Page 13 of Imprisoned

Maintain clear boundaries between yourself and your patients at all times. Remember that those with antisocial personality disorder excel at manipulation and boundary violations.

Dr. Harriman's warnings from Psychopathology 603 echo in my mind:

They'll find your weakness and exploit it—your compassion, curiosity, and need to understand them. Don't mistake their interest for genuine connection.

I close the book and reach for my journal. Writing has always helped me process my thoughts and maintain my ethical center.My pen hovers over the blank page tonight, unwilling to commit my shameful thoughts to paper.

How do I document my inappropriate fascination or how my pulse quickens when his file crosses my desk? The disturbing dreams where those hands, hands that have strangled and mutilated, move across my skin with unbelievable gentleness are impossible to explain.

Professional distance. Clinical detachment. Objective analysis.

My mantra feels hollow now. I've reviewed his file a dozen times—far more than necessary for our sessions. I've studied the crime scene photos until I can close my eyes and see each victim in perfect detail.

I've always been drawn to understanding the most twisted minds. That's why I chose forensic psychology and specifically applied it to work with violent offenders. But this feels different—personal in a way that terrifies me.

I force myself to write in my journal:

Recognized inappropriate fascination with Patient a.m. Today. Must maintain stricter boundaries. Consider requesting reassignment if feelings persist. Especially considering his insistence on testing boundaries.

The words stare back at me, clinical and cold. They don't capture the electricity I feel in his presence, the disturbing sense of recognition when our eyes meet.

I close the journal, disgusted with myself. One more session. I'll give myself one more session to regain boundaries. If I can't, I'll request reassignment before this inappropriate fascination destroys my career—or worse.

"Willow? Dinner's ready!" Mom's voice calls from downstairs, pulling me from my spiraling thoughts.

I stare at my reflection in the mirror. Who is this woman looking back at me? Do my eyes give away the shameful thoughts crowding my mind? Better yet, will Mom see it?

"Coming!" I call back, my voice cracking slightly.

Mom bustles around the kitchen in her favorite floral apron, humming as she sets the table. The domestic normality feels surreal compared to the whirlwind of emotions. She's made my favorite chicken parmesan with roast potatoes and a fresh salad.

"There you are." She smiles, her eyes crinkling at the corners. The same eyes I've trusted my whole life. Eyes that have only ever looked at me with pride. "You look exhausted, sweetheart. Rough day at work?"

I can't meet her gaze. "Just busy. Lots of patients."

"That Jameson still giving you trouble?" She places a generous helping of roast potatoes on my plate.

"No, he's fine." I push the food around with my fork. "It's nothing."

She sits across from me, studying my face. I feel exposed, as if she can somehow see the replay of today's session with Axel running through my mind—how he described in detail every depraved and dirty thing he'd like to do to me, testing for a reaction. During which a shameful lust had overwhelmed me.

"Willow?" Mom reaches across the table and touches my hand. "You know you can tell me anything, right?"

I finally look up, forcing a smile. "I know, Mom. It's just this job is more intense than I expected."

"Those inmates can't get to you unless you let them," she says, squeezing my hand. "Remember what your professor used to say about compartmentalizing?"

If only she knew. If only she could see how Axel had already breached every compartment in my mind. How he's taking up residence in my dreams, thoughts, and fantasies.

"You're right," I say, taking a bite of chicken I can barely taste. "I just need to maintain better boundaries."

Later that night, I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, sleep refusing to come. Mom's well-intentioned advice circles my mind:maintain boundaries and compartmentalize.

Simple words for an impossible situation.

I reach for my phone, opening the digital copy of Axel's file I saved to my personal device. His intake photo stares back at me—those green eyes piercing and knowing. Clinical descriptions can't capture how those eyes flash when amused or darken when he says something inappropriate.

I scroll to the psychiatric evaluations. The words blur together:psychopathy... lack of empathy... narcissistic traits... highly manipulative... exceptional intelligence...

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