Caged In (Caged Prison #1)

11

He isn’t impressed.

Pulled out of bed by a guard and told he has ten minutes to be ready and down in the kitchen to start his shift.

That was about ten minutes ago and he’s still in his cell hovering over the sink.

Izz has been in a go-slow kind of mood since the guard left. His attitude is likewise slow and grumpy. He’s a zombie—he has the same brain function as one. His body is stiff, sluggish, and he groans in pain with each step—a zombie.

It’s so early he has to squint in the darkness to navigate his box of a cell. No light coming through the tiny window. The sun is sleeping comfortably behind the soft blanketing hills, marshmallowed in their fluffy embrace—unlike Izz. Who is out in the cold, with a headache to rival the dead.

What time is it—

Izz squints at his little cupboard, at the dark shapes on its surface. He hadn’t put anything on top of it, so what is . . .

Shuffling closer, he grunts his way over to inspect the foreign objects. It’s medical supplies. Bandages, tapes, some type of disinfectant wipe. He sifts through the little assortment of first aid gear—

Pills. There are two little pills wrapped in a square of plastic. Tiny little white pills. No label. No name. No description. Just pills.

He knows he shouldn’t take them. He really shouldn’t. But he’s racked with aches and random muscle spasms threatening to drop his ass to the floor—and it’s killing the possibility of rational thinking.

He gathers the pills with trembling fingers, plopping them into his mouth. Swallowing them dry is a no go. He has to hold the tiny dissolving drugs on his tongue as he wobbles back over to the sink. Using his hand to scoop water into his awaiting mouth, swallowing it down and taking the pills with it.

At this point he is okay with whatever effects present themselves. He’d take anything as long as it took away the excruciating tenderness. He didn’t start the fight. He didn’t cause it. But it doesn’t matter. He is still the one who’d been viciously beaten.

He isn’t a fighter. He’d been lucky Reni and Zid were nearby to come to his rescue. He’d tried his best to lay low, to settle into his new life in this Hell-hole.

He’d failed spectacularly.

