Page 21 of Imprisoned

The security briefing on my first day suddenly makes more sense as I study the prison’s surveillance diagram. Every corridor and every room are monitored except for the handful of blind spots I’ve methodically identified over the past two months.

I tap my pen against the staff handbook. “Zone C-4 cameras undergo maintenance every Tuesday between two to four p.m.,” I murmur, making another notation in my planner. The information had seemed irrelevant during orientation; now, it’s vital.

My office should be secure—patient confidentiality mandates limited surveillance, but I’m not naive. I discovered the hidden camera in the air vent during my second week. Standard procedure, they claimed when I inquired, for staff protection.

I pull out the directive memo I’d drafted on official letterhead. My signature is perfect—the past month I spent practicing Eleanor’s has paid off. I place it on the clipboard.

“Surveillance upgrade scheduled for Office D-7. Camera to be disconnected April 15-22 for replacement.”

Thompson reads it with barely a glance. “Whatever. Just another admin mess-up. I’ll log it.”

“Thank you,” I smile. “IT said they’re backlogged with the new system upgrades.”

Tomorrow, for the first time, we’ll truly be alone. The thought sends a dangerous thrill through me, followed by the sobering knowledge that I’m crossing lines I never imagined possible two months ago.

But one camera isn’t enough. The recording systems, the guard rotations, the check-in procedures—each represents another obstacle, each requiring another carefully orchestrated circumvention.

I pull up the staff schedule on my computer, noting which guards can be bribed and which are sticklers for protocol. Martinez is assigned to escort duty this week—perfect. As the orderlies had casually mentioned his gambling debts make him amenable to financial incentives.

I check my watch and gather my files, timing my exit perfectly so that I “accidentally” encounter Martinez during his patrol rotation.

“Officer Martinez,” I call out, quickening my pace to catch up with him in the empty corridor. “Do you have a moment?”

He stops, turning with mild surprise. “Dr. Matthews. What can I do for you?”

I glance around, ensuring we’re alone, before lowering my voice. “I’ve been reviewing my therapeutic approach with inmate Morrison, and I believe our sessions would be more productive with fewer interruptions.”

Martinez’s expression remains neutral, but something shifts in his eyes—a flicker of understanding.

“The constant security checks hinder his progress,” I continue, choosing my words carefully. “I understand protocol requires checks every fifteen minutes, but I was wondering if there might be some... flexibility in that schedule.”

“Flexibility?” He raises an eyebrow, his tone cautious but interested.

I hold his gaze. “For the right consideration, of course. I understand you might incur certain administrative inconveniences by adjusting the check schedule.”

“What exactly are you suggesting?” His voice drops lower, though his expression remains professional—he’s been down this road before.

I reach into my bag, withdrawing an envelope I’d prepared earlier. “Perhaps thirty minutes between checks instead of fifteen? Maybe even forty-five minutes of uninterrupted time? I’d be willing to compensate you for the administrative adjustments.”

Martinez looks at the envelope, then back at me. For a moment, I worry I’ve miscalculated and that he’ll report me. Instead, he discreetly takes it, sliding it into his uniform pocket without checking the contents.

“I can arrange that,” he says quietly. “For therapeutic purposes, I’ll ensure the log reflects the standard checks, so there’s no paperwork discrepancy.”

Relief floods through me. “I appreciate your understanding, Officer Martinez.”

“Tomorrow at two p.m.?” he confirms.

“Yes. Thank you.”

As he walks away, I exhale slowly, my heart hammering against my ribs. What am I doing? The professional part of my brain screams warnings while another part—growing stronger each day—thrills at the thought of extended time alone with Axel.

Last night’s dream rushes back—Axel pinning me against the wall, his hand around my throat, as he tears my clothes away. I’d woken gasping, soaked in sweat, my body aching with need. The fantasies are becoming more vivid and more consuming. Nolonger just at night but during meetings, while reviewing files, and even during sessions with other inmates.

As a psychologist, I’m horrified by my own behavior. As a woman falling into an obsession, I’m simply doing what’s necessary. The professional boundaries I once held sacred are crumbling. I’m not just letting it happen—I’m actively dismantling them, brick by brick.

I close the security manual and tuck it into my drawer beneath patient files. Each vulnerability I discover is another thread I’m weaving—a web that will catch us when we fall or entangle us completely.

My fingers trace the appointment in my calendar: Tomorrow, two p.m. Axel Morrison.

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