Insights from Tasmanian Isolation Prisons

The rope had dried where it had dug into my skin. Blood crusted against the fibres, flaking as I moved. Still tied, still seated, I offered Mitchell another example. “Solitary confinement,” I said. “Tasmanian prisons. Early 1800s.”

He leaned forward, eager. “Yes… go on.”

I explained the silence, the darkness, the prisoners led into church stalls like horses to gates, their heads covered until only the priest remained. “They went mad,” I added. “Or they ended themselves.”

“Perfect,” he whispered.

This was no longer therapy. This was theatre. He fed off the details like I’d handed him candy. “And without walls?” he asked. “Isolation in the open?”

I froze. “What do you mean?”

He smiled. “You’ll see.”

Mitchell wasn’t here to be healed. He was building a doctrine, brick by twisted brick. I was the unwilling professor to a monster in training—or perhaps he was already complete. The pain in my arm throbbed as another droplet hit the floor.

“See how simple it is?” he said. “A man left alone, tied up, forgotten—he tells the truth. You’re starting to understand.”

But I wasn’t. Not really. I was a spectator to my own psychological dismantling, providing answers I didn’t realise I knew, feeding the animal in front of me one bleeding word at a time.

[from SEETHINGS, downloadable and free for a limited time].