Caged In (Caged Prison #1)

10

Izz chooses to relax in his cell during his downtime while The Gang are working their prison-assigned jobs. He’ll have to do that tomorrow. Something he is not looking forward to. Not only is he stuck in this cage, but he has to go to work too. Talk about being screwed over twice.

It might not be all bad, he supposes. He’s sure he can make friends in the kitchens, he already has one server who likes him. He’s sure the others will be fine once they get to know him.

He’s not too keen on them being part of a gang—an actual gang . On the outside he’d never met a gang, let alone cooked with one. Now, inside these walls, he’s seen too many gangs to count, and he’s expected to cook with one. He could encounter hostility or he could encounter kindness. He’s leaning more towards the former, he’s sure gang members are not too pleased with outsiders hanging around on their turf.

His biggest worry is if they try to recruit him—do they call it recruiting? Sounds more like a military term than a gang one. And no, he will not be asking them what they call it. He’ll not say anything even remotely related to gangs or joining or anything in between. He’s already in prison, he doesn’t need to be in a gang on top of that.

And when he says no ? What will happen to him? Will they accept ‘no’ for an answer? Or will he be killed—

Dropping his increasingly troubling thoughts—not what he needs to be working himself up about. Best to let events play out and not imagine scenarios that have not transpired and may never come to pass.

Yawning until his jaw spasms and cracks, Izz settles back against his soft bunk. The alarm for dinner should rouse him, he doesn’t see an issue in catching some shut eye, while the inmates are off working. Seems safe enough, and not a disaster to end with him alone and defenceless getting shivved . . . He hopes.

