Caged In (Caged Prison #1)

24

The next morning, when Izz wakes, he finds himself alone.

Sinn'ous is gone. Where to? He has no clue. The cell doors are open, guess he missed the wake-up call. How he slept through the alarm is beyond him. Those bells are loud as a marching band stomping away on his eardrums.

Reni is here, so there’s that comfort. He isn’t completely alone. He would have liked it to be Sinn'ous. He feels protected with Sinn'ous. More than he does with anyone else in here. Even with Reni taking The Hole as punishment for stepping in on the fight with the bald gang members. When Izz was having his ass handed to him. He still feels safer to be close to Sinn'ous. Maybe because Sinn'ous won’t hesitate to kill anyone to protect him.

Izz leaves with his cellmate once they finish their morning routine—getting dressed and ready for a new day in this Hell-hole. Surprisingly, he’d slept like the dead. No nightmares or dreams of any kind. A black, welcoming abyss had consumed his night.

Where did Sinn'ous vanish to?

He’s surprisingly naked without Sinn'ous next to him for protection. He’s barely been in the other’s presence, yet he feels as though he’s missing an essential part of himself while walking the corridors alone—save for his cellmate.

Reni’s uncharacteristically quiet this morning, does he know? Or simply suspect?

Arriving at the cafeteria, he finds an empty table in Sinn'ous’s usual place. It amps up his heart rate, not having Sinn'ous here. His mind running away from him with thoughts of where the male could be. His imagination blurting out scenarios of death, with Sinn'ous as the victim. Lying alone in a back prison room, having been ambushed and shivved by several inmates . . .

You need to pull yourself together .

He’s so far off the rails he isn’t sure he can come back. His life is forever changed. He is forever changed. So much death has taken place in here. So much suffering and pain. So many events have stabbed at his sanity. Brutally destroying who he once was—a far-off distant self he can never reach ever again. He is a forever-changed man. And this Hell-hole has done it to him. He’d come here as a decent man, he’s leaving as an unseemly disgrace. There is nothing he can do to stop it. The events have already taken place.

This is who I am now.

Izz sits—like every other meal—with his cellmate and The Gang. At the same table. In the same spot.

He should change it up. Do something spontaneous and different. Like . . . sit on the floor. If only to break out of this repetitive existence. Maybe the change in routine will stop his downfall into madness.

He fears it may be too late, fears he’s reached his lowest point. And he’s standing at the bottom, looking up the dark tunnel to the person he used to be. The person who’s hovering far away at the top of the gloomy cavern. Forever unreachable.

He keeps his head down. Ignores the entire table. He doesn’t want to join in on The Gang’s discussions. Doesn’t care if they are talking about him. Doesn’t care if they notice something is wrong with him. He doesn’t have the energy to pretend he’s alright. When he’s not. He’s breaking. He’s dying inside. A disgusting disturbed . . . thing . . . that doesn’t deserve to be treated the same as before.

He is not the same. He’s a murderer. A criminal. A disgusting weak individual who can’t defend himself. He deserves everything he got. Deserves what they did to him. It was karma —if he believes in that type of thing—for what he had done . . . to the guard . . .

So much blood . . . There had been . . .

. . . So much blood . . .

It took Izz a long time to realise the conversations have dried up and died off. A thickening silence clouding the table. The calm of the forest as a predator stalks. No sounds made, in fear of being caught, of being discovered. It’s self-preservation.

He frowns in confusion at the others seated around him. He’s sitting at the end of the row, allowing him to see the entire Gang without turning his head. Everyone is staring at him, their eyes wide.

What’s everyone looking at? Does he have something on his shirt?

Izz glances down at himself, finding nothing out of the ordinary. His new, grey, prison assigned clothes, in tidy order. Clean and neat. His eyes observing zero discrepancies in the colouration of the crisp grey material—

A tray clicks down beside him, brushing against his own tray with its close proximity. A large body taking up the seat next to him—

Izz freaks. His mind short circuits and spazzes out for a second before it resumes working, and everything clicks into place. He already logically knows who it is. Why else would the table have gone dead silent?

He turns his head, thrilled to see Sinn'ous is not lying dead in a forgotten prison cell. He smiles softly as Sinn'ous settles down beside him. Then—because he fucking can, why the hell not after what Sinn'ous did for him—he leans into the male, his side flush against the larger frame—

A sharp intake of breath—is the collective response from The Gang. You can hear a pin drop. He’s sure they aren’t breathing. Come to think of it. The entire room seems to have come to a speechless pause. As if everyone is collectively noticing that the most-feared inmate—who usually sits at his own table—just sat down next to a bunch of inmates.

