Caged In (Caged Prison #1)

5

Izz’s slapped in the face the moment he enters the shower room. The heavy steam assaulting his lungs. Thick and constricting, he wades through the smoggy sludge to get to the benches where they leave their clean clothes. With the amount of steam clogging the space, his clothes would be better off having a shower with him to stay dry.

Worse than the stream, is the pungent rank stench, its foul odour gagging him. A hundred times worse than anything he smelt back in school in the boys’ locker room. He hadn’t thought how prison would smell when he was being transported here. He fears his sense of smell will forever be tainted.

He sticks with his new friends. They seem to have taken him in with open arms. And he’s glad for it. If he’s to guess, having allies in prison is a good thing. Befriend as many as you can so you have less people to worry about attacking you. It’s what he’s planning to do anyway.

He’s thankful he isn’t alone the first time in the showers. He doesn’t want to admit it, but he has been dreading this moment since he was found guilty. All the stories about what happens in prison showers have been close to mind, playing on repeat to frazzle his nerves. Being in this relatively large prison . . . friendship group? he feels somewhat protected.

He has a better understanding of the pack mentality now. It’s comforting and safe. Better than going it alone, with no one to watch your back—or ass, in this case.

Pulling off his prison-issued clothes, he dumps them onto the ever-growing pile of dirty clothes from the rest of the group. He keeps the clean clothing at a safe distance, not wanting clean threads to be near the large pile of pungent fabric—

Izz yelps, stumbling forward as a towel cracks him on the ass. He’s not sure which is louder, the towel’s snap on his bare ass or his girlish noise.

“Don’t drop the soap, new- boy ,” Zidie teases. Grinning madly while brandishing the towel like he’s gearing up for a second whip.

“Piss off, or I’ll throw it at you, Cupcake .” Izz bites out with no real venom, raising his bar of soap. Grinning at Zidie, he shoves him away. He hates to admit it. But Zidie’s nonchalant demeanour and joking nature is helping to ease his nerves.

He has no problem with his body, he’s proud of his figure. Stripping naked with strangers isn’t too bad. What he has a problem with is those strangers trying to get all touchy feely with him—all grabby, clawing hands. He can’t close his eyes to wash his hair in a normal shower by himself without worrying about imaginary demons grabbing him. It’s a weird thing but common. Maybe your body wants to remind you that you’re naked and vulnerable?

But in here. Those grabby hands are a very likely outcome to closing your eyes. Or turning your back. Izz will create a mental note to shower with his back to the wall. It might expose his front, but better the front than the back.

His thoughts slowly drip away, as Erik joins them. The scrawny inmate shuffles in slowly, stiffly, as if he might have injured his leg—

Izz frowns at the bruising around the small inmate’s neck. Was that there before? He can’t recall. It must have been? It’s a strange spattering of bruises, resembling a hand mark—

Izz swiftly turns when Erik begins removing his shirt. Not wanting to be caught staring at another inmate while they undress. He might be gay, and open about it on the outside, but that doesn’t mean he’s stupid. He knew damn well people get beaten and killed for that stuff. He isn’t interested in testing whether or not the inmates in this prison are open minded.

Naked, and wanting to get this first shower over with, he follows along after Isco. Who’s back is littered with ink, and scars, in a patterned way—

Scarification? That’s what it’s called, isn’t it? When someone has skin removed to form pictures and designs, so it stands out as scars and not as ink like a regular tattoo.

It’s unique. Intriguing. He’s never seen someone with scarification done, he’s only ever heard of it being done, and seen a few random pictures in tattoo shops.

Isco disappears behind a brick partition, and Izz follows along, ducking around the partition to join Isco and the rest of their group.

The showers are as expected. One big, roughly tiled room, with sandpaper gripping tiles—if you decided to start throwing hands, you would have a marginal amount of grip to stop you falling on your ass. Shower heads plugged into the walls in rows, wrapping around the room. Inmates are spread throughout, taking up their positions below numerous cascades of clear water. Making thorough use of the steaming showers to clean their bodies.