Tucking in, he curls into the fetal position. Pulling the thin blanket over his head to block out the majority of the prison’s invading lights. Drifting off into a peaceful sleep.

~~~

The blissful respite had been God sent. Izz feels refreshed and revived. Ready to kick this prison life in the butt. He’s not sure why violent thoughts are necessary, but he isn’t questioning his eager, energetic mood. It’s better than his down and depressed mood ever since he walked into prison.

He hadn’t realised how bad it’d been, how much weight had been slumped over his shoulders. Now that its lifted, he feels a million times lighter.

It’s a euphoric feeling.

Grinning to himself—like a lunatic—he tries, and fails, not to skip down the metal steps. Swinging off the railing to jump the last couple, plopping to the first level’s concrete flooring. Ignoring the snide comments aimed his way by passing inmates.

Dinner time.

Wonder what they have on the prison menu tonight. The food has been surprisingly diverse, a huge variety of ever-changing assortments to pick from. He hasn’t attended many meals, those he had were all different. He’s cheerfully optimistic it’s the case for all the meals. So no one gets bored by the food. You know the saying , ‘boredom leads to fighting’—

Is that a saying? Or something his mum made up? It’s true either way.

Izz extends his arm to trail his fingertips along the rough bricks as he makes his way down the corridor. The lumpy paint job exaggerating the defects in the bricks texture. The paint may have smoothed it out, taking away the gritty brick texture, but it did little to smooth out the lumps and divots. A slippery slide for his fingers to trace over.

“Well looky here, boys. We gots’ ourselves a little lost birdy.”

Izz wheels around, to find he is no longer alone in the corridor. Four inmates have ambled in after him—looking smug and self-satisfied.

The leader in front is the one who spoke, Izz assumes he’s the leader by the way he holds himself. Sure, confident, commanding. And very, very, bald. His lackeys are likewise as bald as a baboon’s ass.

They have to be part of that gang Izz noticed on his first day. The whole table that was filled with shiny hairless heads. The one gang he will never join—not that he’s going to be joining any gangs. This one though. No frickin’ way is he shaving his head for a prison gang.

Heck no.

Should I say something? Will it help the situation or make it worse?

“Um, can I help you?” Izz questions, he figures ignoring them will be rude and would garner a worse reaction then acknowledging them.

All four laugh.

Not a nice, happy, joyous laugh. No. Rather it’s a mocking, distrustful, sarcastic laugh.

They remind him of cats. Flitting in, mock striking, assessing their cornered plaything. A poor mouse trapped in the clutches of a group of feral felines—

Definitely not a hot idea referring to himself as a mouse. Or plaything for that matter.

“You’re walking on my turf,” the leader one snarls, confirming he’s the leader. Wouldn’t be his ‘turf ’ if he isn’t.

“Sorry. I didn’t know that.”

Pretty sure you’re lying on that front. This is the main corridor to the cafeteria, hardly likely any gang would own it. Not with every gang needing to use it to get to the cafeteria.

He leaves his inner ramblings unsaid. No need to provoke these inmates any more than necessary. He doesn’t need to give them an excuse to become pissed off.

“I was walking to the cafeteria. I’ll go straight there and get out of your hair.” Pun intended, mockery meant to be included, even though Izz keeps his voice low and respectful. He still doesn’t like these inmates with their swagger and I-own-this-place persona.

He backs away slowly, keeping his eyes on the four men. Edging closer to the cafeteria and its relative safety. He doubts these inmates would have a go at him in the open cafeteria in front of hundreds of witnesses and a dozen, or so, guards.

He has countless off shooting corridors he could run down, but only the doors at the end will lead him straight into the arms of witnesses. The cafeteria is his safest bet. He doesn’t know the prison’s layout enough to gamble with which other corridor could potentially lead to safety.

“I think you should stay. Let us show you where you can and can’t go. Give you a tour ,” the bald leader sneers, glancing back at his lackeys like he’s scared they left and he isn’t man enough to take on anyone in a fair, one on one, fight.

“Already had one of those,” Izz fires back, backing away faster to get out of here and into the safety of the cafeteria and its crowded interior—

The leader swivels two fingers. A small movement Izz would have missed if he hadn’t been focusing intensely on the man. Two of his lackeys surge forward, right at Izz.

He back-pedals fast, catching himself on the wall as he spins around, digging his heels in, he guns for the exit. For the cafeteria behind it. He makes it several steps before a thick arm snaps around his middle. Popping him off his feet and hauling him back the way he’d come.

Flight failed.

Trapped. With only one option now—

His back becomes acquainted with the floor, the harsh landing expelling air from his lungs in an explosive rush—

Izz swings his head to the side dodging his attacker’s fist by a fraction of an inch. Hearing the solid thud as meaty flesh hits the concrete by his ear—