Next to Izz.

All the prisoners and guards are holding their breath for the serial killer to attack.

Instead, Sinn'ous places a chocolate pudding cup and a little bowl of soup, down on Izz’s tray. Fingers brushing Izz’s arm as Sinn'ous pulls his hand away.

He would thank his saviour, but his throat is killing him, he does not want to talk. Doesn’t want to remember why.

Instead, he picks up the pudding, taking hold of the cold plastic cup. Discarding its floppy top, he scoops out its contents. Stuffing it into his mouth. This must be where Sinn'ous had vanished too. Collecting pudding and soup. How? He hasn’t a clue. Threatened a kitchen worker? Most likely. He can’t say he feels sorry for them. He hates the kitchen staff. Hates most of the people in here, they are assholes.

His body permits the food to stay down. It doesn’t immediately evacuate it out. His stomach settles and relaxes, happy with the meal. A gift from Sinn'ous that Izz’s body doesn’t want to disappoint him by throwing it back up.

The cold chocolatey treat soothing his burning throat. He takes comfort in it. He is sick of the constant tightening burn whenever he swallows or moves his head. The cold treat helps to neutralise the sensations he doesn’t want to look at too closely. He never wants to relive those experiences. He wants to forget. Wants it to be a long-lost memory.

Dementia would be nice right about now.

Sinn'ous stands, apparently satisfied with Izz eating, or finished in the task he set about completing—the delivery made and accepted.

He would like Sinn'ous to stay. But he doesn’t voice his wants. Isn’t sure they will be reciprocated. Just because the other inmate saved him and gifted him with a heavenly treat to ease his pain. Doesn’t mean the male isn’t a serial killer. Who could very well be keeping him alive to have the pleasure of killing him later. He doesn’t want to make it any easier for the hypothetical death to become a reality.

But as much as he tells himself not to trust the dangerous male, he finds himself falling deeper into the realm of true faith. Faith in someone everyone else told him is untrustworthy.

All the eyes—from the entire cafeteria—are on Izz. The conversations slowly starting to pick back up. Whispered and murmured. As though the whole room is trying to guess what the interaction was. But no one’s brave enough to risk their words being overheard by Sinn'ous.

It takes a little while for The Gang to collect their hearts from the floor and begin chatting. The tension is still hanging thickly over their heads. They had already finished their food—eaten while Izz was sitting in his head, before their unexpected interruption. Leaving Izz as the last one with a full tray.

The soup is lovely, a cool soft mixture. Easy for him to stomach. He wouldn’t have been able to eat it if it’d been hot. Sinn'ous really had been thoughtful with this gift.

When he’s asked by Zidie to join his team for the first card game in the Rec-Room, he politely declines. Fabricating an excuse, he walks off to empty his uneaten food into one of the bins and return his tray. He hadn’t even tried to eat the prison meal. Sinn'ous’s gift is all he needs and all he wants.

Izz connects his eyes with Sinn'ous from across the room, waiting for the male to acknowledge him . . . He receives a small nod, figuring it means Sinn'ous understands what he’s waiting for—

Sure enough the mohawked male rises, making his way over to return his own tray, setting it down on top of the tray Izz left.

They exit the cafeteria together, Izz following along close behind as Sinn'ous leads the way. He’s not exactly sure where they’re going, but he follows, nevertheless. Completely trusting in the male not to be holding ill intentions. He may regret it later, if it turns out he is merely the naive prey.

Izz wants desperately to forget he’s caged up with so many violent untrustworthy criminals. Trapped.

He doesn’t want to discover any evil intentions coming off the male he’s placed his trust in. The one inmate everyone else fears. A ghost of death in their midst. They avoid him, and hold their breaths, terrified to be caught in Death’s cold clutches.

Turns out, their destination is Sinn'ous’s cell. The religious Satanic markings something Izz’s becoming used to. They don’t scare him, as he thought they should. Maybe because he is on the other side now. He knows what it’s like to take a life. How easily it can happen—how easily it can happen to anyone. That killing someone isn’t always planned out. Sometimes it’s a deeply regretted mistake. An accident that, no matter how much you want to rewind time, cannot be undone.

Despite his aching throat, Izz finds himself opening his mouth to talk, to drive his thoughts away with a distraction, “I’m surprised the guards let you leave this up. Wouldn’t it be considered . . . Evil— or something,” he whispers the words, running his eyes over the painted walls, the scriptures and book pages interlaced with symbols and markings. It’s neat, tidy and well crafted. An artistry of work. The cell a tapestry for the Devil’s marks.

