Caged In (Caged Prison #1)

2

The prison is massive. Izz had admired its size from the outside, now he’s within its walls, it is daunting. Even with a ten-foot ladder and a dozen inmates playing ‘ stack the criminal’ , you wouldn’t come close to touching the ceiling.

He steps into a two-story, rectangular room—crowded with inmates. Every space he can see, there are inmates clad in grey prison shirts and pants, with white sleeveless undershirts—a few inmates wearing blue prison clothes, and the occasional is in a black version. Everyone’s shirts showing a combo of black letters and numbers stitched to the front—except the black shirts, those are grey, or perhaps white, at one point in their life before years of wear and tear stained them grey. It’s dehumanising to be reduced to nothing but a barcode.

I wonder what the different colours mean?

He has to assume his orange uniform is for the new arrivals as he’s the only one sporting the nauseatingly bright colour. He prays he won’t have to wear it for long.

Bring on the grey.

Izz follows along next to the mute guard who has a permanent scowl etched onto his face, and a grip like steel. Why do they feel the need to drag him around? He’s in a cage, where exactly is he going to run?

Lining the fringes of the room are cells with barred doors, and brick walls to divide each cell, blocking you off from your neighbours. They are a decent size—for what he expected to get for cells. Although . . they do look kind of cold and lonely . . .

He passes by a small round table, identical to the others sparsely scattered down the room’s centre. The metal tables are bolted into the concrete floor, inmates surrounding each one, sitting on them or on the round stools—that are likewise anchored into the ground.

He figures there has to be more sections in this prison containing cells. His view from the prison transport bus had shown a large spread out facility. Definitely big enough to hold more than the couple hundred inmates in this room. No doubt about it.

If he has to guess, he will say there are a hundred—or so—cells, if he combines both top and bottom floors. The second level is accessible by two metal staircases—one on either side of the room—and is also wrapped in cells, with metal rails to keep you from stumbling off the platforms edge—

Granted, you can still climb the rails and jump off the ledge—to the concrete floor below—if you truly desired to end your life . . .

He’s led straight through the room, dragged in the direction of one of the staircases. Where he immediately catches the attention of all the inmates. He feels like a bug in the spotlight, being scrutinised and sneered at. He certainly doesn’t want to draw so much notice, but his bright orange clothes make it virtually impossible to blend in.

He holds his head high as best he can, keeping his body facing forward, tension tingling his spine, and a cold sweat building. He allows his eyes to scan the room. Portraying confidence he doesn’t possess, showing everyone he isn’t going to be easily intimidated, that he isn’t an easy target. Deep down . . . deep down he fights the urge to run and hide.

Don’t let them see how terrified you are.

Inmates are huddling in groups or wandering alone. Some stopping their conversations to turn his way, others pausing their card games to glance over. Emerging from their cells to get a look at what all the fuss is over.

All the attention is amplifying his growing anxiety. He tries to ignore the lewd comments, the catcalls, the wolf whistles, the nasty suggestions and slurs thrown his way. He knows they’re doing it to get under his skin. And he refuses to let them rattle him, allowing the words to roll off his shoulders as best he can—or perhaps . . . suppressing his external reactions to them is a better description? Because internally . . . Internally he’s freaking out.

His march through Hell ends at the base of the stairs on his left—

How will he manage to navigate them with his hands cuffed behind his back?—

The guard solves the issue by half carrying him up them. It’s the only time he’s grateful for the guard’s constricting hold. His stumbling and slipping, on the metal stairs, does little to slow the guard down—he’s a rag doll along for the ride.

This is not at all humiliating . Izz mutters sarcastically in his head, loathing the silent guard more than before. Why does he even need the cuffs? No one else has them on.

There are inmates on the second floor too. Leaning back on the railing, milling around outside the cells and clustered within them. Sitting or lounging on bunks. Reading, or chatting. A few sleeping? Or perhaps passed out. A couple empty cells scattered among the lively ones. An inmate taking a dump in a metal toilet at the back of a cell—

Izz turns away immediately. Wanting to give the guy privacy—and he isn’t interested in watching another man use the toilet. He could have gone his entire life without seeing it. The quick snippet he caught is now forever ingrained in his mind.

Thank you prison system. Not.