Good to know there will be hot water for his shower, he would become homicidal if the water only ran cold. . . Maybe that’s why it doesn’t. The . . . Warden?—or whoever the random person is running the place—might have figured out that keeping the murderous inmates happy with small luxuries will minimise the kill-others mood swings.

He sticks close to his . . . what? Friendship group? What do they call themselves again? . . . The Gang?

Izz sighs, this place is a world away from earth. The normal everyday lives on the outside are foreign—an entire planet of differences away, no longer accessible to him and these men. For one, on the outside, you don’t have to shower with a room full of complete strangers. Trying your hardest to keep your eyes up and not look at anyone.

His peripheral vision is killing him.

Everywhere he turns, strangers’ dangling bits are swinging all over the place. His body is too strung out with dread, and . . . fear—from the incident in the cafeteria—to relax enough to enjoy his shower.

In here, he’s aware he can’t judge people by the way they look. That . . . serial killer. . . looked like the nicest person he has ever met. Or . . . Maybe it’s more that the male’s handsome. Maybe his libido is getting a little carried away, telling him the hot guy is trustworthy.

Ha. Guess again.

He turns his own stream on, scrubbing the square of soap down his chest, rubbing it over his whole body. Keeping his back to the wall. He would rather people check out his package, than leave his ass vulnerable. He does not want to test out those prison shower stories people gossip about in the real world.

Which is why his grip on his soap is strangling, his knuckles white with the effort to hold onto the slippery sucker. If he drops this soap, it’s living on the floor. No way is he picking that shit up. Maybe bending over in here is a sign you want some . . . fun—

Izz shudders. Yes, he likes men. Has always liked males. Ever since he can remember. But liking men is entirely different to being fine with allowing any random stranger to have a go at you. Especially when it’s in a prison, and those random men could very well kill you.

Not that he has anything against escorts or whatever they call themselves nowadays. Hell, if you want random strangers, that’s your business. He has no issues with it. To each their own. Personally, he just isn’t interested. He wants to know someone first, before getting to the physical side of things. He wants someone he’s attracted to, and who’s attracted to him. A male who is easy to get along with and he can be himself around, without being ashamed or embarrassed.

He shoves his face into the shower’s spray. Drowning his mind’s ramblings. He needs to stop with his weird shower thoughts on hot guys and sex. Or he is liable to get hard, and that is something he doesn’t want to do at this particular time. Naked—with a bunch of naked strangers.

He’s almost finished scrubbing the suds out of his hair when the last of his group turns their shower head off and strolls over to the door.

Izz hurriedly rinses, like his life depends on it. Anxiety squeezes his heart at how alone he is. Vulnerable—without his friends next to him. Flight is his go to. He’s not a strong fighter, and not willing to put himself into that position. On the first night. In this cage.

He practically flees the showers, scurrying out of the steaming room to get back to his friends—

Izz stops short in his hasty retreat when a solid mass steps out into his path. Effectively blocking the doorway. Another inmate entering the showers to scrub clean.

“Sorry. My fault.” Izz takes the blame, even though it’s not anyone’s fault and he isn’t entirely sure why he’s apologising. It’s not as if he ran into the other man.

Izz steps aside. Glancing up—

Only to freeze when he gets a gander at who’s filling the door frame. He’s patting his subconsciousness on the back for the quick apology now. Grateful for his ingrained manners.

It’s the serial killer . . .

What’s his name again?

Does the name matter?

Serial killers don’t make you say their name when they kill you, do they? Maybe it’s a good thing his mind is blanking on it —or maybe that’s bad, maybe it’s disrespectful? Maybe the lapse in memory will get him killed—

Stop.

His mind needs to stop. Before he passes the fuck out with the amount of adrenaline pumping through his veins—

Where has all the oxygen gone? He can’t breathe. He’s choking in here. It’s too small—is he claustrophobic? He never thought of himself as having any phobias.

You learn something new every day.

Izz swallows hard, his lips parting to try to suck in more air, to cool his lungs down, to—

He’s going to have a panic attack. Or is he already in the clutches of a panic attack? He’s never had a panic attack before. If he had to guess what one would look and feel like. This right here. Would be it.

