Caged In (Caged Prison #1)

7

Izz drifts behind as The Gang ambles their way down a corridor. The others are eating while engrossed in subject matters he can’t engage in—without background information. Discussions of previous days in their prison life. Names of inmates or guards he doesn’t recognise. Locations in prison he has no clue where to find. He’s a little disgruntled at being left out, it is his second day here so he shouldn’t feel frustrated with drifting on the outskirts . . . He is though . . .

Zidie tore off a hunk of his chocolate bar, presenting it to Izz in his outstretched hand, a chocolaty swirl of nuts that Izz eagerly accepts.

“Thanks,” Izz nibbles it delicately, savouring the treat for as long as possible.

Anxiety at seeing a counsellor has his stomach participating in acrobatics and the chocolate chunks within it practising aerobics. He isn’t sure why he’s antsy, usually he doesn’t squirm away from social interactions.

His mind and personality are frazzled in this place, he hopes he can regain his old self. . . . Eventually. Whoever this counsellor is, maybe they can help him on that front. To find himself again, and to cope with this new life he’s been thrown into.

“So what job will you get? Huh? Huh?” Zidie energetically interrogates, circling Izz in a dizzying fashion, while spontaneously skipping, “You better pick laundry. Don’t you dare ditch me for that stupid library.”

Izz laughs, grabbing the overzealous inmate by the arm to halt his erratic movements. “I guess—”

Zidie grips Izz, tugging him into a bone-bending bear hug, shaking him back and forth like a dog with a chew toy, “Bye, bestie,” Zidie gestures to the door next to them.

Oh, they arrived quicker than he’d expected.

“Don’t disappoint me,” Zidie throws out ominously, swinging an accusing finger towards Izz.

He rolls his eyes. That man is crazy. Yet Zid is no doubt going to make this cage bearable to live in. Somewhat acceptable to call it . . . home—

Ah, nope. That still sounds weird.

“Meet us out in the yard when you’re done,” Zidie bellows over his shoulder as he turns away.

Hesitating at the door with a plaque reading ‘Counsellors Office’ , Izz’s motionless. His anxiety is spiking, and his palms are clammy with sweat.

Come on Izz, pull yourself together. It can’t be that bad. What’s your problem?

He steels his shoulders, sucking in a deep breath, and raps his knuckles on the office door.

“Come in,” a muffled voice drifts out from behind the wooden panels.

Izz does as instructed. Pushing the door wide. Shuffling in. Clicking it shut behind him.

The office is small. White walls—as if he expects another colour in this bland prison. Tall cabinets stacked with books, a whole range in Law and many more in Psychology.

A large oak desk, with tree-trunk sized legs, housing an old style-computer, keyboard, mouse, a little cup of pens and notepads. A soft armchair in front of it for guests.

The man perched in the office chair behind the desk is exactly as he envisions a counsellor to be. Neatly cropped hair, smooth-rimmed glasses, tailored suit, and professional smile plastered in place. Smelling of tea tree oil and freshly cut grass.

“Take a seat.” The counsellor murmurs, flicking a manicured hand at the armchair.

Izz settles in, nervously wiping his hands on his prison pants. He feels like he’s being judged and scrutinised at the same time.

When did it get so hot in here?

“What can I do for you, inmate . . . A-18910,” the counsellor speaks while squinting at Izz’s uniform to read the prison number. “Let me just bring up your file.”

The man swings his wheeled chair to the side, to tap at the ancient computer’s keyboard, clicking and scrolling around on the screen.

“Jasper is fine,” Izz tells the counsellor, his eyes darting around the room looking for something to occupy himself with while he waits. He can’t see the computer’s screen so he can’t snoop on whatever the counsellor is searching in—other inmates’ Criminal Records?

“Okay. Sure thing,” the counsellor mutters, still focusing on his tapping and mouse clicking. “I swear this dinosaur computer is so slow I could manually find, and collect the files, from the filing room, a heck of a lot faster. And it’s located on the other side of the prison.”

Izz isn’t sure what to say to the complaint. ‘Alright’. ‘That’s annoying’. ‘I feel sorry for you—’

That last one definitely isn’t it. Sure the man has a slow computer. So what. At least he gets to leave this place each day, and doesn’t have to sleep in a tiny cell with a hundred other men snoring all night long.

