Caged In (Caged Prison #1)

23

Izz hides out in his cell until lunch, replaying the encounter in the showers and what happened afterwards. And he is thankful for it, it keeps his mind off . . . other events he doesn’t want to think about, let alone reminisce over.

He is late to arrive at the cafeteria. Standing alone in line, and being served isn’t too bad. His mind consumed by thoughts of an inmate he shouldn’t be thinking about. He hardly notices anyone around him until he makes it to his table, joining The Gang in mid conversation.

“ . . . that’s nothing, hardly an adequate conquest,” Sinj laughs, slapping Erik on the back. “If anyone’s got some conquest stories, it’s Izz. Ain’t that right? Little buddy.”

Izz blinks at Sinj, he isn’t entirely sure what they’re talking about. Conquests? Conquests of what? And why is he part of the conversation?

Sinj grins. “I saw you and a certain . . . serial killer . . . moseying out of the showers this morning. You were quite cosy and shit.”

Izz flops down onto the awaiting bench. His entire body becoming a furnace under The Gang members’ curious and shocked expressions. And he had been worried about only Reni or Zidie catching him. Now the whole Gang knows.

It’s not as if he and Sinn'ous did anything. Or spoke much. Or touched. It was only . . . Izz doesn’t even know what. A friendly greeting? or . . . something else . . . ? A date—

Shut up about it, it wasn’t and never will be that word.

“We were just walking. Nothing happened,” Izz can hear the panic in his own voice. No way the others can’t hear it too. He sounds guilty as hell. How he hasn’t been caught yet—for the guard’s . . . murder—is a miracle.

“Uh-huh. Sure,” Sinj winks at Izz, which makes Izz sink further into the bench trying to disappear into the table.

“Lay off, Sinj,” Blake scolds, “Izz is smart enough to not get involved with the likes of that . . . murderer.” Izz can tell Blake’s being nice with his wording. Choosing not to curse out the dangerous inmate in front of the entire cafeteria.

Izz drifts away from the conversation—his mind blocking them out, as they continue to bicker amongst themselves—pushing his food aimlessly around his tray. He isn’t that hungry. He hopes his appetite comes back soon, or he’s going to become skin and bones if he keeps skipping meals—

The hairs on the back of his neck stand up, prickling. He looks out from under his lashes—to the far table. Sinn'ous is there, and is openly staring at Izz.

Man, this relationship—or whatever it is—is going to get him killed. What are the chances of a serial killer attaching themselves to Izz purely out of innocence, and not a rooted desire to draw in his next victim.

This cage is going to be the death of him. He won’t survive long enough to be a free man. He’ll throw himself a party if he makes it past a year—nah, if he makes it to six months, he’ll punch the Warden in the face. He knows he’ll never win the bet. He’s leaving this Hell-hole in a body bag—if the prison has body bags, they probably class it as a waste of money. No doubt they bury the deceased inmates in a hole out in the yard, and make the living inmates dig it. No money spent on a funeral for the forgotten prisoners.

This place brings out Izz’s dark and depressing thoughts. Things he didn’t know lived in his mind. His mind will be the first thing to die in here. His sanity lost, his soul corrupted. Will he be forever changed? His very essence becoming nothing more than a walking breathing dead thing. Forever lost . . . A death that cannot be physically seen.

Thumping his head down in his palm, Izz gives up any pretence of eating. He’s not hungry and playing with the food on his tray will not magically bring back his appetite. Along with his other problems he’s developing an eating disorder.

Terrific, what I always wanted. Not.

Movement to the side tugs Izz out of his depressive spiral. Sinn'ous is leaving, packing up his tray and sauntering off in his predatory way. An inmate who isn’t going to allow this cage to change him. Izz envies him that. Sinn'ous is put together. Not scared of anyone or skirting the boundaries of sanity.

Perhaps I should take notes from him. See if he can teach me.

Izz tries his best to wait an appropriate amount of time. To not draw attention to his going after Sinn'ous. To spend some time with the male in his Satanic cell.

When Izz’s sure he has left an adequate amount of time, he excuses himself from The Gang. Letting them know he needs to piss and he’ll catch up with them later. It’s a lie but he doesn’t stick around long enough to see how many of The Gang know it. They seem pretty engrossed in whatever topic is being discussed. He’ll meet them at dinner, or perhaps not even then. He may skip the laundry work and dinner to chill with Sinn'ous until lights out.

If Sinn'ous wants to. Maybe Sinn'ous will hate the idea. Or maybe the other will encourage it and he’ll find himself bleeding out in a supply closet. Right alongside the guard’s body—

Izz’s instincts flare to life—three seconds after he rounds the corner to pass B-Wing on his way to A-Wing. A three second warning, time enough for his adrenaline to jump start, and zero time for his body’s reactions to kick in—

Izz gets jumped.