The killer doesn’t walk in. Doesn’t say a word. Or appear to even be breathing. Maybe there really is an oxygen problem in here? And it’s not just a problem in his head. But a physical one that also affects others.

Izz averts his eyes, glancing down—

Whoa. The same dripping bloody red ink is splattered down the insides of his thighs. Matching his arms—it hadn’t been a result of the shadow concealing the patterns, there are no patterns, it’s . . . blood . . . Whoever did the work knew what they were doing. It’s absolutely life-like.

The black tattoo on the killer’s abdominal muscles is well-crafted artwork too. An assortment of different animal skulls, held together by twisting, looping barbed wire. All interwoven into some kind of devil’s mark. A cross of some type . . .

Leviathan cross? If Izz remembers the name correctly, from his dark-things obsession back in his earlier school years—

He’s been staring too long, a few seconds is too long. Dead on the first day in prison is not how he wants to go out.

Shifting uncomfortably, cheeks burning red hot, his gaze roams to the killer’s crutch. He quickly averts his eyes. This is definitely one of the times in life where he does not want to be mistaken for checking someone out. Even if he may have—somewhat—been doing just that, it’s beside the point. He does not want to offend this particular inmate in the slightest way—

“Izz,” Zidie bellows, from around the dividing partition separating the changing rooms and the showers. “What’s taking ya so long, we wants’ to go.”

The bellowed words must have snapped the killer into motion. He strides off. His shoulders rolling in a predatory prowl. His footing sure and strong, his long strides shifting with coiled strength.

Izz stands there, shaken, and staring wide eyed at the doorway where the red and black haired inmate had been standing. His heart still stuttering wildly—the organ hadn’t given out yet, so that’s a bonus.

Yay for me.

Zidie’s head pops out from behind the brick partition. An irritated expression taking over his cupcake face as he spots Izz standing there, “hurry up,” he wines.

Izz blinks back into reality. Glancing over his shoulder, but doesnt see who he’s checking for. The killer must have been showering further in. He looks back to find Zidie is gone.

Taking a deep breath, he hurries over to retrieve his clothes and get dressed with the rest of The Gang who are fully clothed. Except Blake, the pale inmate is in the middle of pulling his shoes on, and still shirtless. The vampire lookalike has a nice build, with black tattoos marring the pale skin on his back. His chest completely clear of ink.

“You all good?” Blake shoots an enquiry over to Izz, pulling his slip shoes on—no laces for prisoners.

“Y-yeah,” Izz clears his throat, slipping his shirt over his head. “Yeah. I’m good. Just lost in thought.”