“A lot of them think stepping foot in here will condemn them to Hell—”

Izz burst out laughing, a rasping choked off noise, his throat protesting. He can’t help it. His nervous energy is letting itself out. It’s a ridiculous laugh verging on hysteria. Now he really does resemble a man teetering on the edge of insanity.

“They think you’re the Devil?” Izz’s injuries make it hard even for him to understand his words. He won’t be surprised if Sinn'ous can’t decipher them.

“I’ve never asked. Don’t care,” turns out Sinn'ous can hear the question just fine.

Izz wants to end the conversation he started, every syllable causing pain to his healing throat. If only it would hurry up and heal, he’d like to erase the memories, and have no physical links to bring them back. Too many traumas piling up, creating a wall of issues which will require years of therapy to knock down. If he ever can.

“I see,” Izz eyes the soft inviting bunk. It’s cushioning of soft blankets and enticing mountain of pillows . . . It would be so nice to lay down on it—

“You can relax, if you wish. Get some rest.”

Izz nods, slipping his shoes off to settle down on Sinn'ous’s bunk, curling up and tugging the blankets around himself. The soft mattresses marshmallowing his body in a gentle embrace. He scoots over, close to the wall, pressing his front to its bricks, the blankets shielding him from its harsh cold. Hoping Sinn'ous will take up the empty space behind him and cuddle with him.

He’s aware he should not be relying on Sinn'ous for safety or reassurance. Especially when he knows little to nothing about the male. With only the whispered rumours from fellow prisoners to go on. No way of knowing how many of those stories are true, and how much is false.

He should ask. Should get to know Sinn'ous, the one he’s laid so much trust in. He’s too exhausted to try now. He will. One day . . . At some stage. Possibly . . .

He worries about discovering the truth, not sure he wants to know why the male is in prison. If it’s spoken by others, Izz can write it off, ignore it. But if Sinn'ous tells him, in person, that the rumours and whispers are true . . . He isn’t sure he’s ready to handle it. Isn’t sure he can deal with Sinn'ous being a soulless serial killer . . .

Izz figures Sinn'ous can’t be wholly what people say—a cold-hearted killer. He’s protected Izz, has saved him. A cold-hearted killer wouldn’t do that. Wouldn’t risk their own life, risk being caught, risk having a witness. Just to save someone they don’t know.

Sinn'ous has to be good. He has to be a decent human being . . .

Izz slips into unconsciousness, in the company of Sinn'ous—an inmate he associates with safety—watching over him. Awash in a sense of calm, choosing to believe in the saviour who will never harm him.

~~~

Izz wakes to someone nudging him, it takes him a moment to remember he’d fallen asleep in Sinn'ous’s cell, in the male’s bunk . . .

His body hurts. His throat’s a ball of agony. His joints, old rusted hinges who refuse to work without complaint. His eyes, would burn less if they were stuck open in a desert heatwave, they sting so much.

Flopping over in his heavenly warm cocoon of blankets, he blinks up at Sinn'ous. The male is perched on the edge of the mattresses. A small bowl held in steady hands. He can see the triple six tattoos on Sinn'ous’s wrists. A dark branding on otherwise flawless skin.

“Sit up,” Sinn'ous instructs, presenting the bowl, “I have pain meds for you too.”

Izz doesn’t ask where they came from or how they’d been acquired. For either the soup or the medication. He’s appreciative of both. Bracing his elbow into the mattresses to cradle the cold sustenance in weak hands. Setting it down to balance on the prison bunk, in order to accept the pills without spilling anything.

He keeps his words internal, smiling a thank you to Sinn'ous. Pinching the three little pills between his fingers, plucking them out of the offered hand. He doesn’t hesitate to scoff them down, using the soup to swallow them.

The nourishment is bland, tasteless, yet he’s thankful for it. No spices to irritate his throat, or any chewing required.

Izz snuggles back into the bedding once he finishes the soup, Sinn'ous taking the bowl from him to place on the floor out of the way. The meds are already working, his battered and exhausted body drowsy and sluggish. A combination of his physical exhaustion and the drugs are demanding his eyes close and his mind rest.

~~~

He’s brought to consciousness by a nice smell wafting throughout the cell. Sinn'ous has more food awaiting him. Where the meals are coming from, Izz does not know.

Did Sinn'ous leave to collect them? Or have someone collect them for him? Would anyone do that? They all fear him . . .

Does he have a guard to do his bidding? Does Izz really want to know either way? It’s probably safer not to know. In fact, it would have been wise not to eat meds from Sinn'ous in the first place. Especially with the luck he’s having so far around inmates . . . and guards . . .

I know nothing about him.