Please let these pills kill the pain, and not me.

~~~

It requires some deep soul searching and concentrated conviction to get his legs with the program, to shuffle his ass down the corridor. His legs still insist that Izz should be lying in bed asleep. He has to agree with them. Smart legs. The rest of his body is on a similar track, unhurried and dragging. He can’t remember the last time he was awake to start his day before the sun.

Slinking past the empty cafeteria feels surreal and slightly haunted. His mind running wild with thoughts of imaginary creatures watching him from the dark corners of the shadow-filled room. It’s creeping him out. His heart pumping rapidly to wake up his body with microbursts of adrenaline sparking through his bloodstream. Tiny shots of caffeine to energise his brain and body into the land of the coherent.

Shaking off the creepy vibes, Izz sucks in a deep breath to centre himself, before pushing past the doors to enter the kitchen—it’s strange being on the other side of the food serving bar—rounding the partition, he walks in on a whole flurry of activities.

Inmates rushing all over the place. Meals being cooked, the air swirling with multiple scents. Trays being stacked, pots and pans and utensils clanging loudly.

The organised chaos is daunting from the outside. And that’s what he feels like. An outsider. From what happened to his cellmate and self-appointed best friend, and the conversation he overheard between three other members of The Gang—the ones he thought he was on okay terms with—his essence is rather drained.

“You made it.”

Izz twists in the direction of the familiar voice, heart skipping and catching in his throat. The painkillers—he hopes they’re painkillers—are doing their job. His body is numbing out. Allowing him to move without gasping and curling over in agony.

The beefy server is approaching Izz with a grin, “heard about what happened, wasn’t sure if you’d be in The Hole or not. Glad to see you are not.”

“. . . Yeah. Thanks . . . I guess.” Izz mutters, wincing at the thought of the others being punished in his place. Not that he started the fight, he was the target for an unknown reason. Reni and Zidie were only trying to help him. They don’t deserve The Hole as a punishment.

The server loops an arm over Izz’s shoulders, he doesn’t have the heart to shove the inmate away. He kind of needs some human contact right now, to get him out of his head and away from the guilt eating at him.

“I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced, after all this time. I’m Levis.” The server waves his arm in an arch, indicating the whole kitchen, “I run this place, and these sorry losers you see, they’re the cogs that keep this shit running moderately well. I’m sure they’ll introduce themselves later on, or not, who cares, they’re not really important. The only one you got to listen to around here is me.”

“Alright.”

Izz counts fourteen others in the kitchen, working around multiple benches, busy with various tasks. All the inmates have the same tattoo above their eyebrow like Levis. So they must be part of the same gang.

Great. I was hoping they weren’t all gang affiliated.

“Today I’ll start you off slow.” Levis informs Izz, leading Izz over to the side, towards the serving trays in the food bar. “I’ll have you on cleaning for today, to get a feel for where everything is and how things are set out and the routine.”

He’s in no way thrilled to be stuck on cleaning duty. He’d rather try—and fail, several dozen times—at the cooking aspect of this job. Not the cleaning. He does not want to be stuck as a dishwasher, it’s bad enough he’s stuck in prison. Now he has to do chores?

Reni’s words filter down to Izz, their conversation on why he would have been shoved into the kitchen and not with them in the laundry.

As the inmates in the kitchen are in the same gang, it’s likely he’s chosen as the designated cleaner. Why wouldn’t they bring in an outsider to do the labour for them. So no one in their gang has to do it. And it appears he drew the short straw on the cleaning job.

Levis removes his arm from Izz, but doesn’t step back, “Under there—” Levis points at the closed cupboards under the food bar. “—you’ll find the cleaning gear for the bench tops and trays.”

Izz nods his understanding. He’s not thrilled with this job assignment. Had he been in the laundry at least he would have Zidie to keep him occupied and make the hours bearable . . .

Except Zidie wouldn’t, would he? He isn’t in the laundry room. He’s in The Hole. Probably lying in the middle of the tiny box cell, twiddling his thumbs, bored out of his mind.

Because of me. It’s my fault.

When Levis flicks his hand towards the cupboards, Izz’s face flushes a little.

Right , he’s supposed to get the stuff out.

Bending down he pulls the doors open, grabbing out a spray bottle and wipes. Angling it towards Levis for inspection to ensure he picked the correct products.

Izz frowns at Levis, he’s sure the man had been staring at his ass. But he can’t be sure where Levis’s eye level was at.

He brushes the thought off, chocking it up to a paranoia thing. He’s agitated over being attacked, that’s what it is. Levis had not been staring at his ass. No way.

“Wipe down the countertops, and all the trays. To prep it for when the food comes out. I’ve got some other things to handle, come find me when you’ve finished, and I’ll show you where to load the dishes and trays for cleaning.”

And that’s how Izz gets stuck scrubbing down the food serving bar. Cleaning the areas where the trays will sit with the breakfast selection. Wiping the bench top inmates slide their trays along to collect food. Scrubbing it down nice and clean.

A lifetime passes before he finishes, the place looking shiny and sparkling new. Ready to go.

A spark of pride enters his chest over the job he did, he’s never wiped down a large bench before, or the other things he had to clean. He’s a cleaning pro now.

Strolling into the depths of the kitchen, Izz wanders around, trying—and failing—to locate Levis. He swears he’s searched the entire kitchen twice and he can see no sign of the kitchen boss anywhere.

“Excuse me,” Izz asks one of the inmates flipping the cages of bacon to drain off the oil, “do you know where Levis is?”

“He went around back, to check supplies for lunch,” the guy points to a small flapping door.

Izz slowly pushes the doors wide—a huge walk-in pantry greets him. Stacked with a large selection of bulk food supplies. Barrels of flour as tall as him. Shelves stuffed with more potatoes and onions than he has seen in his lifetime. Other shelves holding salt, pasta, rice—bags and bags of it.

Damn, this has to be a hefty food bill.

Izz locates the server in the third aisle of shelves. Levis is sifting through a barrel of something . . .

He spies items he knows are definitely not prison issued.

Contraband .

Levis doesn’t appear to have heard Izz come in. The man is hunched over counting products, maybe fixing up orders or other contraband type activities.

Ducking back around to the other aisle, he sneaks off, tiptoeing further away to avoid being discovered. He doesn’t want to be associated—by the guards—with contraband distribution. Or worse—getting caught by the shady kitchen boss, spying on secretive prison business.

“Levis, you in here? I finished the cleaning,” Izz’s voice carries through the entire pantry. He positions himself next to the doors and pretends he hadn’t walked in and seen what he had.

“Yep, give us a sec’ I’ll be right with you,” Levis’s voice drifts back to Izz, along with the clatter of a barrel closing tight.

“Alright,” Izz loiters on the periphery of the pantry, waiting for the kitchen Boss —and apparently, contraband distributor—to come out.

“Terrific,” Izz mutters sarcastically to himself.

He prays this incident doesn’t go south, prays the guards don’t find out and add more time onto his sentence. When he has nothing to do with the contraband, he was given this job by the counsellor. He has no say in what the other inmates in here have been doing—and will no doubt continue doing.

Come to think of it, the knowledge may be useful. Good to know who to approach for things like weed. If Levis distributes weed—and Izz has money to buy it. And he is willing to risk dealing with a mob boss—or gang, or whatever they call themselves—to get illegal contraband inside a prison. And if he is willing to take the risk of potentially getting caught in the process.

Seems like more risks than it’s worth.

