Caged In (Caged Prison #1)

19

Izz drifts in a numb haze through the corridors. His mind floating free of his body. It’s a surreal dream, coating him, consuming him. His spirit torn, his soul fragmented.

Is this truly happening . . . Is this where my life has led. . .?

Is he really a murderer now . . . ?

What is he going to do? He’s killed someone, a guard. He has no idea how to cover up something like this. What if he left his prints on the body—

Murderer.

Izz wipes frantically at his eyes, he needs to keep it together. He needs to hold his head high and not let anyone know something’s terribly wrong.

Because it is terribly wrong. I’m terribly wrong. I’ve killed another man. How could I—

Hold it together Izz. Izz’s inner voice hardens like it’s trying to gather all the frazzled strings floating around his head. Trying to tie his sanity back together.

It will never be put back together. He will never be the same. How can he be? When he did . . . When he . . . He . . .

Murderer

Izz needs to do something, but what? How can he be sure he left no traces behind? Is that even possible? Or is that only something you can do in a movie . . . ?

He needs someone to talk to. An expert or something—someone . . . Someone who’s done this before . . .

Is he really going to do this? Is he delusional . . . ?

He may be incredibly stupid, but Izz’s going to do it . . . . He’s going to find a serial killer. Find a serial killer to ask for help in a murder he’s committed. He never would have thought his life would come to this. Not in a million years would he have pictured this scenario. Seeking out a serial killer for advice . . .

While The Gang and the entire prison is off at their assigned jobs, he is tracking down a serial killer. And hoping the rumours are actually true, and the mohawked inmate has experience in this field. Otherwise he isn’t sure what he’ll do, who he can approach.

He can trust a serial killer to keep his secrets . . . can’t he?

It’s an hour into the search when Izz comes to the realisation the killer is probably at a prison job. Complicating his plans. How is he going to find where the killer works, let alone get him somewhere to ask for help. It’s not as if he can walk up to the male and be like ‘Hey, I need a little help with this guard I left in the filing room.’

He sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Who knew murder could be so stressful. He’s pretty sure he’s in the denial stage of his grief or depression or whatever it’s called.

Giving up, resigning himself to his inevitable—and well deserved—fate, Izz trudges back to his Wing, to his cell, to sit and dread what will come next. Where does killing a guard place him . . . ?

Did the guard have a family? Children . . . ?

It’s too quiet in the corridors—in the prison. It feels like death. His mind is chaotic, if only he had his headphones, some loud music to drown out the screaming fear in his head.

The world is too silent.

Alone . . . He feels so alone . . .

A-Wing is empty when he arrives. Barren. A wasteland of barred skeletal rooms filling him with unease and dread. This cage is so much creepier when it’s deserted. He thought it would be better not having so many criminals lurking about, fearing they will stab him in the back. But no, it is way worse being alone. He hates quiet loneliness on the best of days—out in the real world. Today, however . . .

It had never been so eerie on the outside.

He cannot feel his body, it’s disconnected from him—from the world. Somehow he moves up the stairs, his body a liquid mass. His slip-on prison-issued shoes scuffing and thumping, announcing their presence to the second floor. The metal clanging and echoing through the empty Wing.

Izz finds his way to the top, without giving in to his impulse to scream. He’s hanging on to his sanity by his fingertips, sliding closer and closer to the edge by the second—

A flicker of movement seizes his attention in the opposite direction to his cell—

Maybe fate is trying to make up for all the crap he’s been dealt.

At the end of the second-floor platform—leaning casually against the wall—is the mohawked male. Smoking with no care as to whether or not a guard passed by. White roll flaring orange with each draw.

Guess the serial killer doesn’t have to go to a prison job.

Izz turns towards the killer, his back to his own cell. Sucking in a deep breath, he slowly shuffles to the far end, scuffing his shoes when his feet lag behind. Nervous energy rolling off him in waves.

Years pass before he’s standing in front of the killer—the male has not shifted a single muscle. A frozen statue of dangerous intent in the path of Izz’s life. Granted Izz has a good reason to be here. He also isn’t foolish enough to leave himself vulnerable while alone with the one individual everyone in this Hell-hole fears.

His eyes dart everywhere but to the killer’s face, he can’t look the male in the eye, scared he might recognise himself in the killer’s eyes.

He, too, is a murderer now . . .

His eyes land in the last cell, shocked at the sight before him. It has two bunks, like any other cell, but the similarities end there. Only one bunk has mattresses on it—and he means mattresses—there has to be a stack of at least half a dozen hidden under those sheets.