He tucks both feet in, kicking out with all the force he can muster—

He hits a solid chest with both feet planted, sending his attacker sprawling backwards. He’s never been in a hand-to-hand fight—or any fight for that matter—but he knows he has to get up.

Being on the floor—with three men standing threateningly above him, and one other who is no doubt getting their footing back under them this very second—is not a hot idea.

Rolling to his side, Izz pushes himself onto his hands and knees, ready to spring to his feet and defend himself—

He doesn’t achieve his goal. What he does accomplish is opening his stomach up—leaving his organs exposed—to cop the full brunt of the prison-issued shoe that lands the blow.

Insides screaming and convulsing, he curls around his middle to protect himself from further harm. Coughing out what little breath he managed to suck in after his back slammed into the floor—

The next kick is aimed at his head—he has enough presence of mind to raise his arm to block it—effectively punching himself in the face when his weak block fails to stop the kick’s follow through. His head snapping back, off balancing him and sending him sprawling onto the concrete floor.

On his back once more. Vulnerable to the men above him, who are hell-bent on causing him grievous injuries.

He can taste metal—a metallic warmth—he’s split something in his mouth, the taste is foul, causing him to gag, coughing out as much as he can—

A savage stomp lands on his ribs, the pain is immediate and sharp, sending a tidal wave of agony through his whole body.

Curling into a ball—as the assaulting leg rises above him—he tries his best to shield his body from the blow he knows is coming. The blow that will cause more excruciating pain. His body is already screaming in agony. It isn’t going to appreciate another bone-stomping hit.

My first fight, and I’m going to die—

The inmate with the death stomp lined up to crush his ribs—flies off out of sight. A quick flick of an invisible giant’s hand sends the inmate into the air and crashing onto the floor.

How is that possible . . . ?

A blur of multi-coloured ocean creatures’ swishes past his line of sight—

Izz coughs, spitting up warm liquid. He reaches for his face with a shaky hand, swiping at the rapidly-cooling fluid over his chin. Pulling his hand back, he looks down at the dark red coating his fingers, sliding through the cracks to drip . . .

Drip . . .

Drip . . .

Splattering on the concrete floor next to his rapidly bruising body, forming a little puddle of crimson.

He groans, curling in on himself, trying to release the pain from his body. A burning sharp agony that doesn’t want to subside, adamant on letting him know it’s there.

Three days in, and I’m dying in the corridor.

Izz can hear yelling, cursing above him, the sounds of flesh hitting flesh. Going by the rising noise level, more inmates have gathered in the small space to watch, or participate, he isn’t sure which.

Sucking in a deep breath to ground himself—wheezing when the movement ignites pain in his ribs—he uses the wall to sit up, slumping over the bricks to hold himself steady. Blinking rapidly to clear the throbbing in his head and the pains’ haze from his vision, he leans his head against the wall. The pungent smell of his own blood burning his sinuses.

The change from horizontal to vertical brings Izz’s line of sight to the fighting above him. To the two other inmates who joined the fight. Who saved his life.

Reni and Zidie. They’re drawing the attention off Izz and taking the gang members on in full force. A powerful team working together to kick ass.

Reni’s crouched over a downed inmate, his fists raining down while they try to shield their face from the brutal impacts. Izz sees a different Reni, his face twisted in rage, teeth bared and eyes flaming.

Who knew Reni cared so much about me.

Another of the bald gang members is sprawled on the concrete floor, either dead or unconscious. Izz can’t tell, the inmate isn’t moving, but they may have been breathing shallowly? Hopefully.

He doesn’t know what to feel if he’s looking at someone dead in front of him. Sickened? Relieved they won’t come after him again?

Sickened. I am not relieved about their death. That is not who I am. It’s not who I ever want to be.

On the other side of the not-dead man, Zidie is bouncing on the balls of his feet, squaring off against two bald men. He’s throwing punches and kicks, blocking blows and returning them in kind. He’s agile and quick, able to outmanoeuvre the gang members who are relying on brute strength and little to no skills—

A blaring siren sounds out, thundering down the corridor, bouncing off the brick walls to echo louder. Izz covers his ears, trying to block out the screeching. Jumping to his feet, as if it will help his ears. It sure doesn’t help his battered body. Instead, it awakens injuries he hadn’t felt before. Perhaps the adrenaline is wearing off? Or the swelling and soreness is too advanced to ignore.

How much damage have I endured—

The guards’ stream in—pushing and shoving the onlooking inmates to the side—cuffs in hand. They make quick work securing the inmates involved in the fight, handcuffs clicking on wrists in well-practiced precision.

