Caged In (Caged Prison #1)

20

He’s not sure how much time passes before the killer returns—his thoughts are a blank haze. He’s slumping over, staring at the floor, when his ears pick out the soft footfalls lightly thumping over the second-floor platform. Heading for the cell he is numbing out in—turning into a stone statue.

A random thought pops free as the killer’s shoes step into view, he blurts it out, “what’s your name?” He was told the killer’s name once by Reni or Zidie, but he can’t remember.

“Sinn'ous.”

Oh, yeah. That’s it. Izz can’t believe he’d forgotten it. It’s a unique name, one you’d think would be memorable and impossible to forget.

Izz can see the killer’s—Sinn'ous’s—shoes in his peripheral vision. Filling the space in the cell’s doorway. Like he’s trying to give Izz space and not overcrowd him—a naive thought, why would a serial killer care if they made someone feel scared or unsafe?

“You were given that name at birth?” he isn’t entirely sure why he asked. Maybe hoping the small talk will bring him out of the numbness.

“Is it relevant.”

Clearly Sinn'ous isn’t big into chit-chat. Or he doesn’t possess the emotional awareness to know Izz’s talking to ease his worries? To distract himself. It’s well known that serial killers enjoy their kills, don’t they? They wouldn’t need emotional support after a kill. Unlike him—barely holding it together.

“No, I suppose it’s not . . .” Izz mumbles, darting his eyes away from Sinn'ous to the other side of the cell, so he can no longer see the male.

The small grace of not having to look at the other inmate doesn’t last long. Sinn'ous moves to sit on the edge of the bunk. Effectively placing himself in Izz’s line of sight.

Izz can always leave. If he truly doesn’t want to look at Sinn'ous. But right now, he does not want to be alone. He doesn’t want to be near Reni, or Zidie, or even Blake. Those three would see right through him and see something is wrong. They wouldn’t stop until they dragged the secret out of him. He can’t deal with their questions and their caring compassion. He doesn’t deserve it, doesn’t deserve to feel better. He’s murdered someone, he deserves to suffer for it.

Will suffering make it better? Izz’s inner voice questions.

No, nothing will make it better. How can it? Not unless he can turn back time and stop the events unfolding in the first place. What would he do to change it? He has no idea. But maybe if he’d known, he could of . . .

He won’t ask, he will not ask Sinn'ous what has been done. He doesn’t want to know what Sinn'ous has done to the body. What can really happen? It’s not like the body can be dumped in the woods or buried. They are locked in a cage, with surveillance cameras all around. And guards patrolling the fence lines and corridors, always watching—they hadn’t seen what occurred, otherwise Izz would already be in cuffs, dragged to The Hole.

One thing he’s sure of, if he ends up in The Hole, he won’t be making it out alive. Not with what he did to a guard, the other guards’ will surely kill him for it—

Oh, God. I’m responsible for the body. For the death. It’s all my fault.

He isn’t aware he’d started crying until he’s pulled up against a solid body. Tucked in under a comforting arm, a hand rubbing little circles on his back. He leans into the hold, squeezing his eyes shut as he cries in a prison cell, against the chest of a serial killer, over a murder he committed.

Where has his life taken him . . . ?

When Izz calms down enough to breathe without choking back sobs, he pulls away, not enough to dislodge the comforting arm, but enough to not be completely reliant on Sinn'ous to hold him up. “Thank you . . . For helping me with this. And for . . . everything else.”

“It was no problem.”

“I can’t pay you back. I have no money.” Izz has nothing, he doesn’t even have the clothes on his back—they belong to this Hell-hole, not to him. He has nothing. Absolutely nothing. He’s lost his freedom. He’s lost his humanity. He is nothing but another killer now. A terrible irredeemable murderer.

Another murderer in prison. Where we deserve to be.

“I don’t need your money, or want it. I have plenty of my own—which is sitting around attracting dust while I’m in here. May as well use it on something.”

“Then what do you want?” Surely Sinn'ous isn’t doing this out of the goodness of his heart. Serial killers don’t have that capability, do they?

“I’ve told you. You intrigue me. I savour gifting you things. I like watching your reactions to them.”

Izz snorts, a genuine laugh bubbling up. Pushing away from Sinn'ous, he rights himself, “you’ve been spying on me. Stalking me. Reni was right about the stalker type.”

“Stalking . . . I suppose, in a way. But there is little to do in this place. I’d call it more . . . observing a fine creature. A fascinating creature.”

Izz rolls his eyes, failing miserably to suppress a small smile, “stalker.”

Sinn'ous chuckles, a bizarre sound coming from a serial killer. Izz’s surprised serial killers laugh. It seems odd—then again, they are still human, so why wouldn’t they laugh—

Izz’s stomach lets loose a strangled noise. Demanding food before it dies—or a threat it’s going to eat itself if Izz doesn’t feed it instantly. His stomach at odds to the rest of his body. Everything else is nauseous.

Sinn'ous stands and moves around the cell, collecting different items to place on top of the cupboard next to the sleeping bunk. A metal pan, with some kind of makeshift heating device clipped onto it. Water added from a bottle, ramen packets going into their water bath. Flavouring added to the boiling prison stove.