For the umpteenth time, he is attacked. Though this time, it’s swift and his attacker silences him fast. Hands clamping down on his arms and mouth, thighs and waist—too many hands to be one attacker—as he’s carried back down the corridor, towards B-Wing.

The inmates lugging his flailing body are stronger than him, and their grips are stable and powerful. He can’t wriggle free. He can’t yell for help—not that anyone will come to his aid either way. He’s not getting lucky again with Zidie and Reni. They are back in the cafeteria. Eating and chatting away. None the wiser.

And Izz . . . He doesn’t know where he’s going. Has no say in the matter. He never does—

The hands release him in a coordinated move, and Izz finds himself falling. His arms shooting out to try to break his fall—

He needn’t worry—at least, not about the landing—a mattress breaks his fall, half-heartedly cushioning his impact with the bunk below. He’s in a cell. Not his own, and not one he recognises.

There’s a sheet too, hung over the cell’s entrance. Hanging open far enough for them to walk in. And it is them. Four of them. Four snarky smug-looking inmates squished together in a cell built to hold two prisoners.

One of the four inmates crowding the cell, pulls the sheet’s corner, effectively blocking them off from prying outside eyes . . .

The eyes of the men leering at him send cold shivers down Izz’s spine. Their snide expressions, menacing smiles, eyes twinkling with delight . . .

Oh, God . . .

He can feel his face draining of colour. His chest caving in on itself. Dread seeping into his stomach and twisting his insides. Deep down he knows what is happening. Knows what the men want. He refuses to allow the thoughts airtime. He refuses to acknowledge them. If they aren’t there, then it won’t be true. It won’t happen to him. He’ll be safe, so long as he doesn’t acknowledge the dark truths rattling his skull—

Izz darts up, to make a break for the door. His body operating on pure adrenaline-fuelled terror. The cell door is blocked by four inmates who each have more muscle mass than Izz could ever dream of possessing. Fearing he is prey, all his panicked mind wants is to flee. He is barging straight through—

He’s easily grabbed and thrown back down onto the bunk. Then they’re on him. Hands grabbing at his legs. His forearms. Pinning him to the bunk. Holding him down as easily as if he isn’t struggling tooth and nail to break free. His lungs screaming, his breathing coming in irregular gasps as his entire body flips into extreme panic mode.

“Please, don’t do this. Please.” Izz tries begging. He isn’t getting anywhere with his struggles.

“Shut up,” the shorter of the four men spits out, “no one gives a shit, bitch. Someone gag him.”

Izz’s expecting a sock, shirt, dirty old cloth. Being dragged backwards over to the end of the bunk, so his head hangs over the edge, is not what he expects. And it only gets worse. When one of the inmates steps around behind him, their legs on either side of his head. An evident bulge pushing at the front of their grey prison pants.

“N-n-no. NO. NO. GET OFF ME.” Izz kicks his legs as hard as he can. Nothing budges, he can’t knock them free, whoever’s pinning his legs is an immovable wall—

Izz’s eyes fill with tears at the feeling of his pants being tugged down, the rough hands cold as ice on his exposed hip. The sickening touch is something he’s never going to forget. If he lives after they’re done with him. They could beat him to death.

Why is this happening to me. What did I do to earn this much ill intent?

“Get off me. LET GO.”

Izz screams. He pulls at his arms, twists his hips. He tries everything to pull free.

“I said gag the bitch, hurry up,” the angry inmate giving the orders shoves Izz’s shirt up, displaying his lean figure to the entire cell.

The man by Izz’s head grabs his hair, wrenching his head back. He isn’t having any of it. He twists his head to the side. Turning every time the man tries to get a good grip in his hair.

“He won’t stop fucking moving, the angle is off.”

Izz tries his hardest to pull his arm free, focusing every bit of his strength into one arm. If he can get one free he has a chance of fighting back—

Izz’s field of view spins, the hands on his body releasing and grabbing hold once more as he is flipped onto his stomach. The coordination of the movements, the lack of conversation between his attackers—they’ve done this before. To have a system with little to no words required.

How many victims have come before me—

Cold fingers press between his ass cheeks, slick with something gross and slimy—

Izz grunts, crying out as two fingers force their way inside. His tears falling, sliding down his cheeks as he’s violated by a complete stranger in a rank prison cell. He completely forgets he’s fighting to keep his head out of the other man’s grip.

A harsh tug in his hair pulls Izz’s head up, his lapse in concentration working in the man’s favour to pin him where the other wants. The straining on his neck is stretching his muscles beyond their limits.

He’s greeted with an inmate’s revolting . . . thing bobbing in front of his face—

He clamps his jaw shut, he can’t see much through the wavering of his vision as his tears flow. But he can see enough to know the inmate is holding that disgusting . . . thing , and stepping into Izz’s space.