What catches Izz’s eye more than the nice soft bed are the walls. All over the white-washed cell walls are pictures, cut outs, photos. Pages and pages of . . . Satanic drawings. Monsters, demons, devils. Pentagrams. Pages ripped from books, with upside down crosses or triple six drawn in thick black letters over the pages of whatever book it once was. The deep blacks and dark reds, mixing and mingling, to form a kind of wallpaper . . . a Satanic wallpaper . . .

The second unoccupied bunk holds a treasure trove of items. Shoes, clothes, books, pencils, food. The little cupboard’s doors hanging open, spilling out its contents all over the bunk.

On top of the opposite cupboard is a small baggie of weed, rolling paper, and a lighter—an actual silver flip lighter, not the battery foil combo the stoner in the yard used—are laid out in the open. Disregarding the potential threat of The Hole if a guard were to see it.

The floating shelf above the messy bunk has lines and lines of chocolate bars, books, and other snacks. Unlike its counterpart—above the human occupied neatly arranged bed—immaculately stacked with papers, pencils, pens and sharpies—

Where did the killer get those last items? Do they sell those in Commissary? He’s sure he’s never seen pens or sharpies available for purchase. Wouldn’t inmates use them as weapons—

“You here for a reason.” The deep voice behind Izz thrust him back into his body. Without realising it, he’d walked inside the killer’s cell.

He throws a glance over his shoulder, to the killer through the bars, the male is in the same casual laid-back position against the wall.

He isn’t sure what he’s supposed to say. Now that he’s found the killer, he is lost for words. Not sure it was a smart idea on his part to seek out this type of help. Is it true that this male’s a serial killer? He has no evidence. No proof. Only the rambling rumours of gossipy bored inmates. He has no idea if the killer shivved Levis—or anyone else for that matter. Perhaps he’s letting his imagination run wild.

Izz recalls the look on the male’s face, the slight nod the killer had given him in the cafeteria. He doesn’t want it to be true, would be happier to never know the truth. To never know if he is to blame for Levis’s demise. He’s already a part of death, even before he took it with his own hands.

Izz takes a step back, so he isn’t in the cell anymore. The cell he doesn’t need to be told belongs to the killer. Who else would harbour a Satanic worshipping cell?

“Your cell?” Izz enquires anyway, pointing into Satan’s lair, well aware he’s stalling.

The killer nods in way of answer. Inhaling the joint pinched between his fingers. Its orange flames working hard to consume the last of the paper, racing to his fingertips, threatening to burn them.

“It’s . . . unique.” Izz has no clue why his mouth is spouting small talk. Is it small talk?

He has no idea how to ask what he came here to ask. He’s struggling to hold himself together, to not blab every random thought crossing his mind, to delay the inevitable question.

How does one ask a stranger for help covering up a murder?

He’s an amateur. He isn’t a hardened criminal. Not like the drug dealers and gang members who handle these bloody events all the time. He’s never had anything remotely close to a murder to deal with. Breaking into empty houses doesn’t result in cleaning up dead bodies.

He must have been pulling some sort of wincing expression because the killer chuckles. Straightening up from his casual lean to his full height. Towering over Izz, in both height and experience. And everything else.

“Not a Satanic fan,” the killer observes, his dark eyes roaming over Izz’s face.

Izz gulps down his nervousness. He can feel the black irises on his skin, pinpricks of sensation following their path. He feels himself heating up and shivering at the same time, a strange combination of sensations.

“I’m not really religious. But I hold nothing against those who are. It wouldn’t surprise me if the Devil exists.” With all the evil in the world, it has to come from somewhere, doesn’t it?

The killer hums in a way that could be anything from agreement to disapproval. Izz worries that he’s pissed the killer off, destroying his only chance to get help—

That is until the killer offers Izz the last dying end of his joint. He takes the offering, relieved he has an excuse to not speak. Although, he can’t pretend to be engrossed in the smoke’s relaxing hold for too long. There isn’t much left of the white roll of blissful delight.

Dragging the smoke into his lungs, he watches the end flare to life, eating away the white paper in seconds. The killer raises a brow at him, as he makes quick work of the remainder. He is sure he looks like a rattled mess. But why wouldn’t he be? With everything that’s happened. With his messed-up thoughts, the gut-wrenching fear, the helplessness . . . the guilt . . .

God . . . The guilt.

It’s crippling. He wouldn’t have thought he’d care, considering what the guard had tried to do. He does care though, he cares and he hates himself for what he did. His conscience is gnawing at him, consuming him with remorse for the killing. He knows he hadn’t intended to stab the guard—that knowledge does nothing to ease his regrets.

He sucks down the last of the joint—nearly burning his lips—discarding the ashes into the small metal bin near the cell door. Watching the very last lick of life flicker out of the smouldering tip. Wishing the wisps of grey would reveal the answers to his problems.

