Chapter 5 – The Isolation Begins
1412 Words
I didn’t decide it all at once.
That was the lie I told myself later.
In reality, the decision formed slowly—layer by layer—until it felt less like a choice and more like a conclusion. Something inevitable. Something I could justify.
The prison was quieter than usual that morning. Not silent—never silent—but muted, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath. I arrived early, my body still carrying the dull ache from the night before. Tight shoulders. A faint pressure behind my eyes. The kind of exhaustion that didn’t come from lack of sleep, but from restraint.
I reviewed files mechanically. Signed off on routine evaluations. Nodded when Dave passed my door, his presence a steady constant I hadn’t known I needed until it was there.
And still, my thoughts circled back to the same point.
Consistency.
Presence.
Predictability.
Santiago.
When Dave knocked, I already knew who it would be.
“You want him brought in?” he asked.
“Yes.”
The word came out too quickly. I softened my tone. “For a full evaluation.”
Dave didn’t comment, but his eyes lingered for a fraction of a second longer than usual. Measuring. Filing something away.
Santiago entered the room with the same controlled calm as before. No resistance. No challenge. He sat when instructed, the restraints clicking into place with quiet finality.
He looked… different.
Not weaker.
Contained.
His gaze lifted briefly, settled on me, then dropped again. Not avoidance. Deliberate restraint. As if he were choosing where to place his attention—and where not to.
The air felt heavier.
I stayed standing longer than necessary, grounding myself in the familiar geometry of the room. Desk. Chair. Distance. When I finally sat, the movement felt oddly significant, as if something had shifted simply because I allowed myself to occupy the space.
“You’ve been cooperative,” I began. My voice sounded steady enough. “No incidents. No attempts to provoke staff.”
“Yes,” he said quietly.
“Why?”
The question wasn’t accusatory. It was clinical.
He didn’t answer immediately. When he did, his voice was lower than before. “Because I don’t want to lose this.”
“This?” I echoed.
He glanced around the room. “The routine.”
The word settled uncomfortably in my chest.
“Routine isn’t a reward,” I said. “It’s a structure.”
“I know,” he replied. “That’s why it matters.”
I felt a familiar tightening at the base of my neck. I shifted slightly in my chair, aware of the subtle tension in my body, the way I was bracing without meaning to.
“Dependence on a single point of stability,” I said, choosing my words carefully, “is not healthy.”
He nodded once. “I agree.”
That surprised me.
“You agree?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said. “Which is why I’m trying to control it.”
I studied him more closely then. The stillness in his posture wasn’t passive. It was maintained. Like a muscle held taut for too long.
“You understand that relying on one person,” I continued, “creates risk.”
“Yes.”
“And yet you’re doing it anyway.”
“Yes.”
The honesty disarmed me more than defiance ever could.
I leaned back, crossing my arms, trying to reestablish distance. My pulse had quickened—not alarmingly, but enough to notice.
“You’re exhibiting signs of fixation,” I said. “Increased compliance tied to a specific environment. That’s not sustainable.”
He looked up then. Really looked.
“I’m not asking you to stay,” he said quietly. “I’m asking you not to disappear.”
The words lodged beneath my ribs.
“That’s not something I can promise.”
“I know,” he said again. “That’s why this feels temporary.”
Temporary.
The room felt suddenly smaller.
I stood, moving to the side of the desk, placing physical distance between us before it could shrink further.
“Given your history,” I said, “and your current behavioral pattern, I’m recommending a period of isolation.”
The word dropped into the room like a weight.
He didn’t react at first.
No anger. No protest.
Just a subtle change in his breathing. Slower. More deliberate.
“How long?” he asked.
“Two days,” I replied.
That was the rational number. Short-term. Observational. Enough to disrupt dependency without causing lasting harm. That’s what the literature said. That’s what I told myself.
His fingers curled slightly against the restraints.
“That’s not observation,” he said quietly. “That’s removal.”
“It’s preventative,” I countered. “It reduces risk.”
“To who?”
The question was simple. Direct.
I didn’t answer.
“You’re afraid,” he said softly. “Not of me. Of what happens if this continues.”
“That’s enough,” I said sharply.
For the first time, something cracked.
Not loudly.
Not completely.
His jaw tightened. His shoulders drew inward by a fraction, as if the space around him had suddenly become hostile.
“I told you I wouldn’t cause trouble,” he said. “I meant it.”
“I know,” I replied.
“And you’re still doing this.”
“Yes.”
The word tasted bitter.
“Why?”
Because I’m losing objectivity.
Because you’re becoming anchored to me.
Because I can feel it happening in my body, not just my mind.
Instead, I said, “Because this is the responsible choice.”
Silence stretched between us.
Then, unexpectedly, he leaned forward. The restraints bit into his wrists, metal clicking softly.
“Please,” he said.
The word didn’t belong to him.
It hit me low, immediate and visceral. My stomach tightened sharply, a rush of heat flooding my chest. I felt my hands curl into fists at my sides, nails pressing into my palms.
“I won’t disappear,” he continued quickly. “I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll stop coming. I’ll stop talking. Just—don’t cut me off completely.”
The room tilted slightly. Just enough to make me inhale sharply.
“Please,” he said again. Softer now.
I turned toward the door.
“Dave,” I called.
Santiago went still.
Dave stepped in, assessing the scene in a single glance. “What’s the call?”
“Isolation,” I said. My voice sounded distant to my own ears. “Two days.”
Dave looked at Santiago, then back at me. “You sure?”
“Yes.”
A beat.
“Alright.”
As Dave moved to release the restraints, Santiago looked at me—really looked. Not angry. Not defiant.
Careful.
“I won’t call you that again,” he said quietly. “I promise.”
My throat tightened.
“I know,” I replied. “Because you won’t get the chance.”
Dave took his arm and guided him up. Santiago didn’t resist. Didn’t speak again.
As he was led toward the door, he paused just long enough to glance back.
Not pleading.
Resigned.
The door closed with a dull metallic sound.
The silence that followed was oppressive.
I stayed where I was, my body rigid, my pulse hammering hard enough that I felt it in my throat. When I finally sat down, my legs felt unsteady beneath me.
Dave returned a moment later, studying my face. “You okay?”
“Yes,” I said automatically.
“He doesn’t handle isolation well,” Dave added quietly. “Just so you know.”
“I know,” I replied.
That was the problem.
After he left, I sat alone in my office, staring at the empty chair. My hands were still trembling slightly. I pressed them flat against the desk until the sensation faded.
This was necessary, I told myself.
Professional.
Protective.
But as the day wore on, a heaviness settled into my chest that no amount of rationalization could ease.
That night, at home, I found myself listening harder than usual to my daughter’s breathing, as if I needed proof that stability still existed somewhere.
Isolation was temporary.
Controlled.
Safe.
And yet, as I lay awake in the dark, one thought refused to let me rest:
I hadn’t removed him to protect myself.
I’d removed him because part of me was afraid of what would happen if I didn’t.
- Writer