“Open up, whore. Jay-Jay, open the whore up.”

Izz doesn’t have time to process the words, before an excruciating pain shoots up his spine, radiating down the backs of his thighs, as a third—or fourth—he can’t tell, it hurts too badly—finger shoves its way inside. He cries out, opening his mouth—

A mistake he can’t correct in time. The inmate at his head takes advantage of Izz’s parted lips, shoving their way down his throat. Causing him to choke and squirm. Trying to pull away as he gags on the salty length invading his throat. Shoving all the way down. He can feel his muscles straining. The pain in his throat colliding with the agony further down his body.

Izz’s legs are shoved apart, the invading digits unceremoniously pulled out. The sting followed by a warm trickle down the inside of his thigh. He’s bleeding, it has to be blood. What else would it be.

He already knows what’s about to happen. As much as he prays for it to never come. He knows what’s about to unfold. And he can’t do anything to prevent it.

He tenses up—he shouldn’t, he knows he shouldn’t, tensing will only make it hurt worse—he can’t help it. He can’t stop his body’s instinctive reaction to protect itself and he can’t prevent this from happening.

He’s weak.

A disgrace.

How can he call himself a man if he can’t defend himself against something like this?

I’m a weak coward.

The hold in his hair tightens as the inmate groans, shoving in deeper. Choking Izz more. He can’t breathe. His body’s panicking. He’s gagging. He wants to pass out. He doesn’t want to feel anything.

If he stops fighting. If he stops trying to prevent this, it’ll be over faster. They’ll be done with him faster. He has to stop resisting or it’s only going to drag out longer . . .

Izz waits—tense and suffocating—for the inevitable burn to sheer through his entire existence. Yet . . . nothing’s happening—

The invasion never comes, instead, a sickening crack—loud, wet and horrendous—echoes throughout the entire cell—

A solid heavy weight slumps over Izz’s legs—

A gurgled gasp—another meaty crack—seconds after the first—

Izz can breathe again. His airways cleared. Sucking in sobbed gasps, as another snapping sound rings out, a solid thud of something heavy hitting the concrete floor—

Sinn'ous’s face appears in Izz’s wavering vision. He’s sure he’s hallucinating. Certain Sinn'ous is not in fact crouched down in front of him, with lips moving to form words. Words the ringing in his ears refuse to allow him to hear.

The blazing anger in Sinn'ous’s eyes has Izz questioning his resolve on the image being a figment of his imagination. He could never envision such cold hatred in anyone’s expression. Let alone the handsome eyes of the male who caught his attention the moment he arrived in this cage.

Izz bursts into tears, ragged, raging, girly-girl tears. Reaching out to grasp his hallucination—

A warm comforting embrace greets him. And Izz knows it’s real. He’s not imagining a scenario as he’s being used by four inmates in a tiny cell. He really is saved.

He allows the male to help him to his feet. Clinging to the comforting lifeline that by some miracle has appeared before him. Standing strong and secure for him to take hold of. For him to use as an emotional escape.

Please, God, don’t let this be in my head.

He’d break—if he woke up to find the four inmates huddled over him—he’d break. Crack in two. Fall apart, dive headfirst into insanity that would never be cured.

He blinks, slowly clearing his vision so he can see the chaos laid out in the cell. The bodies strewn over the concrete floor—

Wait . . . This is . . .

Izz shifts his gaze around the cell, peering past Sinn'ous, who he clings to like a Kevlar vest—

This is my cell?

When had they arrived back here? He doesn’t remember leaving . . . He doesn’t remember walking anywhere. Had Sinn'ous carried him? Or had he walked on his own, in a numbed-out haze?

He’s back in his cell now, curled up on his bunk. A blanket around his trembling body, and a solid saviour pressed up against his side. He’s practically seated in Sinn'ous’s lap. A warm hand rubbing slow circles over his back. The gentle touch comforting after the vicious violation . . .

Izz closes his eyes, tightening his grip on Sinn'ous’s shirt. To keep the male from leaving. He can’t be alone. Not right now. He can’t. He’s falling apart, he needs this lifeline to keep his mind. He can’t lose his sanity.

I can’t let this place take away who I am.

The next time Izz becomes aware of the prison around him, it’s to the clanging noise of multiple inmates. The hustle and bustle of the work period being over and done with—or is it the ending of lunch? And the inmates are clearing out of the cafeteria?

It feels like a lifetime has passed, yet at the same time, it feels as though mere seconds have flashed by.

He hears the sound of his cellmate’s cheery voice. Reni beginning a conversation with Izz before the other is even in the cell. It must be the end of the meal, why else would Reni sound perfectly normal. Izz’s mind is too fried to string his friend’s words together into a meaningful sentence. The familiar tone is reassuring. A soothing, safe, familiarity.

He watches the cell’s entrance as his friend barges in. Watches the smile fall off his friend’s face quicker than a gasp. Reni freezing solid in the entrance way.