“Finally,” the counsellor exclaims. “Here we are. Jasper Marcelo, nineteen—oh, turning twenty in a few weeks, congrats.” The counsellor reads from his computer screen. “Arrested for . . . Theft. Five-year prison sentence, three with good behaviour—It’ll pass quicker than you think. No other arrests, first time in. All in all, not too bad.” Steepling his fingers, the man closely examines Izz from his position across the desk. “Compared to the majority of other inmates I deal with, you’re an easy one. So what can I do for you?”

Easy one?

What, like he’s a new pigeon in a cage with other birds who’ve shown acts of aggressive behaviour—compared to his pliant nature?

One day he might end up among the watch list. If that dragon tattooed creep slithers his way back to Izz’s cell. He will not roll over and take it, no matter if his record states he’s non-threatening—or non-aggressive—or however they describe inmates who don’t have murderous tendencies.

Exhaling his irritation, he addresses the counsellor as politely as he can muster, “I was informed I have to see you about a prison job?”

“Oh. Yes. By whom?”

“Ah . . .” Is that really important? “A friend,” Izz hedges. He’s not sure where the counsellor is going with this line of questioning? Or why it’s important who told him?

“Friend? Already.” The counsellor leans forward, placing his elbows on the desk to rest his chin in his steepled hands.

Already . . . ?

The counsellor has a weird way of wording things, like he’s belittling and inspecting Izz at the same time. Is it that hard to imagine Izz making friends the first day in prison? Is this an uncommon thing or something? Or is this counsellor full of accusations and scrutiny?

“He’s more a friend of my cellmate, I’ve only just met him, so . . . yeah.” Izz rubs the nape of his neck awkwardly, unsure why he feels the desire to explain—the counsellor’s hard eyes boring into him might be part of the reason.

He squirms at the look that gets cast his way. Nervous doesn’t even begin to describe how he’s feeling about this conversation.

“I see . . . And your cellmate would be?”

Maybe Izz should leave and forget about the job? He can always buy wool from Commissary and take up knitting. Do they sell wool at Commissary? He couldn’t afford it even if they do. He might have to resort to unravelling the threads in his shirt, use those to knit himself a hat or something—

Actually, he would rather gouge his eyes out with a spoon, instead of being caught knitting by another inmate. The no-eyes thing could work in his favour too, save him from the sight of the counsellor’s heavy examining gaze and observant eyes.

“Reni,” Izz tentatively replies.

“Reni . . .” The man taps his lips and glances into the far corner as if the answers are written on the ceiling’s faded paint.

“I don’t know his last name, or even if that’s his real name. He said he was the guide for new inmates—”

“Ah. yes, yes, that would be Romos Casimiro. He’s a lovely inmate, very well behaved. A good thing you have him as your cell buddy, there are a ton of unsavoury inmates in this prison who would make nightmarish cell buddies.”

That is not helping his nerves. Isn’t this guy supposed to be a counsellor here to help people? Not send them into panic attacks and have them leaving the office with more worries than they came in with.

And why call it buddies? Makes it sound like a little kids’ camping trip—a boy scouts’ mission—not an inescapable cage filled with hardened criminals.

“I—yes, I guess. I haven’t really met many inmates yet.” Well, there are those two creepy A-Wing locals—who left a bad taste in his mouth. He’s in no hurry to bump into them anytime in the future.

There’s also the serial killer, although, technically, Izz hasn’t met him. Merely observed the inmate from a safe distance. Which gives him stalker vibes now that he puts it into perspective in his own mind. Why does he feel like the creeper in this instance? The male’s a serial killer. Who wouldn’t stare on their first day?

Besides, Izz was studying the male before he found out about the killing part—he’ll choose to ignore the whys to that part of the story. He was not eye fucking a serial killer. Nope. He was studying a potential threat. That was all.

Even you don’t believe that lie. Izz’s inner voice mocks him.

“Perfectly understandable,” the man’s professional tone wafts into Izz’s ears. “You’ve been here for what? Less than twenty-four hours?”

“Yeah.” Has it truly been so little time? Izz feels a million years older than he did when he arrived. He’s going to be a walking casket on his release day at this rate.