It isn’t long before the guard stops outside an empty cell. And he finds his hands freed from the cuffs—

Izz pitches forward—a hand between his shoulder blades shoving him into the cell. His grip automatically tightening on the pillowcase as he catches himself. Pivoting back to the guard, he barely suppresses the urge to snap at them. Good thing they leave before his will to stay out of solitary confinement crumbles, due to the disrespectful treatment. He may be a prisoner, but that doesn’t give them the right to treat him like shit.

Uptight A’Hole. Izz bristles, glaring at the empty spot the guard vacated.

Guess this is my cell . . . ? Whatever.

Weird ass guard.

Izz inspects the two single metal bedding platforms protruding from the cell’s brick walls. One neatly made bunk, blankets and pillow arranged respectably. And one with a bare mattress—if you can call it a mattress—maybe ‘foam paper’ would be a more apt title for the flat thing. The mattress has no padding whatsoever. Might as well sleep on the metal bedframe, wouldn’t make a difference.

He dumps his pillow-pack on the paper mattress. Peering up at the little shelf sticking out of the wall above his bunk. A good place to place possessions, photos perhaps? The other bunk has one as well, holding a few books and other items—he hopes his cellmate isn’t a crazed lunatic or something worse.

He braces his hand on the smooth metal bunk, leaning to the side to check out under it—no legs or stand, they’re embedded in the walls. He’s not sure how he feels about this arrangement. Is there a weight limit? Before they bend and sag, causing you to roll off the slippery metal like a slide.

Righting himself once more, he inspects the rest of the cell. At the head of both bunks are short square cupboards. He opens the doors to the one near his bunk—three shelves greet him, with enough room to fit his spare clothing items, towel, toiletries, and maybe a few other little bits and pieces.

Down from the cupboard—on his side of the cell, against the wall—is a sink, with a mirror made from a reflective hunk of uneven dinted metal. No glass mirrors in prison, it seems. A metal toilet sits beside the sink, a little metal friend to keep it company in the corner. He does not look forward to using it—ignoring the cold metal on his ass—it’s out in the open, anyone walking past will see him using it.

No privacy in prison . . .

The back wall holds a miniature window, set unevenly in the middle of the white bricks. He doesn’t have OCD, but even he’s pissed off at the lopsided window. The mini square trapping a thick protective glass shield, with bars on the outside—kind of pointless, considering the window is so small, even without the bars and glass in the way, he wouldn’t be able to fit his head through it, much less his entire body in an escape attempt.

He sighs, sitting down on the bare mattress, ass sinking in to hit the metal below. He reaches over to begin unpacking his makeshift pillowcase bag—along with the items he watched the red-head pack, it also contains sheets and a thin pillow. The flat pillow is more inviting to sit his ass on than the paper-thin mattress. And that’s saying something considering the pillow contains an insignificant handful of feathers, like they plucked a pigeon for the stuffing—

“Hey, I’m Reni. Sticks said you’re in need of a tour and a rundown of the rules.”

Izz startles at the hyper-excited voice piercing the cell, heart stuttering behind his ribs, his eyes flashing over to the barred door.

The inmate occupying the space in the doorway is a well-built man—similar to Izz’s height. Short brown hair—laced with red highlights, flickering when he shifts his head. Tattoos ringing his neck and wrists—some sort of detailed intricate swirling design, not something Izz suspects would be possible to have inked in prison.

“Sticks?” Izz frowns at the man, unsure what to make of the name? If it is a name?

“A guard.” When Izz shows no signs of understanding, Reni tucks on. “Long blond hair. Hates talking to inmates. We call him Sticks, ‘cause he has a stick up his ass.”

“Oh. Yeah. Him.” Izz mulls the description over. “Makes sense.” The guard had been stiff, and their expression did have a fuck-off-and-die vibe.

“Don’t call him that though,” Reni continues, the rest of his words spilling out in a rush, “Unless you want to be sent straight to The Hole, call him Sir, you call all the guards Sir. Some you can get away with a first name basis. Others you go into first names and they want second and third base, if you get my drift—handsy assholes—But anyways, call them all Sir, so you don’t invite trouble.”

Does this guy breathe when he talks?

He would laugh, but he isn’t in a particularly laughing mood. This place oozes depression, an aura rubbing him the wrong way. A shadow of darkness creeping over him the longer he’s within its walls. He has a bad feeling about this place. A fear he won’t leave here with the same morals and frame of mind he came in with.

