Caged In (Caged Prison #1)

6

By the time the prison bells rudely summon Izz into consciousness, his cellmate is already awake and ready for a new day. He can hear Reni pacing around, or maybe jogging on the spot? Izz’s eyes are tightly screwed shut, and he harbours no plans to open them anytime soon.

He despises morning people—cheery, bright, happy, wide awake—morning people. He holds a slight jealous grudge towards them. He can’t help it, it takes several hundred alarms every minute and an arsenal of willpower, to drag his butt out of bed. So, yes, he’s resentful towards people who can spring out of bed one hundred percent awake on the first alarm. When he feels like a sleep deprived zombie.

Izz cracks an eye open, peeking through his lashes, to see his cellmate bouncing near the cell door. A trapped dog ready to be let out for its morning run.

Sighing dramatically, he rolls off his bed. Stumbling to his feet, to relieve himself in the microscopic prison toilet. You would think a metal toilet would cost more, wouldn’t a plastic one be cheaper for the prison to buy? Although . . . plastic toilet lids break easily, no doubt an opportune weapon for a murderous inmate.

He lets loose a loud yawn, receiving a protesting jaw pop for his troubles. Rubbing a hand down his face to stimulate his mind for another ‘ fun’ day in this ‘ wonderful’ prison.

Cage is more like it.

Izz winces at his thoughts, they’re saturated in sarcasm. Dripping with resentment. When one could argue he’d brought these circumstances upon himself—

Another shrill alarm sounds, the cell doors beeping open. Another day in Hell. Another day of punishment. Wonder what this day will bring his way?

“Be back. Gots’ some people to see,” his cellmate yells over his shoulder on the way out the door.

Izz grunts his reply. Letting Reni interpret the response any way he chooses. From ‘ yeah, I don’t care,’ to, ‘ okay, no problem’.

God, my back is aching.

Shuffling over to his bunk, he stiffly slumps onto the flat paper mattress, arching his back to crack some of the stiffness out. He’s going to develop serious joint problems sleeping on this bunk in a matter of nights. How will he fare after months on the thing? He’ll be walking around like a ninety-year-old crippled by arthritis by the end of the week.

Izz rearranges his slept-in clothes. Running his hands through his hair to flatten the unruly tangles into submission. He might need to get a hairbrush or comb, at some point—he’s seriously lacking in the money department. Whatever money he had is with his family and it’s going to stay that way. They need it more than he does.

How long until his meagre savings run dry? How long until his mum’s the sole one making money for the two of them? How long until they can’t pay the rent anymore—

He springs to his feet. If he stays in here with his mind eating away at him, he’s liable to try that escape plan out the tiny window. See if his head truly is too big to fit out.

Izz steps free of his cell. Sauntering over to the railing. He peers at the floor below. There are so many inmates out already, interacting with each other, laughing and making a ruckus. They must be used to the early rising.

What time is it?

Early.

Early is what it is.

He yawns once again. Thumping his elbow onto the rails to lean his chin on his palm. Observing the inmates from above, not absorbing many details, allowing the chattering lull of voices to flow over him. Encasing him in a blanket of calm. He might fall asleep right here, can’t be any worse than his bunk.

Izz locates Reni far beneath, leaning his ass back against a table, arms crossed, as he chats with a group of inmates Izz has not seen before.

Or perhaps he has but hadn’t taken notice of them. After all, he’s floating among an uncountable quantity of new faces. Trying to recognise everybody in less than a day is an impossible feat.

“Hey. You must be the new guy.”

Izz peeks at the voice, not bothering to remove his face from his palm. An inmate is leaning casually against the bars of the next cell. An amused smirk on their face.

The inmate’s demeanour screams—sleazy and sketchy. With a terribly inked dragon tattoo—he believes it’s a dragon, hard to tell with the back-alley quality of work—smack dab in the middle of a shirtless chest. The colours vomiting together in a swirl of mismatched slime.

“I guess so,” Izz replies, to be polite. No need to make enemies if he can avoid it.

The inmate rolls off the bars, slinking over to the rails Izz’s reclining on. Vomit tattoo and all, slithering too close. Way too close to be respectful of his personal space.

