Page 15 of Imprisoned

I can’t help but chuckle. Even her clinical jargon sounds forced and desperate. “Keep hiding behind your textbook terms, but your body language is louder than your words.”

Her pen stops moving. For just a moment, her mask slips. I glimpse the hunger beneath. Then it’s gone, buried under layers of deception.

“Perhaps we should discuss why you feel the need to sexualize our patient-and-doctor relationship.”

“Perhaps we should discuss why you’re pretending you don’t want me.”

“Have your violent compulsions been manageable since our last session?” she asks.

I lean back, letting the question hang in the air. The illumination casts shadows across her face, highlighting the tension in her jaw.

“Interesting choice of words.Manageable.” I roll the word around my tongue. “Like they’re something to be controlled, contained, but what if I told you they’ve changed?”

She blinks, pen hovering over paper. “Changed how?”

“They used to be like static in my head.” I tilt my head to the side. “But now? They’ve got a focus. A target. When I close my eyes in that cell, I don’t see random violence anymore. I see specific scenarios.” I wet my lips. “Would you like me to describe them?”

“That’s not—” She clears her throat. “Let’s stay focused on managing these thoughts.”

“But I’m managing them. I’m channeling them. Isn’t that what you wanted?” I tilt my head. “Or should I go back to fantasizing about ripping random guards apart with my teeth?”

Her knuckles whiten around her pen. “Redirecting violent impulses and making them sexual toward your psychologist isn’t progress, Mr. Morrison.”

“No?” I smile. “Then why is your pulse racing?”

She presses her lips together. We both know I’m right.

“The compulsions are still there,” I continue. “But they’re more... intimate. Less about destruction and more about...” I pause, watching her squirm. “Possession. Surely that in itself is progress.”

“We need to maintain boundaries.”

I smirk. “Of course, whatever you say, doctor. Should I go back to describing how the demons in my head tell me how to dismember my victims instead?”

“Please focus on the questions I ask.” She smooths her skirt, drawing my attention to her legs. “Do you still hear these voices frequently?”

“Sometimes at night.” I let my gaze trail up her body. “When I’m alone in my cell, thinking about everything I want to do.”

She swallows hard. “And what do these voices tell you?”

“They tell me to look deeper and find out what others hide.” I hold her gaze. “Like how you’re hiding, pretending you’re not fascinated by what’s inside my head. What’s inside my heart.”

“Your previous doctor noted signs of paranoid delusions?—”

“Not delusions, little pixie.” I smile, slow and deliberate. “I see you. The real you. The one who stays up late reading case files, wondering what makes psychopaths tick. Wondering what it would feel like to?—”

“Stop, that’s not—” She cuts herself off, flustered.

“Not what? Professional? Neither is the way you’re looking at me right now.”

Her pen scratches against the paper. “You’re deflecting from the therapy.”

“Or maybe this is the real therapy. You and me, being honest about what we want.”

She clears her throat, squaring those delicate shoulders. “Mr. Morrison, if you can’t take these sessions seriously, I’ll have to cut them short.”

I can’t help but smirk. Such a brave little thing, trying to establish control. Fine, I’ll play along for now.

“My apologies, doctor. Please continue with your questions.” I settle back, the chains jingling as I adjust my posture.

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