Page 57 of Imprisoned

I shift in my chair, crossing my legs to ease the pleasant ache between them. The quiet of the empty office amplifies every small sound—the tick of the wall clock, the distant slam of a security door, and my unsteady breathing.

But it’s not just the physical intensity that haunts me. After he’d taken me with that brutal force that made me weak, something changed. The wildness in his eyes had softened. His hands, usually so demanding, had become gentle as they traced my curves.

I’d never seen him like that before—the manic energy that usually radiates from him had settled into something quieter, almost peaceful. For those precious moments, the walls between us had crumbled. There was no doctor and patient, no prisoner and professional—just two souls finding solace in each other’s arms.

My fingers brush over the bruises he left on my wrists, hidden beneath my sleeves. Each mark reminds me of how completely he’d claimed me, how thoroughly he’d broken through my defenses. But it’s the memory of his tenderness afterward that truly undoes me—the way he’d whispered my name like a prayer, how his usually tense muscles had relaxed as he cradled me against his chest.

I close my eyes, letting the silence wrap around me like a blanket, preserving these dangerous memories I should be trying to forget.

I lean closer to the monitor, my heart racing as I trace the faint lines of tunnels with my fingertip. The old blueprints fill my screen with a maze of possibilities—escape routes built when nuclear war seemed imminent. My hand is unsteady as I sketch quick notes in my research journal.

“The psychological impact of confined spaces on inmate rehabilitation...” I write in neat cursive, documenting my supposed academic interest. Each detail I note could be my salvation or my downfall if discovered.

The coffee grows cold beside my keyboard as I dive deeper into the archives. Block C’s maintenance records from ’83 reveal exactly what I need - a sealed passage, forgotten by time but still intact. My credentials grant me access to files that would normally be restricted. I carefully build my cover story through a trail of academic queries and research notes.

“Dr. Matthews?” A knock at my office door makes me jump. “Everything alright in there?”

“Yes, just finishing up some research,” I call back, keeping my voice steady despite my racing pulse. I quickly minimize the blueprint window.

“Don’t stay too late,” the security guard warns before his footsteps fade down the hall.

I exhale slowly, returning to my work. The tunnels sprawl beneath us like veins under the skin—maintenance shafts, emergency routes, storage spaces long abandoned. I can’t risk downloading anything, so I memorize key details while maintaining my façade of academic interest.

My pen moves across the paper, recording dimensions and access points with clinical precision. To anyone checking my work, I’m a dedicated psychologist studying how architecture affects the prison population. The irony isn’t lost on me—using my position to plan something that could destroy my career and life.

But my resolve hardens when I think of Axel, of the danger he’s in. I have to know every possible route, every alternative. These tunnels might be our only chance.

I trace my finger along the coastline of Brazil on my laptop screen, imagining the sound of waves and the taste of salt air. I’ve picked a secluded villa near Florianópolis—three bedrooms, an annex, private beach access, and high walls—perfect for a new start.

Mom would love the garden space. I picture her tending to tropical flowers, finally free from the crushing workload that’s aged her too fast. She’d be shocked at first, learning what I’ve done, who Axel really is. But she’s always supported my choices, even when she didn’t understand them.

Opening a new tab, I research private practice requirements in South America. My credentials would transfer easily enough with the right paperwork. A few bribes here, a falsified document there—the steps unfold like a familiar dance in my mind. I’vealready found someone who can create new identities, birth certificates, and medical licenses. The cost is steep but worth every penny.

My stomach twists as I add another item to my encrypted checklist. Each new detail feels like stepping further from the person I used to be, yet somehow closer to who I truly am. The anxiety that used to plague my every decision has transformed into sharp, focused energy.

Axel saw this in me from our first meeting - this capacity for careful planning, for embracing the shadows. He didn’t create this monstrous side of me; he simply showed me how to stop fighting it. Now, it flows through me, refining my thoughts into crystal-clear purpose.

I love him, yes, but not blindly. Love makes me stronger and more precise. Each plan has contingencies, each move calculated for maximum success. I see him clearly—both his brilliance and his demons—and choose him anyway.

My fingers fly across the keyboard, adding another layer to our escape route. The woman I was when I walked into this facility would be horrified. But she never felt this alive.

The screen’s blue light cast shadows across my desk as I initiate another wire transfer. My fingers input the numbers to move some of the prison’s funds through offshore accounts. Each transaction builds our escape fund, piece by piece.

I pause to massage my temples, but the tension remains. Three months ago, I would have reported suspicious banking activity without hesitation. Now, I’m creating false identities, laundering money, and planning a prison break. The irony doesn’t escape me.

My phone buzzes—an encrypted message from a contact in Brazil. The villa paperwork is ready, filed under names that don’t exist yet. After two weeks of covering my tracks, I send confirmation and then delete the thread; muscle memory now.

Opening my drawer, I pull out the small notebook where I track our progress. The neat columns of numbers and dates blur together, each entry representing another step away from Dr. Matthews, the naive psychologist who thought she could fix broken men. I’ve become someone who sees beauty in the twisted aspects of humanity and embraces it.

Axel didn’t break me. He showed me who I really am. Every law I break, every ethical line I cross, brings me closer to my true self. The guilt I expected to feel never came. Instead, there’s a thrill in each calculated risk, a rush of power when another piece falls into place.

I glance at the clock and notice it’s past midnight. The prison sleeps while I build our future. Tomorrow, I’ll sit in meetings, nodding to discussions about rehabilitation and reform. I’ll play nice with Eleanor so she doesn’t dig too deeply into my work with Axel. I’ll write reports about progress and recovery. All the while, I’ll be planning our escape.

My reflection in the dark window catches my eye. I recognize the woman staring back at me now—this is who I was always meant to be. The timid, rule-following doctor has been replaced by someone stronger, sharper, and more alive—someone who knows what she wants and will stop at nothing to get it.

I smile at my reflection, a silent acknowledgment of my transformation. Then I turn back to my laptop, ready to set another plan in motion. There’s no hesitation anymore, no moral conflict. I’ve settled into my true self and never felt more right.

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