He’s surprised when he isn’t also cuffed. He receives nothing more than a side-eye from a guard before the man’s eyes dart over Izz’s shoulder and he walks on to help his thugs-in-uniform drag off inmates.

Izz watches in stunned shock as Reni and Zidie are hauled away, along with three of the four gang members. And an inmate he doesn’t recognise who’s swearing and trying to kick every guard in sight.

Going to The Hole?

The unconscious inmate is hefted between two guards and dragged over the floor, his feet flopping as he hangs limp between them. Perhaps heading to Med-Wing? If Izz’s to guess. Or the morgue.

Does the prison have a morgue?—

He doesn’t want to know.

The spectators disperse, now that the excitement is over, drifting off to the cafeteria to resume eating. Izz’s appetite has disappeared, he turns and limps off to the showers to wash the blood off his face. Holding his ribs protectively.

Halfway to the showers, he remembers he has a sink in his cell—he could have washed there. He considers turning around and going back, but he’s already this far so he sticks with it. Only a few more turns to the showers—

Voices drift over from around the next corner. They’re voices he recognises from The Gang. Izz drops his head, his shoulders slumping, shame rolling over him. Covered in blood, hating himself for Reni and Zidie now stuck in The Hole. All because of him, because they had to step in to save him.

He falters at the periphery of the bend in the corridor, the hushed snippets of conversation giving him pause. He peeks his head around the corner, leaving his body hidden by the wall so he doesn’t draw attention to himself. Overhearing the tense conversation between Isco, Phelix and David. Who are facing away from him, slowly strolling down the corridor, heading in the direction of the showers.

Would have been embarrassing if they’d been right near the corner facing him. With his head popping out all ‘hello’— he probably would have squealed to add insult to his obvious spying.

David’s voice carries back to Izz strong and sure, “we can’t keep protecting him, or we will all be targets or in The Hole. And I for-one, am not going back to The Hole for anyone. Especially not someone who can’t fight to save his life,” David grumbles, anger lacing his words. “He’s attracting attention. Pissing off gangs—gangs who we don’t need to be drawing attention from. It’s going to get us killed. Protecting him. Is it really worth it?”

Izz’s stunned, to say the least. He’s never heard David speak so much, and he never would have guessed the man harboured so much anger towards him. He thought David was merely shy or didn’t like talking much.

Never would have guessed it’s due to him hating me.

Isco? Sure, Izz can see the man hating everyone—he still gets jumpy around the other and he has no idea why. And as for Phelix? Izz’s learnt he’s the pacifist, the background man who doesn’t involve himself in any drama. The glue no one notices keeping The Gang in check.

Izz turns away, not interested in listening to Isco’s reply, limping back to his cell. Maybe they aren’t his friends. He can’t say he blames them. He’s known them for ten seconds, can he blame them for not wanting to die for him. He doesn’t want anyone to die for him.

But what is he supposed to do? He didn’t ask to get attacked, he didn’t ask Reni or Zidie to step in. Of course, he’s beyond grateful they did. But he never asked for it.

He doesn’t understand why the gangs are pissed off at his group because of him. What did he do? He hasn’t talked to any of the gangs, he’s kept to himself and only hung around with The Gang. Sure he spoke to the server but he’s only being polite. That gang can’t possibly be the one David’s talking about, can it? The server is always nice to him, always pleasant and chivalrous towards him.

He knows it isn’t the bald gang members, he’s never once spoken to them. And he has no idea why they picked a fight with him. Bored? Or something else? He can’t think of anything else, so boredom must be it—bullies looking for their fucked-up idea of fun, someone to poke at and occupy their time with.

Izz stretches out on his bunk with a grunt. Too exhausted to wash his face, the blood already dry and cracking, itchy and flaking off.

His body hurts. He wants to sleep. He’ll deal with the blood in the morning.

His stiff legs are doing a marvellous job of impersonating jelly—it’s impossible for him to stand any longer. He isn’t interested in face planting the floor by attempting to wash his blood off. He doesn’t need to add to his injuries when his legs inevitably give out on him. With his luck he’ll split his head open on the sink on his way to the floor, and bleed out alone in his tiny cell.

Stretching out slowly over his bed, he groans as his muscles twist and pinch him under his skin. The double mattress pile may keep him off the metal bed frame, but it does little to cushion his bruises. The aching twinges surging involuntarily through his limbs. His bones ache—how do bones ache?

I wish I had something to kill the pain.

Sleep claims him quickly—had he not been in so much pain he might have considered sleeping a bad idea. If he has a concussion, sleep is a terrible idea. He’d heard that sleeping is a no go for concussions. His mind—and body—have other plans, slipping him under the black veil of a deep, dreamless abyss, before he has the sense to stop it.