Page 110 of Caged In

Two passages he read over a week ago, he keeps close to heart, bringing them forth whenever his mind wanders into dark places. Texts he recalls clear as day in his mind’s eye. The printed words branded within his mind. A comfort to hold onto.

One’s own body is sacred, and is subject to one’s own will alone.

When in open territory, bother no others. If others bother you, politely ask them to stop. If they do not heed your words, destroy them.

Passages he finds himself repeating over and over, when he’s lying awake at night, unable to sleep.

It hasn’t left him since he read it. It’s a comforting blanket to inform him he did the right thing. He isn’t to blame for all the attacks, the assaults . . . the deaths . . .

Those inmates brought it on themselves. They suffered the consequences of their own actions. They are the ones to blame for what events transpired and the outcomes to befall them. He is the victim. They chose their own paths and sealed their own fates.

It wasn’t my fault.

“—Kind of. Can we just drop this subject? It’s depressing,” Izz brushes aside his thoughts. He is in a good head space and doesn’t want dark thoughts clouding his mind.

He may be slowly healing from his traumas, but it doesn’t mean he isn’t still holding a little guilt, feeling sad for them. They were people after all. Granted, they were bad people, but they were still someone’s son.

A hand runs down his spine as he leans forward to pick up his shoe. Bringing a smile to his face. He’s used to Sin touching him. Since the first time they did it, Sin’s always looking for excuses to get his hands all over Izz—

Izz hisses when he bends too low, his side stinging its protest. He’d forgotten about the cut—will he need stitches?

Standing in the middle of the cell—shirt in one hand—he probes the injury. It’s a neat clean cut, a thin line. A little slice with no rough jagged edges. It’s not bleeding very much anymore. Seeping a little but it seems to have closed up on its own.

How much practice has Sin had? How many have been sliced open under his blade . . . ?

Izz’s compelled to know why Sin treats him differently. Why he’s allowed to become so close to a psychopath who enjoys killing—no one kills as many as Sin without enjoying the act.

“Why do you care about me, and no one else?” Izz stares directly into Sin’s eyes, watching them flicker as the question sinks in.

“Don’t know. I just do.” Sin’s trying to dismiss the subject. Why?

Izz’s not going to allow that to happen. He wants to know what goes on in Sin’s mind. How Sin views the world. “But why am I different?”

“Do you want me to treat you like I view others,” Sin raises a brow.

A threat? Or playful teasing? Sometimes it’s hard to tell.

He decides to play it safe, especially on this subject. He doesn’t want to provoke a reaction.

“No,” he mutters. Pulling his shirt on, refusing to look back at Sin once his shirt is covering him. He’s a little hurt that he hasn’t received an answer to his question.

“So what’s the problem,” Sin questions in his usualyou-will-answer-mefashion.

Why is Sin pushing for an answer now? It’s clear Sin doesn’t want to talk about his thoughts or feelings.

Izz shakes his head, shrugging, “never mind.” He can already feel his emotions shutting down, to protect him from the rejection.

Sin stays silent.

Izz steps around him on his way to the cell’s door. His excitement about them showering together has evaporated. His feet heavy and his heart dropping along with the rest of him. Itdoesn’t feel like a sexual drop, more like an emotional hurt. It sucks either way.

Sin grabs Izz’s forearm, before the smaller inmatecan squeeze past him. Sighing long and low—a curse of breath filling the tense atmosphere, “I can’t tell you because I don’t know. I’ve never cared about anyone before. People . . .” Sin trails off, mulling over his words.

Izz patiently waits for Sin to continue. His breath held in his throat. Hanging onto every word.

“To me, people are simply animals, or . . . the way you would view an apple. Some you want to slice. Others look repulsive, you don’t touch them, but you would slice them open, if needed, without care.”

Izz’s not sure he’s following the explanation . . .

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