~~~

He is not enjoying washing up. The dishes are endless. Packing the dishwasher is boring and gruelling—even with four machines available to use, it still takes forever. And the pills are wearing off, his aches and pains returning to him with a vengeance. Punishing him for making them disappear.

Levis had shown Izz how to pack the machines, where the soaps and scrubbing brushes are located. Where the dials had to be set. And where to put everything once it’s cleaned and dried.

Izz sighs as he slams the last dishwasher shut, clicking its little digital buttons to start the wash and rinse routine. This particular machine is the newest model out of the four washers, it’s way easier to use than the rest of them.

He’s the last in the kitchen. The other inmates—who cooked and prepared the meal—have finished their work and left to eat. The servers are the only ones hanging around the front of the kitchen, past the divider, out of sight. He can’t see them and they can’t see him. Which he takes full advantage of, leaning back against a machine to take a break, with no one around to notice him slacking off. It’s not like he actually has anything to do. Not until the loads are finished and he can pack everything away.

Am I going to be the cleaning boy now?

Is this what Reni meant? When his cellmate said someone wanted him here?

He would hate to be stuck in this kitchen job, for the sole purpose of cleaning. He doesn’t know how to cook but that doesn’t mean he wanted to do dishes for the rest of his long prison stay. He has plenty of time to learn how to cook—

Approaching footfalls have Izz spinning to face the machines, and pretend like he’s very busy doing . . . something.

“How’s everything going?” Levis’s heavy strides rounds the corner, “I remember you like the bacon. Made you a tray.”

Izz turns to find Levis holding out a tray containing his usual breakfast choices. Well, ‘usual’ for the couple of times he’s had it prior to today. He hasn’t been here long enough to have an actual meal preference.

“Thanks, I’m starving. I don’t think I’ve cleaned this much in a year, let alone a single meal.” Izz laughs nervously, accepting the tray from Levis’s grasp.

He places the tray down on one of the clean bench tops. Eating slowly—while hunched over the bench—as the bacon grease stings the split inside his mouth.

“You’ll be on cooking for lunch. Get here early so I can run you through where everything goes.”

Izz nearly chokes on his mouthful of bacon at the server’s words. Turning his stunned face to Levis, he watches the man break into a slow grin.

“What? You think I was going to keep you on cleaning indefinitely?” Levis’s voice is laced with amusement.

“Well . . . yeah,” Izz splutters sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Figured because I’m new, and . . . well, not part of your . . .” He isn’t sure if they go by gang, or mob? He tapped above his own eyebrow to indicate what he’s referring to. He doesn’t want to call Levis by the wrong term and accidentally offend the man.