It’s absurd, watching Sinn'ous cook. Not only is it weird to see someone cooking using such a peculiar contraption, but to know a serial killer is doing it. It’s a normal thing to do, yet completely at odds to what he expected. He clearly has a lot to learn, and can’t base his knowledge of how serial killers act from movies.

Sinn'ous hands him a bowl filled to the brim and watches as Izz greedily scoffs down the noodles. Mumbling, “thank you,” as he continues stuffing his mouth. Ignoring the half smile Sinn'ous gives him. He’s starving, sue him. His nervous energy needs to be expressed somehow. And eating is his outlet.

As Izz forces himself to slow down—and reminds his mouth to chew to avoid choking—he eyes the paper and envelopes neatly stacked on the floating shelf above Sinn'ous’s bunk. Maybe . . .

Well, Sinn'ous did say he isn’t shy in handing out his money. And he definitely implied that he likes Izz . . . ? He has to, why else keep giving out gifts.

It can’t hurt to ask . . .

Swallowing the noodles coating his tongue, “would you mind if I borrowed some of those?” Izz points to the papers and envelopes, “I’d like to be able to write to my sister.”

Is it weird to ask? Out of line?

“Help yourself,” Sinn'ous answers nonchalantly, as he cleans the cooking pot—prison stove?—whatever you call it.

~~~

Izz shyly slinks back into his cell, he doesn’t want anyone finding out where he’s been—who he’s been with. His stomach warmed with food, a stack of papers, envelopes, stamps and pencils, crammed under his arms. His sister’s drawing still nestled safely in his pocket. With everything that had happened, he’d almost forgotten about what had started it. Glad he hadn’t set the drawing down somewhere in his weird numbed out state. He would not want to go out searching for it. Or lose it, when it cost him so much to keep—

Don’t think about it.

Throwing the supplies onto his bunk, Izz crouches down to make some room in his cupboard for the collection. Carefully laying them out on one of the shelves, he shoves the snacks and clothing aside. He can live with crumpled clothes, he can’t live with sending his little sister letters on scrunched-up paper. He doesn’t want her to know anything about the terrible conditions on the inside of this Hell-hole.

His sister’s drawing is the last thing left, sitting in the middle of his bunk. Perhaps he can find something to hang it up with. Sinn'ous would have tape or pins or something? He must have, to hang all those pages on his cell walls—

“Hey Izz, we missed ya at dinner, you all good?”

Reni’s abrupt disturbance startles Izz to such an extent that he unintentionally slams the cupboard doors shut. Unsure why he jumped out of his skin, as he has nothing to hide—nothing in this room to hide at least. Reni already knows about the gifts, and who they come from, and he’s already made his disapproval clear.

“What?—oh.” No, I am not fine, “I’m great, sorry. Visitation was hard, I came back here to get away and clear my head.”

Not strictly true, though it is close enough to the truth to be believable. No way is he ever uttering the words out loud to Reni or his other friends about what he’d done—

Stop thinking about it.

“Yup.” Reni sits on his bunk across from where Izz’s kneeling on the cold floor. “Lots of inmates tell their people on the outside not to come, to move on and live their lives. Because it’s depressing and hard to see them. To hear about the world moving along without us. It’s easier not to see anyone, to forget the outside world exists.”

Izz settles onto his bunk, picking up his little sister’s drawing, he can duck back down to Sinn'ous’s cell and pinch some tape, there is still time before lights out. Though he isn’t sure what he’ll say to Reni about it. He’s not ready to divulge that he’d spent the afternoon in Sinn'ous’s cell. Reni had told him to stay away from the dangerous inmate. Good thing he didn’t listen or he’d have been screwed today.

“Cute drawing.”

Izz regards Reni, who’s leaning forward to study the picture. “My little sis drew it. She’s big into the art side of things. She wants to be an artist when she gets older.” Izz winces at the memories of what transpired after his sister left. He turns away from the picture, placing it down on the bunk once more, hoping the drawing won’t be tainted forever with terrible memories. Fearing that it might be, for a while, until it isn’t so fresh in his mind.

Will he ever get the images out of his mind’s eye? The events are seared into his brain, vivid in their visual accuracy and saturated colours—

Izz fights to regain control of his thoughts, locking them away in their little box of denial. Deliberately focusing his mind on other activities, like writing to his sister. He’ll do it tomorrow, pack some stamps into the envelope as well, so Luc can write back. He doesn’t want to worry about them spending money on stamps. He might ask her for some more drawings in the letter, so he won’t have only this one to look at, with its sickening baggage attached—

A shrill alarm shrieks through A-Wing, slamming into Izz’s eardrums and rattling his skull. He cups his hands over his ears, trying to block out the piercing noise.

Does it need to be so loud. Izz’s inner voice screams. Not helping the ringing in his ears.

“Lockdown,” Reni bellows over the alarm’s screech, cupping his ears the same as Izz. “Someone’s got their ass shivved.”

Reni laughs—Izz can’t hear it over the screaming alarm, and his own inner screaming, but he can see Reni’s ecstatic expression—

Izz barely makes it to the toilet before puking up the ramen he’d consumed.