Glancing back down the second-floor platform, Izz checks to ensure they are alone. That the whole prison hasn’t discreetly snuck up on him. He is faced with an empty line of cells. No commotions. No voices. No one else in sight.

He’s exposed out here. In the open. With what he’s about to ask, he doesn’t want to risk anyone so much as hearing a whisper of it. He does not want to be seen with the killer. He has blood on his hands. Blood he can’t physically see. Blood he can’t wash off, no matter how many times he scrubs himself clean. Blood the other inmates will see. They’ll know—

As if the killer senses Izz’s unease, he steps around Izz to move into his cell, blending in flawlessly with its Satanic decor. The whole room an extension of his essence. Flicking his head to indicate Izz should join him.

Izz follows him awkwardly. If he felt alone with the killer before, he’s utterly isolated and helpless now. This could easily go south, and he knows he doesn’t stand a chance if this inmate decides to kill him. His lack of experience and fighting skills leaves him vulnerable and defenceless, unable to protect himself against a serial killer who will crush his attempts to fight back.

The male lifts his chin to the bunk, indicating Izz should sit down. He obeys, choosing to sit on the far end, as far away from the killer as possible, settling gingerly on the edge of the soft mattress.

It’s surreal . . . He’s alone in a serial killer’s private quarters. A killer’s territory. Their domain. He’s pushing his luck, how many chances is fate willing to give him. Is this the last straw? Is he about to find out how bad it can get in this Hell-hole—

No, he has already found out how bad it can be. Already seen how vicious they are in here. And not just the inmates, the guards are just as bad, if not worse. This killer is his only chance to get out of this horrible situation without being beaten to death by the other guards when they find out what happened—what he did . . .

“I-I . . . You kill people, yes . . . ?” Izz enquires timidly, keeping his eyes downcast. Wishing he still had the joint to fiddle with, to give him something to pretend to be doing. So he doesn’t have to focus on the killer’s gaze eating away at him.

Is this the right move to make—

He shouldn’t be here. This is a mistake. He needs to leave, pretend he never came here searching for the serial killer in the first place—

“What happened,” the deep voice demands an answer, an answer Izz finds he cannot withhold.

“It was an accident—I mean . . .” How is he supposed to explain. How does someone talk about this?

Coming here was a mistake—

“Where is it,” the male’s low rumble carries throughout the cell.

—he shouldn’t have come—Wait?

Izz’s head jerks up to gaze at the killer—had he heard that right?—the male is calm and rock steady, completely collected, like they’re talking about where to go for lunch, not where a body is located. And the killer has to know that’s what they’re talking about, why else would he ask the question?

He knows. He has to know, But how . . .

Izz has to be reading into it, coming to conclusions he’s made up in his head, with zero evidence. How would the killer know? Maybe it’s a guess, based on his antsy behaviour? The killer is impossible to read, he can’t tell what’s going through the male’s head. He prays it’s a guess on the killer’s part. Prays he doesn’t have blood over himself that others can see and he can’t—

Izz glances down at his body, to double-check he isn’t covered in blood—nope still the orange prison assigned uniform. Bright orange, no bright red. No metallic, rapidly cooling blood anywhere in sight . . .

. . . ‘ It’ . . .

The mohawked inmate had said ‘ it’. The guard is not an ‘it’. The guard is a human, a man. Albeit a terrible one, but still a human. A human Izz . . . killed . . .

Oh God, he really did kill someone. This isn’t a messed-up nightmare, this is reality. It’s his reality.

“The—um.” Izz takes a shuddering breath, reaching deep down into his willpower. He’s started down this path, opened this door, there’s no turning back. He has nowhere to turn back to. “The filing room, down the corridor from visitation.”

What have I done.

It’s out there now. Good or bad, he has to deal with the consequences. He’s no longer the only person who knows what he did.

Izz perceives a hand squeezing his shoulder. A comforting gesture completely at odds to what he thought he would receive from a serial killer. He welcomes the human contact openly, taking in the reassuring touch.

“I’ll take care of it. You stay here.” It’s not said as an order, but the tone suggests it is. The firm hand squeezing down on Izz’s shoulder also suggests it isn’t up for argument, he is staying here no matter what he says, and he is okay with it. More than okay with it. “Right here. Until I get back. You understand.”

Izz nods. He’s not sure what else to do. He couldn’t stand up even if he wanted to. His legs are too numb to hold his weight. He can barely feel them, let alone send signals from his brain to his legs for them to move. His mind’s as foggy as his body. Far away and near impossible to see or connect with.