Izz straightens to his full height. His instincts flaring that this man harbours dishonourable intentions. So he backs off, leaving a considerably larger distance between them. Snarling at the man soundlessly, when the inmate again slithers up into his space.

“What’s the hurry?” the inmate hisses, licking his dry lips. “We can hang in my cell. Have a little . . . chat .”

With the way the man’s eyes glint, Izz has no doubts about what ‘ chat’ implies. And he has no interest in going anywhere with him.

“Nah, I’m good,” Izz takes yet another step back.

What he wants is a few hours to wake up. A few hours of peace to laze around and try to forget about his stiff muscles. Instead, here he is. In a crappy situation he wants no part of.

It’s too early in the morning to be dealing with this intrusion.

He takes another step back—

Colliding into a solid chest. Izz pitches forward, away from the inmate at his back. He hadn’t been aware of anyone else approaching him. He’s lucky the other inmate doesn’t hold a weapon—he hopes the other inmate doesn’t have a weapon. Glancing between the two men, he can’t see any weapons, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t armed. The second inmate is twice Izz’s size, a weapon would really only be a flex. The man’s sheer size is weapon enough.

He opens his mouth to tell them to leave him alone. He’s not interested. Doesn’t want any trouble. But before he gets a word out, they back off, slinking away as fast as they slithered up.

Well, that was weird—

Reni is at the top of the metal stairs. Frown in place, he clearly saw the interaction taking place. Or at the very least, saw the two men standing close to Izz, before they scurried off, to who knows where.

“Ignore them,” Reni states, strolling over to stand at Izz’s side. “They’re all talk. Got no spine in ‘em.” Reni rests a comforting hand on Izz’s shoulder, directing Izz towards the stairs, “let’s go eat. Shall we?”

An order? Phrased as a question? Is Reni more worried than he let on?

