Caged In (Caged Prison #1)

18

They arrive outside a door marked ‘Filing Room’ —must be the one the counsellor was talking about, it feels like years ago since the first time he’d been to the counsellor’s office. He’d thought things had sucked back then, he was wrong. He never would have guessed his life’s path would have driven him to this moment in time. These events unfolding right before his eyes, an avalanche he can no more prevent than he can stop from burying him alive.

The guard unlocks the door, using one of the many keys attached to the uniformed belts’ all guards’ wear. Shoving the door wide, and stepping back, flicking his head to indicate Izz’s to go inside.

Yeah, that’s obvious, you asshole. Izz elects not to voice his displeasure—this doesn’t need to be worse than it’s already going to be.

The room’s filled with row after row of shelves, holding stacks and stacks of boxes. If he has to guess he’d say the boxes are filled with files. There had to be more files in here than inmates in the prison.

Are these files the documentations of every single person who’d ever been stuck in this cage? The history of the prison, boxed up in this airless cramped room.

He swivels back around at the sound of the door clicking shut. The guard’s hulking frame taking up the space in front of the door.

“I’m going to do it,” Izz states, holding his hand out palm up towards the guard. “I just want the picture back . . . please.” He pushes the last word out through gritted teeth. He hates having to beg. But he wants to be sure it isn’t going to be for nothing. He needs the image to be in his possession by the end.

The guard doesn’t move, doesn’t waver, doesn’t appear to have heard Izz. He completely ignores Izz’s words, not fazed in the slightest.

He tries again, executing a different approach. “At least put it down over there,” Izz points to one of the shelves with a space between boxes, “so it doesn’t get ripped or scrunched up.”

He’s thankful when the guard complies, he doesn’t appreciate how the guard tosses the drawing down, but at least it’s away from the a’hole. The one solace in this crappy situation—

Izz’s gripped by the shoulder and shoved down onto his knees. The hard concrete flooring offering little cushioning as his bones meet solid mass. He winces, unsure if it’s the pain or the degrading position.

I don’t want this. I can’t do it.

He wants to stay strong. To steel his emotions and do what has to be done. But he can’t. . . he can’t pretend like this is okay, like it’s not affecting him.

It isn’t okay, this scumbag’s forcing me.

He doesn’t want to cry, doesn’t want to give this a’hole the satisfaction.

Is he really doing this? Is this what his life has become?

Is this who I have become? Who I’ve chosen to be.

No. He has a choice. And the drawing is safe, at a safe distance. Far enough away that the guard can’t grab it. If he plans this right, executes the plan correctly—

One misstep in timing and Izz will destroy the picture he is here to protect. He isn’t a fighter, that has been proven. But he’s also not about to bow down to rape—

Izz attacks—he’s sloppy and uncoordinated—trying out an under the arms and over the shoulders tackle he’s seen in movies. It works—taking the guard by surprise is in his favour. He now has the guard flat on his back. And Izz’s out of ideas, he hadn’t thought this far ahead in the plan. He’s surprised he made it this far—

The guard solves the stagnant pause, fist snapping out to take Izz’s head off. He barely manages to duck out of the way. Grabbing at the arm before the guard can pull it back for a second strike.

Izz punches out, aiming for the fleshy muscles over ribs, hoping to break one—

Izz’s sure he broke his fist instead—who knew it hurt so much to punch someone. Even with the adrenaline pumping through his veins.

Izz has the advantage, he is on top, it’s easier for him to control the guard and swing blows down at the a’hole. And it’s clear the guard is struggling to swing a decent punch up at him. He also has more room to dodge and weave. Punching down with uncoordinated fists, trying to hit the guard’s face, being blocked every time. His pummelling blows end up hitting the guard’s arms more than anything else.

He’s not letting up. He keeps punching. If he stops, he’s dead. There is no getting out of this. He knows attacking a guard will have dire repercussions, worse than The Hole—

Izz’s knocked off balance, a surge from the guard throwing him backwards and out of the dominating position. Not good.

He quickly scrambles up—

Get on your feet. You hit the ground, you’re done.

—grabbing the first thing he touches—swinging it forward, aiming at the guard’s unprotected mid-section—

A broom.

The broom makes a nice cracking sound as Izz slams it into the guard’s middle, followed by a series of grunts and curses. The prison’s cheap wooden broom handle splintering.

Ha. I actually managed to break something. Granted it isn’t ribs, but it still feels like a win.