Izz would laugh—at the shocked look on his friend’s face—if he had the willpower to. It must be a scene—his pale, tear-stricken face. Shaking body curled up in Sinn'ous’s lap, seated on his bunk, with the serial killer gently rubbing his back.

“You okay, Izz?” his cellmate grits out, his eyes flicking to Sinn'ous and narrowing in contempt.

Izz’s not sure he can answer, his throat feels like he’s sculled boiling water filled with thumbtacks—

“He’s fine,” Sinn'ous takes over, answering for Izz.

“Wasn’t talking to you. With all due respect,” Reni speaks in a way that screams bitter, spiteful, disrespect, “was asking Izz.”

“And I have said he is fine. You. May leave.” Sinn'ous isn’t looking at Reni. Izz can sense the male’s eyes on him. Can feel the concerned gaze checking he’s okay. Sinn'ous’s tone of voice, however, implies there is no room for argument. Reni is to leave or be thrown out.

“I’m not going anywhere. This is my cell. You’re the one who should leave,” Izz’s surprised Reni’s standing his ground. After that talk—a lifetime ago, on Izz’s first day—to run from Sinn'ous and not look back.

He has to smile. Reni may be shitting himself with terror but he’s not abandoning Izz. Not like those wankers in the kitchen.

Izz jerks as Sinn'ous abruptly stands, the coiled-up danger trapped in the ever-tightening fibres of the male’s muscles—

Reni backs way off, but stays in the cell, glaring at Sinn'ous like he’s about to take the male on, “too many witnesses for you to do anything here,” Reni straightens up, fists clenching, ready for Sinn'ous to attack him, “best you leave.”

Sinn'ous moves to surge forward—

Izz shakily reaches out to grab Sinn'ous’s arm in an uncoordinated effort to still him. Surprised when the killer halts in his tracks.

“Don’t—” Izz coughs, choking on the burning syllables, his throat protesting the action, “don’t . . . He’s fine . . . He can stay. I trust him.”

Sinn'ous’s intense gaze shifts back to Izz who finds himself soothed by the male’s protective presence. A deep sense of safety floating over him at the possessive look in the male’s eyes.

“What did you do to him?” Reni growls out the accusation towards Sinn'ous.

Izz chips in before Sinn'ous does something to his cellmate that can’t be undone, “he didn’t . . . do anything. He saved me from. . . others . . . who . . .”

Izz curls in on himself, struggling to perceive what has been done to him. Snuggling into the blanket further—as Sinn'ous takes up the space beside him once more. He would love nothing more than to cuddle into the male, however, with Reni there glaring, he is reluctant to reveal his vulnerabilities and emotions. Even to Reni. He’d give nearly anything for his friend to not see him in his current state.

Reni opens his mouth, gearing up for a bombard of questions. Enquiries Izz doesn’t want to answer—

The shrill alarm crashing through the prison is a gift he’s thankful for. It works to cut off Reni and smother his questions. For now, Izz has time to work out his answers to the inevitable interrogation he’s bound to receive from his friend. He knows Reni has good intentions but right now he doesn’t have the mental stability to relive what occurred.

Their cell door slids across with a deafening clang, effectively locking the three of them in together. Izz knows from the other lockdowns the guards’ will be around soon to count them.

Sure enough, guards are pulling inmates out to move them back to their own cells. They don’t even try it with Sinn'ous. The guard on Count for Izz’s cell, takes one look at Sinn'ous before moving on to the next cell to evict those inmates trapped in the wrong sleeping quarters.

Guess the inmates in this prison aren’t the only ones who fear the black and red mohawked male. Izz wouldn’t be surprised if no one stopped Sinn'ous if he decided to walk out the front door.

~~~

He is grateful for Sinn'ous staying. It means he can nestle into his bunk, with a protective saviour stretched out behind him, a comforting arm tucked around his waist. He wouldn’t be able to fall asleep without it.

He’s not a fighter. He decides he’s ditching the fight or flight. He can’t protect himself. He’s a flight or freeze. A run or panic. He’s a failure as a man. A failure as a male in general.

“Not everyone was born to fight, some were born to be protected. You have other skills,” Sinn'ous speaks quietly into Izz’s ear, to prevent Reni from overhearing.

Oh . . . He hadn’t realised he’d spoken out loud. How much has he been muttering out loud?

“Don’t worry about it. Get some sleep. I’ll be right here.”

Guess he said that out loud too. . .

Sinn'ous pulls Izz in close. Forming a shield at his back. Protecting him from the cell, from the prison beyond. He wonders what Reni is thinking? He doesn’t have the energy to explain. He is glad his friend has stopped pushing for answers.

Izz drifts off, into an empty sleep, clutching at the serial killer who saved him. Safe in the warm embrace.