No . . . You’re overthinking it.

~~~

Breakfast is basically the same as dinner. A long queue. Numerous voices mingling together fighting for dominance. Too many smells to separate food from body odour. Four inmates pacing up and down serving. Trays being lugged off to various tables.

On the menu today is bacon, cooked to a perfect crisp. A tray of scrambled eggs. Toast and various kinds of spreads in little containers. Small cartons of milk and juice boxes. Sausages. Some type of gooey sludge—oats?

Gross, oats are the worst.

He’s served by the same beefy inmate, who gave him extra bacon, and commented on his politeness once more. He can’t help it, he’s always said thank you or please to people serving him. From clothing stores, to restaurants—on the rare occasion he went to a restaurant. He was taught to use manners, it’s hardwired into him, he does it without conscious thought.

Izz tears into a bacon strip, slouching at the same table where he had his first meal. However this time he deliberately sits facing the kitchen. Studiously avoiding a certain back corner, at a certain barren table, to which a certain spikey-haired individual is present this morning. Not that he was looking when he walked over to The Gang’s table. Of course he wasn’t because that would be wrong.

It was merely a little glance. Does not count.

He knows he has no place to eye fuck a frickin’ serial killer. Sure the male is handsome. But he ‘is’ a killer. A murderer. A psychopath . . .

Izz will end up being a name in an article, if he’s not careful. A name lost within an array of other names. A statistic in a list of kills for a famous serial killer. Forgotten except for a number people recite when talking about a serial killer.

Everyone knows the serial killers’ name, no one remembers the victims’ name. They become part of the number of kills the serial killer accomplished during their reign of terror.

He needs to focus on something less depressing. Less real. He doesn’t want to know how many people in here have killed. He’d rather not think about it when he’s living with them.

Izz digs his fork into the scrambled eggs, they don’t taste that bad, a little bland, but overall not too bad. Orange juice to wash it down with—

He would love some pancakes. He usually drinks orange juice when he cooks pancakes, so his stomach automatically puts two-and-two together—his stomach is very disappointed it isn’t getting pancakes with its orange juice. But the only other options were apple juice and milk. He didn’t want apple juice and he hates plain milk. Flavoured milk is the only way he can drink it—he isn’t sure the prison puts flavoured milk in their meal plan. He’ll guess that they don’t.

He isn’t too fond of the processed orange juice either. He squeezed his own at home, when he cooked pancakes every Saturday as a treat for his little sister. She loves pancakes . . .

He’s brought back from his memories when a hand ruffles through his hair. Blinking, he realises he was so engrossed in his memories, he’d missed when the table cleared off.

The Gang is lingering near the double doors by the kitchen, waiting patiently for Izz—while Reni is taking back his hand, an inquisitive expression on his face.

“Ya coming? Or are you going to sit here all day staring off into nothingness?”

Izz smiles, pleased he hadn’t imagined the friendships he’d formed among the group. Rising to his feet, he dumps his tray and joins the others. Walking as a group off to wherever. He has no idea where they’re heading, but he doesn’t care. It’s not like they have many options, they’re in a giant cage with little to nothing to look at. Everything is white bricks and long corridors. Corridors which twist, and turn, and weave throughout the prison buildings.

When they eventually arrive at their destination, he is officially lost. Absolutely no clue how to get back to the cafeteria, or his cell.

He can see a glassed-in room—a tiny prison store, with one inmate behind the bulletproof barrier. A guard stands close by, leaning back against the wall near the inmate, with a bored expression stamped on his features. Barred doors hang loose in front of the pair—like the shutters of an old house—indicating the store is open for purchases.

This must be the Commissary Store—do they call it a Commissary Store? or just Commissary?

There is a large variety of products lining the shelves. Snacks—chocolate bars, little bags of lollies and nuts, popcorn, protein bars. Beverages—a whole selection of ready-mix drinks, like coffee and hot chocolate, as well as bottled water, juice, bottled energy drinks. Foods—ramen noodles, soups, flavoured oatmeal, beef jerky, rice. Hygiene products—shampoos, soaps, toilet paper, toothbrushes. Electronics—MP3 players, headphones, batteries, book lights. There are even condiments like salt, pepper, garlic powder, taco seasoning. Clothing—shorts, socks, shoes, pyjamas, gloves. Stationary products—paper, envelopes, note pads.

And countless more items. The shelves are crammed full of products. He’s stunned by the huge range of items, he had not expected such a vast selection in a prison store.

There are crayons too, the inmates must not be trusted with pens . . . Those would make some crude weapons. He’d feel pretty pathetic if he’s killed by a pen—

Oh. No. Wait. There are tiny boxes of microscopic pencils. The crayons look easier to write with than those tiny little half pencils.

Izz waits in line with the rest of The Gang—he has no money to spend, everything he has is with his family—but it’s not like he has anything better to do.

Besides, he enjoys hanging out with Zidie, the inmate might be a little over the top and loud, but he’s a shining light of fun in the depressing dingy prison.

Izz likes the others too, Zidie is a little extra happiness he needs to keep himself grounded, so he doesn’t spiral into dread and worry. His cellmate’s constant talking is also giving his mind something to focus on.

Right now, Reni is in some heated debate with Erik over which ramen flavouring is the best, and which one should be burned and never spoken of again. Reni has his votes in the beef pile, and Erik is adamant that beef tastes like dog shit and the only good flavour is chicken.