Izz snaps out of the premature celebrations, his hands tightening above the shaggy end to keep his weapon in hand, swinging what is left of the handle—

The side of his knee is kicked out, toppling him into a shelf, knocking boxes off and scattering them over the floor—

The guard charges, grabbing at the broom Izz holds in an iron grip—he is not about to let it go—he shoves into the guard, using his shoulder like a battering ram to drive the guard back into the opposite shelves—

The broom’s scruffy end catches in the bracing of the shelving unit and, with a crack, it snaps off, the brush landing somewhere in the scattered paperwork. His weapon is shrinking, soon he’ll have nothing left to defend himself with.

The guard strikes Izz in the stomach, doubling him over. Winded, his lungs screaming at him for being hit again in so many days. His body is still recovering from the last beating.

Izz stands strong by force of will. Kneeing up into the guard’s side, shoving him back against the shelves. Trying desperately to knock him over. To plant him on the floor, to keep the larger man from regaining his footing—

The guard tugs at the broom chunk in Izz’s hand, trying to yank it away from him. Izz wraps both fists around the splintered wood. Curling himself around it, twisting to the side to shake the guard’s hand free—he can’t lose his only weapon. Can’t let go of his defence—

The guard’s grip is strong and unrelenting. So Izz does the next best thing—outside of pulling away—he drives forward. Intending to wind the guard, ignite some pain, to make him let go—

Izz feels a sickening squelching wet pop and a soft giving resistance at the end of what’s left of the broom handle. It’s an outcome he hadn’t intended. An outcome he doesn’t want to accept—

The resistance Izz’s up against falls away, the guard’s mass slipping free, slumping onto the floor with a sloppy thud—

Izz stares ahead at the shelf in front of him. He knows deep down what just happened, but his mind doesn’t want to acknowledge it. He can’t look down, at the broom handle still gripped tightly within his hands. He can’t look at the floor below the wood, to the . . .

Izz drops the handle, stumbling away from the shelf, away from the weapon, away from the . . . body . . .

Oh, God.

He falls back on his ass, disbelief welling in his chest, staring at the guard’s slumped, motionless body . . . at the pool of crimson gradually spreading over the floor, the puddle darkening as it becomes deeper and deeper. Thickening to the point of black sludge.

What have I done . . .

Izz’s mind snaps into focus—he’s in a locked room, with a . . . with a dead guard—He can’t stay here, he can’t be caught. He wants to run and keep running, but there’s nowhere he can run to in this cage.

He’s beginning to shake, the combined effects of adrenaline and shock spearing into his core. Closing his eyes, he breathes. Forcing himself to calm and to think.

What can he do . . . ?

Grabbing the hem of his shirt, Izz wipes off the broom handle to remove his fingerprints. He does the same to the boxes scattered over the floor in case he touched any of them. He rubs over the shelves nearby before checking his clothing for blood—finding no blood he sends up a prayer to whoever’s watching over him. If anyone is. He sends his prayer anyway. You never know.

Moving carefully around the blood, Izz snatches his sister’s drawing off the shelf. Relieved it remained safe in its resting place. Holding it carefully in one hand, he hopes the guard didn’t lock the door. He doesn’t want to reach into the puddled mess to find the keys on the guard’s belt.

Using the inside of his shirt once more, Izz treats the handle the same as the rest of the room. Wiping it down—he sighs, relieved when the handle moves under his palm, twisting open with ease.

He wipes the outside handle off before snapping the door shut—he can’t remember if he touched the door on his way in. Better safe than sorry.

Izz rushes down the corridor, moving swiftly. Constantly glancing over his shoulder to check if he’s being followed. Who would even be following him—

Did anyone see him enter the room with the guard? Did anyone see him leave? Or hear the fight? Was there a loud noise to draw attention to it? How much time does he have until the bod—until the guard is discovered . . . ?

Stop. You’re acting suspicious . You’re going to draw attention to yourself.

Relax.

Relax.

Slow down . . .

Izz forces himself to slow down, to keep his shoulders squared and his head straight. No more looking over the shoulder. No more rushing movements. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Act normal, or you’re going to get caught.

If someone didn’t already see you—

Stop it . Izz reprimands his inner voice, it is not helping the situation. In fact, it is making everything worse—

Shit. Shit. Shit.

He’s a murderer now . . . This death is his fault. He can’t blame it on the serial killer. He can’t blame it on anyone. He can’t dismiss it.

I did this . . .

It’s all my fault . . .