But he can find out. “Why the Satanic stuff? Were you born into the religion? Or did you take it up on your own?” It’s as good a time as any to ask. He’s curious to learn more about Sinn'ous.

“Something I picked up as a teen. It was easy for me to relate to,” the mattress shifts with the weight of Sinn'ous sitting on its edge. Handing Izz a dish of rice, with little chunks of vegetables mixed throughout. And three more little pills.

Do I want to know why it’s relatable? Do I need to know the details?

“Do you sacrifice virgins?” Izz mutters, picking through the rice with a slim spoon, to inspect the types of vegetables it houses.

“You watch too many movies, Beautiful,” Sinn'ous strokes his fingers through Izz’s hair. Chuckling softly as he hands Izz a small cup of water to take the pills with. “A misconception. Satanism isn’t based on sacrifices and deaths. It’s being true to yourself and not apologising for it. You can be a nature lover and a Satanist. I, on the other hand, use it for the former. I’m true to myself and who I am. I will never apologise for what I’ve done. Or will do.”

Whoa. That’s a lot to take in. Izz hadn’t known Satanism is deeper than sacrificing people to the Devil.

Sinn'ous clicks his tongue lightly, “you could be a carer for your family and a Satanist. If it’s true to who you want to be. You don’t have to get on your knees and pray to Satan.”

“So you don’t believe in Satan?”

All the paintings and markings over the walls present as someone who worships the Devil. As offerings to an out-of-this-world deity. The admiration clear in the carefully constructed wall of arts.

Sinn'ous tilts his head, scanning over Izz’s features, “Jasper Marcelo. Yet you go by Izz, why is that.”

Whoa. He’s asking a question in return.

Is this the first time Sinn'ous has asked him a personal question? Enquiring into who he is as a person. Granted, it was spoken more along the lines of a statement, but it’s the closest to a question he’s heard from the male, so he’ll take it as such.

Sharing personal information with someone who everyone believes is a serial killer . . . Stupid on his part. He’s half witnessed murders committed by Sinn'ous. He’d heard two—or perhaps three—of the four inmates who’d assaulted him—die. He’d witnessed their murders. He can’t remember if he’d actually seen Sinn'ous kill any of them, his memories are foggy from that day, but it’s obvious.

Izz draws in a deep breath . . . and jumps off the ledge . . .

“My sister had brain cancer. She used to have a toy horse. Her favourite,” Izz closes his eyes, the memories visually dancing over his eyelids. “During one of her seizures—in the beginning stages before we knew it was cancer—she fell down next to the fireplace. Her little horse fell over the rails and went in.”

She’d been more upset about her horse than the seizure she’d suffered. It was a gift that she didn’t remember the uncontrollable seizures. Izz was scarred enough for the both of them, by the image of her little body flailing on the floor.

That day had been horrifying. He hadn’t known what was wrong, why she was convulsing on the carpet. He’d never seen someone in the middle of a seizure. Waiting for the operator to answer his call for an ambulance was the longest three seconds of his life. He can still hear every syllable of that ringtone.

“I found her a new horse, the same colour and everything but she knew it was different. She didn’t want it. Wouldn’t accept the new toy.”

Her tiny fragile body lying in the huge hospital bed, wires and tubes sticking out of her and snaking around the bed and the IV pole. She’d been as pale as the white sheets wrapped around her.

“Her horse’s name was Izzy. Lucia had trouble speaking, after the cancer grew, j’s and p’s were a few of the letters she struggled with, so I became Izz.” He takes a deep breath, searching for his inner strength.

“Apparently I was really good at horsey-back rides—they weren’t to be called piggy-back rides, it was horsey-back rides. I’d give her one around the hospital, to take her to the different rooms where they’d . . . with all the testing and treatments. . .”

The testing and treatments were extensive. Not something any child should have to go through. Being poked and prodded, drugged and medicated. He would have taken her pain in a heartbeat, if he could have. He still would. He’d endure it if it meant she would live a normal happy childhood.

“That’s how I got the nickname. Her absolute favourite animal is a horse, said I was her favourite, better than any horse. It sounds weird when I say it out loud, but it was the sweetest thing at the time.”

When Sinn'ous doesn’t say anything for several moments, Izz chances a look over at him.

Sinn'ous is staring at the wall across the cell, as if caught in deep contemplation. “I never had any siblings so I can’t relate. Nor do I feel anything for others.” Sinn'ous’s dark eyes flick over, boring into Izz. “I can understand how you mean. What would be there. The love you share with her.”

“You really don’t feel love for anyone?”

“No. Not in the way I’ve seen others,” Sinn'ous turns his full body to face Izz. “I . . . enjoy things, maybe you could call it love but not in the way most people do.”