Izz doesn’t mind either flavour, he rarely ate packet noodles, but when he does he isn’t fussed over what flavour they are—

Izz involuntarily groans when his eyes land on the far corner of Commissary—quickly biting off the sound in his throat and glancing around, grateful no one heard him.

They have mattresses, available to buy.

Granted, they are the crappy paper thin ones he already has, but you could stack them on top of each other. They also cost three hundred dollars, how that tiny paper crap cost so much is a mystery. He can only dream. No way can he afford one, let alone the stack it will take to create a decently cushioned mattress—

Izz swivels his gaze from the offensive sight. Trying to keep his bitterness internal and not show anything to the inmates crowding the corridor.

His newly acquired friends are bunched at the window, handing over their prison numbers, to order all kinds of items.

Blake buys envelopes and paper—must be writing to someone on the outside? Izz wishes he could, he would love to write to his little sister. Let her know he’s still thinking of her, and even if she can’t see him each day, he’s still there for her.

Isco fills his pockets with several protein bars, a chocolate bar, pretzels, nuts, beef jerky, chili powder, and a bottle of energy drink. The whole shopping list of foods disappearing into his prison clothes. How he managed to fit it all in his pockets is a mystery.

Zidie went for an unhealthy binge of practically every snack available. Collecting one of everything, as well as a pack of ramen.

“Not getting anything?” Zidie’s over-excited face pops up in Izz’s line of sight. So close, if Izz pursed his lips, he could kiss the boisterous inmate.

Does Zidie not grasp what personal space is?

“Not this time,” Izz doesn’t want to give Zidie the true reason for his lack of purchasing.

When Zidie opens his mouth to demand answers—answers Izz’s not prepared to give—Izz speaks right over him, effectively cutting him off.

“So, Reni, what do we do in this place to keep from tearing out our hair in boredom?” Please let this be the end of Zidie’s fact finding mission. He isn’t in the mood to go into his money problems and the reasons behind them. His sister’s illness isn’t something he wants anyone in here to know.

Reni sidles up to Zidie’s left, eating some kind of bar he bought, grinning around his mouth full of sugary treat.

“Well . . .” Reni muses. “You can play basketball—if one of the gangs isn’t hogging the court. Or they have meetings you can attend, you know, for anger management and stuff like that. There’s a church . . . Somewhere. Where you can pray—or sit there doing whatever Godly things you’re supposed to do in a church. They also have the prison jobs after lunch, to kill a few hours before dinner. You could go to the library and check out books—”

“Wait. Prison job?” Izz interrupts. Flashing his palm in a stop motion, to physically slap a pause in Reni’s sentence.

“Yeah. Haven’t you got one yet?” Reni’s brow raises as he glances over at Zidie, as if Zidie will fill him in on Izz’s work status.

“No.” Izz moves over to the side to allow an inmate to squeeze past him, on their way down the corridor. “How do I do that? And what are the jobs?”

“There are loads of different jobs, there’s—” The three of them walk away from Commissary, to lean against the wall further down the corridor, as more inmates try to push their way into line. “—the kitchen, gardening, laundry—I’m in laundry. Pretty much all of us are. Except Erik and Phelix, ‘cause they’re too good for that—”

Phelix spits profanities at Reni from his place at the Commissary window, giving Reni the bird over his shoulder as he finishes his order. Reni grins in response.

“They work in the library,” Reni continues, unfazed. “Lazy fuckers. The rest of us actually work.”

“Yeah, ‘cause cleaning peoples socks is difficult ‘ work’ ,” Erik snaps at Reni, using air-quotes on ‘ work’ to mock him. Mimicking Phelix with flashing the middle finger.

“You’d have to see the counsellors to get a job assignment,” Izz flinches when Blake’s voice emerges from the space right next to him.

I need to observe my surroundings better, so I know where people are.

Drawing in a deep breath to calm his nerves, Izz gives Blake his undivided attention. “Where do I find them?”

“We can drop you off at his office, on the way to E-Wing, I need to drop this stuff off at my cell anyway.” Blake jostles the papers and chips in his hands which Izz hadn’t seen.

So much for taking notice of his surroundings, that conviction lasted a good two seconds.

If I don’t get it together, things could turn sour real fast.

“That would be helpful, thanks. This place is like a maze.” A deadly maze, with criminals around every corner. Technically Izz’s one of those criminals too, according to the law. But laws shouldn’t stop you from getting help when you need it.

I didn’t do it for myself.

He sighs, he would like a map to study so he can find his way around the maze of cages. He has a hunch asking a guard for a map of the prison would not work out so well. They’d probably add time for an ‘ attempted prison break’ —or something colourful like that—just to be assholes. Reminds him of the first guard who shoved him around, and fastened the cuffs excessively tight—

“You’ll get used to it.”

Izz blinks—like a stunned puppy—at Blake’s response.

Did the vampire lookalike read his mind?

Blake smiles softly, obviously noticing Izz’s confusion. “The prison. You’ll get used to where everything is.”

Ohhhhh . . .

He’s relieved no one can read his mind, or he’d feel like more of an idiot than he already does. He’s way too out of it. Actually thinking Blake read his mind. For someone who’s a social butterfly, he sure is acting like a socially awkward recluse.

The sad smile Blake gives Izz says, ‘ it isn’t something you want to get used to, but spend enough time here and it’s inevitable’.

Izz doesn’t want to spend enough time in here to get used to it. However, he doesn’t have a say in the matter. He is stuck here, until the day his sentence finishes.