands cuffed. My first patient. The guard positions himself by the door while I check the file. James Smith, serving fifteen years for armed robbery.

“Good morning, Mr. Smith.” I gesture to the chair across from me. “I’m Dr. Matthews.”

He slumps into the seat, metal cuffs clanking. “Another new one, huh? The last shrink lasted three months.”

I swallow hard, maintaining eye contact. “I’ve reviewed your file. You’ve been experiencing trouble sleeping?”

“Listen.” He leans forward as much as his restraints allow. “You seem nice, but we both know how this goes. You’ll write your notes, pretend to care, then move on to somewhere better.”

His words sting, and I straighten my shoulders. “I’m here because I want to help. Tell me about the nightmares.”

He studies me for a long moment, then sighs. “Same one every night. I’m back in that store, pointing the gun, but this time, the clerk has my daughter’s face.”

I nod, jotting notes while my mind races through treatment approaches. The session continues, but I feel like I’m treading water. Every response feels pedestrian, textbook. Smith answers my questions, but there’s no connection.

When the guard leads him out, I sink into my chair. My training prepared me for the clinical aspects of this work, but it didn’t prepare me for this wall of skepticism. In real-life situations, the weight of past failed correctional psychologists hangs over me, hindering any hope of progress.

I glance at my schedule. Three more patients before lunch, none of them Axel Morrison. Part of me is relieved, but the part I try to silence feels disappointed. I push the thought away and focus on my notes, ignoring the loud whispers from passing guards around me. Let them doubt me. I have to prove them wrong. Everyone seems to think I’m a young doctor who won’t last two minutes here.

The next patient barely speaks, staring at the wall while I try different approaches. The third one spends the whole session ranting about prison food. By the time my fourth patient leaves, my throat is dry from forcing conversation, and my notes are a mess of half-formed observations.

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