Page 36 of Caged In

He placesthe tray down on one of the clean benchtops. Eating slowly—while hunched over the bench—as the bacon grease stings the split inside his mouth.

“You’ll be on cooking for lunch. Get here early so I can run you through where everything goes.”

Izz nearlychokes on his mouthful of bacon at the server’s words. Turning his stunned faceto Levis, he watches the man break into a slow grin.

“What? You think I was going to keep you on cleaning indefinitely?” Levis’s voice is laced with amusement.

“Well . . . yeah,” Izz splutterssheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Figured because I’m new, and . . . well, not part of your . . .” He isn’t sure if they go by gang, or mob? He tapped above his own eyebrow to indicate what he’s referring to. He doesn’t want to call Levis by the wrong term and accidentally offend the man.

Levis doesn’t answer, he justsmirks. Leaning back on one of the kitchen benches, indicating with his chin to Izz’s tray.

He digs back into his meal. It tastes amazing, he’s starvingfrom the huffing and heaving of multiple kitchen equipment into the washers. Probably part of the reason why the food tastes so good, his stomach is completely empty and he’s desperate to fill it.

He can sense Leviswatching him. He chooses to ignore it. Continuing to eat his food hastily muscling through the stinging burn—he’s alone with an inmate who he doesn’t know, who runs a gang, and is into shady business—he’d like to leave as soon as possible, to be on the safe side.

“So,” Izz talks over his insistent worries, “do we have to cook every meal, every day? No holidays in prison?”

“No. Other inmates who don’t work in the kitchen, work one shift a day, and have Sundays off—unless they’re cleared by Medical for more days off.” Levis explains. “We—inmates who work the kitchen—work three shifts in one day for the week, so we have the second week off. A week on, a week off.”

Well, that’s a bonus Izz supposes. He’s not sure he could survive prepping for three meals indefinitely. He’d be a walking zombie in no time. Especially having to wake up so early. A weekoff will be excellent. If he can find things to do. He’s going to get bored real fast if he doesn’t find something to kill his downtime.

~~~

Izz went back to his cell after breakfast, finding a pair of white pills plastic wrapped on his pillow. He takes them without a second thought, the first lot hadn’t killed him, this lot should be fine.

Sitting tentatively on his bunk, he waits for the pills to kick in and kill the pain. He’ll stay in his cell until lunch, he is not in the mood to deal with The Gang. He can’t pretend as if he hadn’t heard what David said. Pretend like it’s fine.They’re probablythrilled to be rid of him and all his,‘attracting attention’, ‘pissing off gangs’, ‘can’t protect himself to save his life’.

He’s an outsider in this world. He has no idea how to act in this place, how to carry himself, how to pick friends—can you even be friends in prison? Or is everyone in here using everyone else—

No. That can’t be it. Or Zidie and Reni wouldn’t have stepped in to help him. They would have left Izz to deal with his own fate. That fate would have been death, no doubt about it.

Izz mulls over his thoughts. Drawn into the inner ramblings of his mind. Trying to link puzzle pieces together and map out his plans to survive this cage. To make it out—if not in one piece, then at the very least—alive.

He’s so caught up in his own thoughts that he’s shocked when a guard stops by to tell him to report to the kitchens for lunch prep. He hadn’t realised he’d been sitting in his cell so long.

He’s slightlywaryabout going back. Levis was throwing off weird vibes. His senses kept twitching around the man, likethey knew something was off, something he can’t yet figureout. Maybe it’s uncertainty?—unease?—linked to working so close to gang members.

Izz dartsdown the corridor, moving swiftly to avoid any more unpleasant run-ins. He does not want a repeat of the attack. The pain meds he’d found left in his cell had helped, but he doesn’t need more bruises on top of bruises. He’d like to have enough time to heal, without adding to the collection.

Shoving past the kitchen doors, he takes a moment to catch his breath, he’s sure the kitchen has moved further away, he can’t be this unfit. His lungs expand in their struggle to draw in much needed oxygen, inflating around a small flutter in his chest at avoiding having his face stomped in on his brisk walk here.

The little things to celebrate in life. Go me.Izz’s inner cheerleader flipsits pom-poms to his success.

Scrunching his face he steps past the partition into the kitchen, disgustedin himself for thinking he has an inner cheerleader doing anything, let alone cheering him on fornotgetting beaten up.

Again.

This place is already getting to him, driving him into insanity. Maybe they have a spare bed in the Psych-Wing he can use. He’s arguing with himself about cheerleaders dancing in his head, he’s well on his way to joining the crazy train—he mightfind himself running it, if he’s not careful.

“You’re in charge of these pots. Stirring them to prevent it sticking and burning. No one wants burnt mashed potatoes.” Levis hovers over Izz’s back, breathing down Izz’s neck like an over-zealousteacher waiting for the student to screw up so they can reprimand them. Before walking off to yell orders at other inmates.

Izz grabsthe giant ass wooden spoon—he’s sure this was a broom before the guards attached a spoon end to it. They can’t possibly make wooden spoons this big? It’s almost as tall as him.

It’s surprisingly easy to stir. He thought the bulk amount of mash would gunk together, resulting in an immovable mess of boiling sludge. What he got, is a mixture easily parting to allow the spoon to slide through it like soft butter.

It’s relaxing. Stirring the smooth cooking potatoes. Pulling him into a lulled zone of peace. A zone of calm encasing him. Who knew stirring a giant pot of simmering mash would turn out to be so relaxing—

Izz’s rudely draggedout of his trance when a hand runs down his back, rubbing over his ass—

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