“Okay, so, about the job. Ah. You can’t really pick. The system picks for you. Takes a day or two—usually—to work it out. I’ll put your name into the programming thingy and presto magic-o, you’ll get your assignment.”

Izz sighs. He can’t choose what he gets—he had to come here to get a job, but he can’t choose it. And they put his name into the system themselves, to wait for a machine to hand them a result. Why didn’t they automatically do this when he was being processed into prison in the first place? Instead of wasting all this time.

“Not to worry,” the counsellor continues, “if it’s something you hate, you can file paperwork to me for the Warden and see about getting moved. Although, it can take months to sort out. Warden’s a busy man. And he has to approve all transfers. And a job transfer is low on the scale of importance. Sitting under—approval for cell transfers or Wing transfers, inmates moving in and out of solitary confinement, and a whole heap of other prison related drama I won’t bore you with. It’s simply easier to stay in the job you’re assigned, grit your teeth, and muscle through—you’re not here too long anyway. Unless, you’re in fear of another inmate at your job stabbing you or harming you in some way. That usually jumps the transfers of jobs up in the Warden’s to-do pile. Usually. If you happen to get stabbed, you’re pulled out immediately.”

Great, so if Izz hates the job, he has to endure it unless someone hates him more and shivs him.

Excellent . Izz rolls his eyes internally.

How is this man a counsellor? He’s more of a doom and gloom giver. Handing out all the information—including every piece of bad information—even if you don’t want it.

“So . . . Ah . . .” The counsellor contemplates. Tacking on questions after a short stretch of silence that Izz refuses to fill, “how are you finding it so far? No troubles?”

“Prison?” Izz questions, he doesn’t particularly care what the counsellor means—

Izz wants to leave, will it be rude to get up and walk out? You can’t be sent to The Hole for that, can you?

“Yes.” The counsellor leans back in his chair, settling into a more comfortable position.

Izz’s anxiety spikes at the movement, an indication this conversation is going to be longer than he first hoped.

“I haven’t really seen much of the prison,” Izz thinks of the two inmates outside his cell, they hadn’t really done anything, except be creepy. He also isn’t a snitch. “It hasn’t been too gruelling so far. I’ve got a group that’s been helping me out, my cellmate introduced me to them, they’re the . . . people he hangs out with.”

He’s not sure it’d be wise to call them The Gang in front of this counsellor, even if they aren’t technically a true gang. At least . . . that’s what Reni told him . . .

“Sounds like you’re finding your place and fitting in nicely. It’s good to find companions to keep you from going numb in this place. But just remember, it is prison so don’t get too attached to people in here.”

The man had been on a roll—nice and kind—then killed it with his salad of crush-your-dreams-and-sharpen-your-fears. Why can’t the counsellor be more joyous? Dish out a bit of hope and ease your worries. Not stack onto them with more stuff to worry you to death after deflating your small balloons of light and hope in this colourless place.

“I know that,” Izz grits out. It’s increasingly hard not to lose patience and snap at the man.

Doesn’t mean you have to bring it all up. I’m happy to live in a bubble, while I try to stay sane during my time in this cage. Thank you very much. Izz grumbles to himself.

“Very good. Okay, I’ll add you into the system to get you that job assignment.” The counsellor rapidly types into the keyboard. “Anything else happened? . . . Anything noteworthy? Anything got you worried?”

First inmate in here who caught my eye is a serial killer. Who was staring at me as I stared at him. Something I’ve been told I’m not supposed to do, or I will end up dead—

“No. Nothing.” Izz elects to say instead. “I mean, the mattress sucks,” Izz tacks on, chuckling nervously. “But, no, nothing.”

“Good . . . Good . . . You can come by anytime if that changes, or you just have things you want to get off your chest.”

I’d rather tell the metal non-mirror mirror in my cell, at least that won’t lob more things at me to stress over.

“Thank you.” Izz forces a polite smile.

“Okay, off you pop. I’ll have a guard let you know when that job assignment comes through.”