Levis doesn’t answer, he just smirks. Leaning back on one of the kitchen benches, indicating with his chin to Izz’s tray.

He digs back into his meal. It tastes amazing, he’s starving from the huffing and heaving of multiple kitchen equipment into the washers. Probably part of the reason why the food tastes so good, his stomach is completely empty and he’s desperate to fill it.

He can sense Levis watching him. He chooses to ignore it. Continuing to eat his food hastily muscling through the stinging burn—he’s alone with an inmate who he doesn’t know, who runs a gang, and is into shady business—he’d like to leave as soon as possible, to be on the safe side.

“So,” Izz talks over his insistent worries, “do we have to cook every meal, every day? No holidays in prison?”

“No. Other inmates who don’t work in the kitchen, work one shift a day, and have Sundays off—unless they’re cleared by Medical for more days off.” Levis explains. “We—inmates who work the kitchen—work three shifts in one day for the week, so we have the second week off. A week on, a week off.”

Well, that’s a bonus Izz supposes. He’s not sure he could survive prepping for three meals indefinitely. He’d be a walking zombie in no time. Especially having to wake up so early. A week off will be excellent. If he can find things to do. He’s going to get bored real fast if he doesn’t find something to kill his down time.

~~~

Izz went back to his cell after breakfast, finding a pair of white pills plastic wrapped on his pillow. He takes them without a second thought, the first lot hadn’t killed him, this lot should be fine.

Sitting tentatively on his bunk, he waits for the pills to kick in and kill the pain. He’ll stay in his cell until lunch, he is not in the mood to deal with The Gang. He can’t pretend as if he hadn’t heard what David said. Pretend like it’s fine. They’re probably thrilled to be rid of him and all his, ‘attracting attention’, ‘pissing off gangs’, ‘can’t protect himself to save his life’.

He’s an outsider in this world. He has no idea how to act in this place, how to carry himself, how to pick friends—can you even be friends in prison? Or is everyone in here using everyone else—

No. That can’t be it. Or Zidie and Reni wouldn’t have stepped in to help him. They would have left Izz to deal with his own fate. That fate would have been death, no doubt about it.

Izz mulls over his thoughts. Drawn into the inner ramblings of his mind. Trying to link puzzle pieces together and map out his plans to survive this cage. To make it out—if not in one piece, then at the very least—alive.

He’s so caught up in his own thoughts that he’s shocked when a guard stops by to tell him to report to the kitchens for lunch prep. He hadn’t realised he’d been sitting in his cell so long.

He’s slightly wary about going back. Levis was throwing off weird vibes. His senses kept twitching around the man, like they knew something was off, something he can’t yet figure out. Maybe it’s uncertainty?—unease?—linked to working so close to gang members.

Izz darts down the corridor, moving swiftly to avoid any more unpleasant run-ins. He does not want a repeat of the attack. The pain meds he’d found left in his cell had helped, but he doesn’t need more bruises on top of bruises. He’d like to have enough time to heal, without adding to the collection.

Shoving past the kitchen doors, he takes a moment to catch his breath, he’s sure the kitchen has moved further away, he can’t be this unfit. His lungs expand in their struggle to draw in much needed oxygen, inflating around a small flutter in his chest at avoiding having his face stomped in on his brisk walk here.

The little things to celebrate in life. Go me. Izz’s inner cheerleader flips its pom-poms to his success.

Scrunching his face he steps past the partition into the kitchen, disgusted in himself for thinking he has an inner cheerleader doing anything, let alone cheering him on for not getting beaten up.

Again.

This place is already getting to him, driving him into insanity. Maybe they have a spare bed in the Psych-Wing he can use. He’s arguing with himself about cheerleaders dancing in his head, he’s well on his way to joining the crazy train—he might find himself running it, if he’s not careful.

“You’re in charge of these pots. Stirring them to prevent it sticking and burning. No one wants burnt mashed potatoes.” Levis hovers over Izz’s back, breathing down Izz’s neck like an over-zealous teacher waiting for the student to screw up so they can reprimand them. Before walking off to yell orders at other inmates.

Izz grabs the giant ass wooden spoon—he’s sure this was a broom before the guards attached a spoon end to it. They can’t possibly make wooden spoons this big? It’s almost as tall as him.

It’s surprisingly easy to stir. He thought the bulk amount of mash would gunk together, resulting in an immovable mess of boiling sludge. What he got, is a mixture easily parting to allow the spoon to slide through it like soft butter.