What had Reni said . . . The Hole . . . ? Must be what they call solitary confinement? He knows what it is from movies, a solitary place built for punishments. Filled with dark sunless cells, to sit in your own thoughts and drive you crazy.

“Alright—” Izz barely manages to get the word out, before Reni’s voice floods right over him. Continuing in the same breathless speech.

“I’ll be your guide, I usually guide all you newbies, not normally as easy as having the new guy in my cell, hate walking all around the prison to find wherever the fuck they put the new guys, guards are never any help.” Reni thrust out his hand towards Izz, offering his palm for a handshake. “Sorry, if you haven’t already noticed, I talk a lot, like a lot, a lot. My name’s Reni, nice to meet you, and you are?”

Guess this is my cellmate.

“You told me your name already,” Izz informs him, standing to shake his hand, “and I’m Jasper Marcelo, but everyone calls me Izz—long story.”

“Well. Izz. Now you can’t give me any excuses for forgetting my name,” Reni makes a face like you better not forget, and Izz can’t help but laugh.

His cellmate’s energy level is way out there. He can see himself getting along fine with the man. The outgoing vibe matching and melding with his own—when he’s comfortable and not internally panicking.

Maybe this prison stay won’t be so bad after all? If I have Reni to keep me company.

Reni abruptly swivels, marching straight out of the cell. “Come on. Dinner should be getting served any moment now—oh, and don’t shake people’s hands, they pull you in and shiv ya. Unpleasant experience.”

Izz absorbs the information, keeping it close in mind, so he won’t screw it up and get himself killed—sounds like his cellmate is talking from experience?

He follows after Reni, jogging to keep up with the man’s long strides. He keeps his eyes on the tattooed neck, avoiding looking too closely at the many inmates staring at him. He’s antsy enough as it is, without knowing precisely how many are judging him—or sizing him up . . .

Would they have a go at him to garner how tough he is? Or is that something strictly left for the Hollywood team to build tension and amp up violence in their movies?

“Come forth, newbie.” Reni throws over his shoulder. “I will introduce you to The Gang—not really a gang gang. We tried clique or misfitted clan or coven, but it sounded weird and witchy, so we call ourselves The Gang. Makes us sound tough, even though we’re just the random leftovers who couldn’t cut it into the actual gangs that do all the shady stuff around here.”

They hit the metal platform at the top of the stairs, taking them down rapidly. Not by his choice, Reni walks like he’s on a mission with a time crunch breathing down his neck.

Izz perks up at Reni’s words, specifically, shady stuff? Meaning drugs and contraband? He’s hopeful that’s what it means. And not some underground prison fight club. Another thing he isn’t sure if it’s a Hollywood fake or real life. This gang business could, however, mean he has a chance of scoring something to ease his nerves. To lift some of the stress off his back after the trial.

“You know anyone to get weed from?” Izz’s not entirely sure why he asked. He doesn’t have any money to offer, and he’d literally just met the man. For all he knows, Reni’s an undercover cop—

I need to stop watching so many fake crime movies . . .

Reni swivels to face Izz, eyebrow raised, “you’ve been here ten seconds and you’re already talking drug buys.”

“Weed’s not a drug.” Izz scoffs, glaring at the other, he isn’t some drug addict. He merely needs something to mellow his nerves. It’s not like weed makes him see things or start eating people’s faces off—like whatever drug that guy in the news report was on. Some nasty cannibal action was going on there—

“You sure ‘bout that?” Reni’s tone drips with sceptical mockery.

“Whatever.” Izz laughs, waving his hand to dismiss his cellmate’s remark. “I’m not seeing flying horses with it, so it’s not going into the drug column for me.”

Reni rolls his eyes. Turning to lead the way once more, shoving through the clusters of inmates. Blowing a kiss to one man who snaps at him. Izz has to admire loud mouths total lack of concern and fearless disregard for the many inmates with a larger muscle mass.

He follows along in Reni’s wake. Trying to keep his smirk to himself, as he watches other inmates shoot daggers at his cellmate’s back. Expecting a fight to break out at any second, but other than some slurred words and heated looks, nobody starts anything. He’s not sure he wants to witness a fight on his first day, or be dragged into one . . .