Blake hums, probably not buying it, but nods anyway.

~~~

Izz and Reni made it back to the cells shortly after their showers. Dropping off a few members of The Gang at their own cells along the way. Which’s how Izz found out about their different Wings , and where their cells are.

His number is A-18910, and his cell is located in A-Wing. He discovered that he and Reni are the only ones in A-Wing. Isco, Erik and Zidie are located in B-Wing. David and Phelix had C-Wing. And Blake is in E-Wing. He isn’t sure which block the guy in The Hole is from. But he can always ask or just read the number on the man’s shirt when he gets out. However far away that might be.

He was told D-Wing holds all the other activities. Self-help groups, classrooms—because you can study degrees in prison?—There are addict groups—he’s sure they’re not actually called that, but Zidie was explaining things, so he’s not taking the man’s word for it on the names.

The Med-Wing is located past D-Wing on the way to E-Wing. Like that’s supposed to mean something to him? He can scarcely remember how to get to the showers, let alone where the various Wings are located.

Izz groans again as he shifts in the dark cell, trying to find a comfortable position on his bunk.

It’s no use.

Everywhere he rolls—every position he tries—ends with the same results. Metal grinding against bone. It’s a torture in and of itself. If being in a cage isn’t punishment enough, this paper-thin mattress sure is. If he never has to see, touch, or associate with these mattresses again, he’d vow right here and now to never commit another crime.

He’s not impressed with the prison’s standards. With how they see fit to punish them in this way. He flops onto his stomach. It’s the position with the least amount of pinching and digging.

Reni laughs, from his own bunk, apparently amused by Izz’s discomfort.

He glares at the dark lumpy mound on his cellmate’s bunk. Unsure if his displeasure is seen in the low lighting—either way, he gives it his all. “How can you lay there so damn still? These things are terrible.”

“You get used to it,” Reni murmurs, half asleep already.

Izz scoffs, wanting nothing more than to keep his cellmate awake all night to suffer alongside him. He knows it’s petty and his cellmate doesn’t deserve it—with how nice Reni has been to him and everything he’s done to help him settle into this crappy life in a caged-in Hell—but his mind still races with the desire for another to feel his pain, so they can understand what he’s going through—

Considering Reni was here first, his cellmate would already know the painful bedding situation. And he has lived it longer—long enough to apparently not care about it anymore. How long will Izz have to be here to become use to the torturous bed . . . ?

Nope.

No way. Not happening. He is never going to get use to this. Swishing his legs, he fights to will the mattress into submission. To fluff it up. To do anything.

Why must you be so uncooperative—

“So,” Reni begins casually, “What did ya do?”

“Do?” Izz mutters, not paying Reni much mind as he flops like a dying fish on his metal frying pan.

“To get ya ass thrown in here?” Reni clarifies.

Izz curses under his breath, resigning his feeble attempts to sleep comfortably.

Are you allowed to ask about this? About how someone came to be an inmate? Or is that just in the movies where it’s wrong to ask another prisoner that question? He doesn’t know or care at this particular moment. Does it matter if Reni knows?

“I . . . acquired belongings that may not have been mine,” Izz hedges. He only stole to provide for his family, he wasn’t stealing out of greed. He doesn’t want to be placed into the thieving category of those who do it for themselves with selfish intentions.

Reni laughs, a cheerful noise at odds with how depressed Izz feels. “Just say you’re a thief, ay.”

“I’m not admitting to anything.” Izz leaves the rest unsaid. That he doesn’t view what he did as being a bad person. Sure, it was wrong, he knows it was breaking the law. But he would do it a million times over to get the money they needed to save his sister’s life. She had to have those meds, those operations, and everything else. And she never would have had her life-saving treatments without the money he contributed in a not-so-legal fashion. He has no regrets about stealing for her. His only regret was changing his MO, and, in turn, getting caught.

“Smart,” Reni rearranges his body, facing Izz to make it easier for them to talk, “Well, it would be, if ya aren’t already doing your time for it.”

Izz lets out a dismissive noise, waving off Reni, even though the other can’t really see him in the dark cell. He’s not about to explain his life choices to someone he just met. Reni might have been nice to him so far but it doesn’t mean he completely trusts him.

“What about you?” Izz isn’t too sure he wants to know, but better he does. If Reni turns out to be some crazed lunatic, it will be better to know now, so he can prepare himself and not be caught unaware.

“Oh, I acquired cars that may not have belonged to me,” Reni mocks Izz’ response.

Izz puts on an accent to mimic his cellmate, and shoots back, “just say ya a thief.”

It’s silent for several seconds before they both burst out laughing, which earns them disgruntled colourful responses from the neighbouring cells—filled with more cursing than anything tangible, however, the meanings behind the words are crystal clear.

~~~

It takes Izz a long time to fall asleep. He lays awake, listening to Reni’s soft snoring. And the not-so-subtle snoring from inmates in the surrounding cells—who snore like damn nuclear missiles going off. How does someone snore that loud and not wake themselves up? How have their cellmates not strangled them already? He does not condone murder. But, in this instance, he’s willing to make an exception.

And they all got pissy at me for laughing.

He groans loudly, pulling his pillow out from under his head to smother his face with it. If he suffocates he won’t have to listen to the noises in this stupid prison. A caged-in Hell-hole.

Won’t have to worry about the crappy mattress either. It’s a win-win situation.

Or perhaps not . . .

He wants to go home. Wants to be there for his mum. For his sister. He wants to go back to the way it was, before he started pickpocketing. Or back further to before his sister’s cancer, and stay there, in that safe time and place. Before life became too real. Too cold and unruly.

Izz eventually drifts off, too exhausted to stay conscious a second longer.