It’s relaxing. Stirring the smooth cooking potatoes. Pulling him into a lulled zone of peace. A zone of calm encasing him. Who knew stirring a giant pot of simmering mash would turn out to be so relaxing—

Izz’s rudely dragged out of his trance when a hand runs down his back, rubbing over his ass—

He stiffens, swivelling to identify who’s touching him. Coming face to face with Levis occupying the space right behind him.

Levis is inspecting the pots, hands in his pockets, no acknowledgement whatsoever written on his smooth face.

Had Levis only bumped into him by accident?

Was I imagining it as a hand? It had been a quick motion, perhaps I’m jumping to conclusions?

Izz frowns, resuming his assigned task. He does shuffle a step to the side, to place Levis in his line of sight. In case he hadn’t imagined it, in case it is more than another inmate brushing against him unintentionally in a cramped room. The kitchen is very small, considering how many fully-grown men are lumped in together.

He moves on to the next pot to give it his attention. He’s somewhat nervous to take his eyes off the mashed potatoes, afraid of burning his first meal. And in consequence, wrecking his chances at being given any other cooking tasks. He does not want to go back to washing dishes. One shift is enough cleaning to last him a lifetime.

He narrows his eyes at the white mass in the next pot, his sixth sense alerting him to Levis repositioning closer.

Why is Levis moving closer?

He moves to the next pot, and sure enough, Levis follows Izz there. What is up with him today? Why is he acting so creepy? He isn’t always like this, is he?

Izz thought Levis was nice. Normal. Respectful and maybe becoming a friend. He is second guessing himself now—

No. No, Levis has always been nice. Never weird. Izz had talked to him on many occasions. He’d not sensed anything amiss, not like he did with the vomit-dragon tattoo guy. Or the bald gang members. Surely he hasn’t misjudged Levis so spectacularly?

Maybe the server is merely passionate about his food, checking that it’s cooked to perfection. The meals Izz has eaten so far were of great quality, and Levis does run the kitchen. Therefore the man must be doing something right, right?

So . . . why is his skin crawling at Levis’s close proximity? It feels like more than the kitchen boss teaching him the ropes to food prep. More than the normal level of attention.

His body tenses when a solid chest comes to rest against his back. His spine locking in place, he finds himself unable to move.

“I can protect you,” Levis whispers, the clogging warmth of his too-hot breath filling Izz’s sinuses. “Stop those other pieces of shit from coming anywhere near you. When you’re mine, you won’t have to worry about anyone.”

When I’m what? What is Levis talking about ?

He is not interested in . . . belonging . . . to anyone. Is Levis on drugs or something? Why would Izz sell his soul for anything. The vibe radiating out of Levis is telling him he’s not talking about a friendship, the man is insinuating something far worse. Along the lines of selling his body for protection.

He stumbles away from Levis. He knows his face is displaying his utter disgust with this conversation. His upper lip twisting in his distaste for Levis’s proposition.

Levis doesn’t take the hint. Instead, the man invades Izz’s personal space some more. Before he’s able to protest, Levis grabs his ass. Caging him in against the kitchen bench, its hard surface digging into his spine.

Izz panics. Eyes widening, he frantically searches the kitchen. Praying he’s not alone, that what is happening isn’t truly happening.

The handful of inmates scattered throughout the kitchen space—finishing their prep work—are pretending not to notice. They turn their backs or avert their eyes, blatantly ignoring what Levis is doing.

I’m all alone against this creep.

How can they do this? How can anyone turn their backs on something like this? What is wrong with them?

“Come on, Sugar. You been flaunting it around for days. Teasing me,” Levis’s hand gropes Izz’s ass, grinding his hips into Izz, “after all I’ve done for you. I think it’s time you start reciprocating.”

After all he’s done?

What has Levis done? Given him a little extra food. Nothing that would even remotely come close to allowing the man to feel him up without his permission.

“S-seriously, back off,” Izz warns, but his voice is not as strong or forceful as he intended it to be.

Why is this happening to me? Why can’t people just leave me alone?

When he receives no reaction, he tries a different approach. Praying it will save him, “I’m trying to cook the potatoes, do you want them to burn? Back off.”

Levis lets loose a huffed laugh, stepping out of Izz’s space, “we’ll finish this after lunch. Think about my offer.”

