Imprisoned

1. Willow

1

WILLOW

T he 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.

I rub my temples, fighting off a headache. Four sessions, and I’ve made zero progress. Maybe I should’ve chosen a nice private practice instead, dealing with garden-variety anxiety and relationship issues.

A knock at my door breaks the silence, and a woman in her fifties enters, her silver-streaked hair pulled into a neat bun. Her white coat and confident stride mark her as someone in charge.

“Dr. Matthews? I’m Dr. Eleanor Pierce, Head of Medical Services.” She extends her hand. Her grip is firm. “I wanted to check how your first morning went.”

“It’s been...” I search for the right word. Challenging? Overwhelming? “Educational.”

“That’s one way to put it.” She perches on the edge of my desk, scanning my scattered files. “I read your dissertation on rehabilitation approaches for violent offenders. Impressive work. That’s why I pushed for your hiring.”

My cheeks warm at the praise. “Thank you, but theory feels very different from practice.”

“It always does.” She picks up one of my files—Smith’s—and flips through it. “These men have been through the system for years. They’re resistant to treatment and hostile to change, but sometimes a fresh perspective is what they need.”

“If they’ll let me help them.”

“That’s the challenge, isn’t it?” Dr. Pierce sets down the file. “Building trust takes time. Just remember to maintain distance. Some of these men are master manipulators. They’ll try to get under your skin.”

I think of Axel Morrison’s file, those piercing eyes, and force myself to nod. “Of course.”

“Let me treat you to lunch,” she says. “The cafeteria is not exactly five-star dining but beats eating alone.”

Relief washes over me. After a morning of unproductive sessions, the thought of friendly conversation is exactly what I need. “That would be wonderful, thank you.”

We walk down the corridor to the cafeteria.

I follow Dr. Pierce through the staff-only line, picking up a sad-looking sandwich and an apple. The cafeteria is small, just a few tables separated from the main prison dining hall by thick walls and heavy doors. A few guards chat in one corner while a nurse eats her salad alone.

“The food takes some getting used to,” Dr. Pierce unwraps her sandwich. “Though I suppose it’s better than what the inmates get.”

I take a hesitant bite. The bread is stale, the lettuce days old. “I might start packing my own lunch.”

“Next time, I’ll treat you to something from the deli across the way.” She pulls out a small bottle of hot sauce from her coat pocket. “Here, this helps.”

The sauce adds some life to the bland sandwich. As we eat, Dr. Pierce tells me about the facility’s various programs and protocols. The conversation flowed easier than I had expected, her maternal energy putting me at ease.

“So,” she shifts in her seat across from me, “what areas of psychiatric treatment interest you most? Any particular focus you’d like to develop here?”

I pick at the crust of my sandwich, hesitating. “Actually...” The words stick in my throat. “I’m fascinated by psychopathy—the neuroscience behind it, the patterns of behavior, the potential for rehabilitation—” I stop myself, worried I sound too eager.

Dr. Pierce’s fork pauses halfway to her mouth. “That’s a challenging specialty. Most practitioners prefer to focus on more treatable conditions.”

“I know it’s controversial, but I believe even severe personality disorders deserve thorough study and treatment attempts.” My cheeks flush. “During my residency, I worked with several antisocial personality disorder cases. The complexity of their minds and how they view the world is terrifying and fascinating.”

“Fascinating can be dangerous in our line of work.” Dr. Pierce studies me over her coffee cup. “We need to maintain clinical distance, remember? These aren’t research subjects—they’re potentially violent and manipulative offenders.”

“Of course,” I say quickly. “I just meant from an academic perspective.”

Dr. Pierce’s expression softens. “You’re right—it is an intriguing subject academically. The way their minds work, how they process emotions and moral decisions differently...” She takes another bite of her food. “I did my own research on psychopathy during my postdoc. Published a few papers on treatment resistance in high-functioning psychopaths.”

“Really?” I lean forward, my sandwich forgotten. “I’d love to read them.”

“I’ll send you the links.” She dabs her mouth with a napkin. “Just remember, theory and practice are very different. These individuals can be incredibly charming, brilliant even. That’s what makes them so dangerous.”

“Did you ever work directly with any diagnosed psychopaths?”

“A few.” Her eyes cloud over for a moment. “One in particular... brilliant man, could quote philosophy and discuss art like a scholar. He had everyone convinced he was reformed.” She pauses. “Two weeks after his release, he killed three people.”

I swallow hard, thinking of Axel Morrison’s file. “What happened?”

“He’s back inside now—different facility.” She shakes her head. “It taught me a valuable lesson about maintaining boundaries. Academic interest is one thing, but never forget what these men are capable of.”

“Of course.” I nod. “I understand the importance of boundaries.”

“What about you?” I ask, eager to shift the conversation away from my interest in psychopaths. “Do you have family?”

Dr. Pierce’s face lights up. “Two teenagers—God help me. Sarah’s seventeen, heading to college next year. She wants to be a doctor, though I’m pushing for something less stressful.” She pulls out her phone, showing me a photo of a girl with her mother’s sharp features and confident smile. “And Tommy’s fifteen, more interested in video games than career planning right now.”

“They’re beautiful.” She shows me a family photo, her husband’s arm wrapped around them all at what looks like a beach vacation. “Must be nice having that support system at home.”

“Oh, trust me, some days I wonder who’s supporting whom.” She laughs, scrolling through more photos. “Just last week, Tommy decided to try cooking dinner. Nearly burned down the kitchen making mac and cheese. And Mark, my husband, just stood there filming the whole disaster instead of helping.”

The warmth in her voice as she talks about her family helps ease my tension. Her stories of normal teenage drama and family dinners feel worlds away from our earlier discussion of violent offenders.

“Mark’s an architect,” she continues. “Works from home most days, a blessing, really. He’s always there when the kids need something.”

I lean back, letting her words wash over me, grateful for this glimpse of ordinary life. Her stories of parent-teacher conferences and family game nights ground me, reminding me there’s a whole world beyond these prison walls.