If he doesn’t love, why is he so nice to me?

“So what do you feel for me?”

Sinn'ous has to feel something, right? You wouldn’t step in and save someone if you hold no feelings for them. Especially when you are a psychopath. And Sinn'ous is a psychopath, he killed people, how can he not be?

Izz can’t deny it, that Sinn'ous is a psychopath. Not with the death of the inmates or the confession he’d made about not feeling anything for anyone. That’s one of the traits of a psychopath, no regard or empathy for others, isn’t it?

But he saved your life . . .

Sinn'ous can’t be completely rotten. He is protecting Izz. He’s given him many, many, gifts. Made certain Izz’s not going hungry. Wasn’t bored during the lockdown. Isn’t hurt by others.

It’s beginning to seem as if Sinn'ous will never answer. “ . . . Protective. I do not want anyone else to be near you, to touch you. I want to keep you.”

Izz blinks up at the male. He should be creeped out, or at the very least slightly alarmed. Yet he is the opposite. He feels delighted—butterflies fluttering in the stomach, delighted.

Sinn'ous wants to keep me . . .

Why does the thought have him buzzing lightly? His heart fluttering right alongside his ribs.

“You’ll protect me . . .” Izz whispers, more to himself than to be heard.

Izz curls over to rest his head on Sinn'ous’s lap. Human contact has been lacking since he arrived in prison—the warm kind, not the punch-you-in-the-face revolting-skin-crawling type—and he craves its warmth.

“Is this your version of loving someone?” Izz would guess it’s the closest Sinn'ous has come to the feeling. With how the male is describing his emotions. Although it is hard to tell. Sinn'ous doesn’t wear his emotions on his sleeve like Izz does, making it impossible to read the male’s inner thoughts.

“Perhaps,” Sinn'ous runs his fingers through Izz’s hair, “is that what people do, who care for each other.”

Is Sinn’ous enjoying the contact and close proximity? Izz sure is. It’s nice, normal, helps him forget where he is.

Why are you pushing so hard to have him express his feelings . . . ? Izz’s inner voice questions and answers. Maybe because you’re lonely and afraid?

“I guess,” Izz’s not sure how to answer, he can’t tell someone how to express their love for another. “I feel safe with you around. Best sleep I’ve had since I arrived here. ‘Cause I know you’d never let anything happen to me while I sleep.”

I’m also attracted to you and wouldn’t object to you touching me. Or . . . doing more than touching . . .

“I would not.”

Izz bites his tongue on his inner revelation, keeping it to himself. “But what about when you’re not around? Everyone in this place seems hell bent on making my life a living Hell.”

He can’t go through what happened yesterday ever again. He cannot endure more of the same treatment. To feel so weak and pathetic . . .

What kind of a man can’t stand up for himself and stop . . . what happened . . . from being done to them?

“I could mark you.”

. . . mark him?

What does Sinn'ous mean by ‘mark him’ . . . ? Like some weird animal marking their territory type of thing? Izz’s not sure he’s on board with any . . . What is it called? Waterboarding—no, isn’t that a torture technique?—Whatever it’s called, he isn’t sure he would like it.

He’s experimental, yes. But he isn’t that experimental—

Maybe if he’s wasted drunk—nah, not even then. It’s not his thing. And kind of weird for someone to raise so casually . . . Humans also don’t have a sense of smell like dogs so how would peeing on someone do anything to mark their territory.

Izz must have pulled a face because Sinn'ous clarifies, “I can have my mark tattooed on you. No guards or inmates will dare touch you, they’ll know whose wrath it will invite, if they so much as disrespect you.”

Ohhhhh . . .

A tattoo.

Izz’s cheeks light up as if it’s their sole job to warm the entire prison—the entire country—

He’s glad Sinn’ous can’t read minds. With where his thoughts immediately jumped to . . .

Why had his mind gone so dirty?—probably because he hasn’t touched himself since he got to prison. He’s pent up and his mind’s eating away at itself, finding ways to turn anything dirty.

A tattoo makes sense.

A tattoo would be logical. An easy way to show others he’s untouchable. He’d be safer, less on edge, and not scared shitless every minute of the day. No more walking backwards to watch who’s following him, or hiding away in his cell, or using The Gang as a shield to avoid getting caught alone—although it had helped save him in the past. Kind of.

This would be different. Sinn'ous is different. A type of protection nobody wants to fuck with. And Izz wants the defensive shield. If he bears the mark of the prison’s notorious serial killer. . . no one will attempt to mess with him.

Decision secured in his mind, Izz smiles softly at Sinn'ous, “yes. I’d like that.”