~~~

Izz practically sprints out of the kitchen as soon as the meals are brought out for serving. Not sticking around to clean or top up the serving trays when the food runs low. He’s gone before the pots he’s in charge of stop sizzling.

He is not sorry about ditching out, not apologetic in the slightest. None of the others did shit. Every one of them pretended not to notice him being molested by that creep. They are as bad as the one who groped him. They stood by and said nothing—did nothing—when it was happening.

Back at his cell, Izz repeatedly thumps his head into his pillow. Crying out at how unfair everything is in this Hell-hole.

He doesn’t want it. He doesn’t want to be with anyone for protection. He isn’t into Levis in that way. Doesn’t find him even remotely attractive.

Levis is not Izz’s type. Not even close. The man is foul. A revolting molester.

Why do they keep targeting me?

Despite the noise from various inmates crowding his Wing, he eventually cries himself to sleep. His dreams are filled with crazed nightmares. Hands reaching out for him in the darkness. Laughing sinister faces surround him as he runs. Trying to escape the grabbing hands—

A shrill alarm offers a lifeline to pull Izz free of his nightmares. Free of the reaching hands.

The alarm is the calling card for dinner—he must have missed dinner prep? And he is pleased by it. He wouldn’t have gone either way. But now he doesn’t have to sit in his cell worrying about a guard coming to collect him for food prep. He’s not sure he could have stayed sane with that level of anxiety breathing down on him.

He picks up the new wrap of pills off his cupboard—where do they keep coming from?

He uses the cell’s sink, swallowing the meds. Stripping out of his sweat soaked clothes he washes his body as best he can—water running down his sides to drip onto the floor, forming a puddle around his bare feet.

He ignores the water, which will dry during the night—or not, he doesn’t care either way. Perhaps it will form mould and he’ll have to be escorted to Med-Wing for mould inhalation. He’d have some days in a private room without any worries of inmates jumping him in the corridors. Or in the kitchen. Or outside his cell. He’d have a medical clearance to keep him out of the kitchen, and away from the gang boss.

Does mould grow overnight?

He hopes so. He’s dreading going back. He knows it’s inevitable. He has to work in the kitchen, he’ll be dragged in by a guard and forced to stay there. Levis will have another opportunity to touch him. And none of the other inmates will help him.

He plops down on his mattress, shaking off his feet to air dry them. Water flicking over the cell—it doesn’t work, just wets more things.

Whatever.

Izz stuffs himself into a burrito of blankets, tucking himself into the fake protective shield. The thin fabric moulding to his body. Tightening over him, protecting him so nothing bad can harm him. A cocooned embrace to hug him to sleep.

With a huff he worms his cocoon over to the beds edge, so he can reach his cupboard without the need to stand. Hanging over the edge to collect a new set of prison clothes. He may have the cell to himself for the night but that doesn’t mean he trusts this Hell-hole enough to sleep naked in it.

For all he knows the guards may not even lock the doors correctly. He’s never tried to open them once they close. How does he know they don’t just shut, beep, and stay unlocked?

You’re paranoid. Izz’s inner voice whispers, and he finds himself cursing at it as he wrestles his clothes on inside his blanket cocoon.