Izz nods, straightening to his full height, to leave the bad news counsellor and the rather comfortable chair to their own devices. Rushing to the door and his prison life waiting beyond it.

~~~

By the time Izz enters a familiar corridor leading to the cafeteria, he can hear the busy hustle and bustle of lunch being served and consumed. The discussion in the counsellor’s office had taken longer than Izz initially anticipated. And his directionless wandering—throughout the prison, to find his way back to A-Wing, and in turn, the cafeteria—wasted even more time.

Izz pushes past the double doors—the same doors The Gang left from to go to Commissary—opening the way into the busy cafeteria. He must have arrived near the end of lunch, the cafeteria isn’t its usual busy self, appearing rather empty. Many of the tables are bare and others only dusted with men finishing off their meals.

He spots the others with their own trays gathered around their usual table. At least they’re all there, and he won’t be stuck eating alone, with nothing to occupy his mind.

Izz joins the back of the queue. There aren’t many inmates waiting to eat, he’s at the food serving bar in no time. Sliding his tray along the wooden bar to collect what’s left over to choose from. He doesn’t have much of a selection, most of the holding trays now empty.

“Was wondering where you were at?” The usual beefy server enquires of Izz. “You almost missed lunch. How’s your first day going?”

Izz always seems to be served by this specific inmate. Not sure if it’s a coincidence or not? Probably a coincidence. He hasn’t been to too many meals and there aren’t many servers. Not compared to the amount of inmates they prep food for.

“Was here yesterday.” He’s tired of all the questions being thrown at him. He wants to sit and eat, and not answer any more questions today. It’s only lunch, and he is already drained, his life force sucked dry.

“First official day,” the server smiles, serving a large portion of lasagne and a bottle of water.

Izz’s fighting his fatigue. Trying to keep his mind involved in the interaction is like staring at high beams—lots of effort to keep his eyes open, loads of pain shooting through his head with little to no outside information being retained, his whereabouts a foggy and blurry uncertainty.

“It’s been alright. I guess. Beds are uncomfortable. Had to see the counsellor to get a job assignment.”

“Explains why you looked so tired this morning. Takes a while to get used to sleeping here. And the counsellor is a real . . . nutcase.”

“I’m not really a morning person anyway,” Izz half-heartedly explains, dismissing the counsellor comment. He agrees but he’s not about to bag-out the guy who sends reports to the Warden. He’d prefer not to piss off the one who could potentially sabotage his transfer paperwork if he wants to move jobs or anything. Best to avoid it, just in case.

“You want chocolate or vanilla cake?” The inmate serving enquires, his mood way too cheerful for Izz’s liking—

Come to think of it, Izz doesn’t know the inmate’s name. Has never bothered to ask—he’s too tired to care to ask now.

“Chocolate would be nice, thank you.”

The server stacks two hefty slices of individually wrapped cake on the side of Izz’s tray. He scrutinises the cakes, puzzled why this server is always so nice to him. He’s certain the other inmates aren’t getting two slices. Although . . . after his crappy start to the day, he isn’t about to question this one kindness.

“Always got extra for those with manners,” the beefy server smirks, leaning in closer to Izz to whisper, “don’t go showing the others, they might get jealous.”

~~~

At the table, Izz slumps down next to Blake. He opens his bottle, sipping the rehydrating water, enjoying the cool liquid running down his parched throat.

He can see the mohawked inmate in his peripheral vision. He can sense the killer’s presence. A prey animal, aware it’s being watched. He’s proud of himself for not giving in to the urge to glance over. Instead he keeps his focus on the men at his own table. Which is why he spies his cellmate curiously raising a brow at his extra slice of cake. He’s too muddled in his head from everything the counsellor said—and implied—wrecking his day, with its negative energy—to care enough to explain that the server thinks his manners are a nice change from the rest of the rude inmates and due to this, gives him extra food each meal.

He can’t deal with anyone else shitting on his bubble today—he knows the server is most likely flirting with him. He knows he needs to let the beefy inmate down slowly. He knows the longer it goes on the worse it will be. He is not interested in pissing off the people who handle his food. Which is why he doesn’t want to think about it. Why he’s avoiding the thoughts and living in his little bubble. He wants to leave it to lie on its own, not poke at it until it starts throwing punches—

And now he’s thinking about it. Destroying his own little safety bubble, and killing his lasagne with his fork in the process.

He inwardly sighs, forcing himself to set the fork aside before he has a new dish of mashed lasagne.

Take it one day at a time. One problem at a time. Deal with getting the Job assignment first, then deal with whatever comes next. Izz pep talks himself, not truly buying what his mind is trying to sell.