Page 38 of Caged In

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Izz practically sprints out of the kitchen as soon as the meals are brought out for serving. Not sticking around to clean or top up the serving trays when the food runs low. He’s gone before the pots he’s in charge of stop sizzling.

He is not sorry about ditching out, not apologetic in the slightest. None of the others did shit. Every one of them pretended not to notice him being molested by that creep. They are as bad as the one who groped him. They stood by and said nothing—did nothing—when it was happening.

Back at his cell, Izz repeatedly thumps his head into his pillow. Crying out at how unfair everything is in this Hell-hole.

He doesn’t want it. He doesn’t want to be with anyone for protection. He isn’t into Levis in that way. Doesn’t find him even remotely attractive.

Levis is not Izz’s type. Not even close. The man is foul. A revolting molester.

Why do they keep targeting me?

Despite the noise from various inmates crowding his Wing, he eventually cries himself to sleep. His dreams are filled with crazednightmares. Hands reaching out for him in the darkness. Laughing sinister faces surround him as he runs. Trying to escape the grabbing hands—

A shrillalarm offers a lifeline to pullIzz free of his nightmares. Free of the reaching hands.

The alarm is the calling card for dinner—he must have missed dinner prep? And he is pleased by it. He wouldn’t have gone either way. But now he doesn’t have to sit in his cellworrying about a guard coming to collect him for food prep. He’s not sure he could have stayed sane with that level of anxiety breathing down on him.

He picks up the new wrap of pills off his cupboard—where do they keep coming from?

He uses the cell’s sink, swallowing the meds. Stripping out of his sweat soaked clothes he washes his body as best he can—water running down his sides to drip onto the floor, forming a puddle around his bare feet.

He ignores the water, which will dry during the night—or not, he doesn’t care either way. Perhaps it will form mould and he’ll have to be escortedto Med-Wing for mould inhalation. He’d have some days in a private room without any worries of inmates jumping him in the corridors. Or in the kitchen. Or outside his cell. He’d have a medical clearanceto keep him out of the kitchen, and away from thegangboss.

Does mould grow overnight?

He hopes so. He’s dreading going back. He knows it’s inevitable. He has to work in the kitchen, he’ll be dragged in by a guard and forced to stay there. Levis will have another opportunity to touch him. And none of the other inmates will help him.

He plops down on his mattress, shaking off his feet to air dry them. Water flicking over the cell—it doesn’t work, just wets more things.

Whatever.

Izz stuffs himself into a burritoof blankets, tucking himself into the fake protective shield. The thin fabric moulding to his body. Tightening over him, protecting him so nothing bad can harm him. A cocooned embrace to hug him to sleep.

With a huff he worms his cocoon over to the beds edge, so he can reach his cupboard without the need to stand. Hanging over the edge to collect a new set of prison clothes. He may have thecell to himself for the night but that doesn’t mean he trusts this Hell-hole enough to sleep naked in it.

For all he knows the guards may not even lock the doors correctly. He’s never tried to open them once they close. How does he know they don’t just shut, beep, and stay unlocked?

You’re paranoid.Izz’s inner voice whispers, and he finds himself cursing at it as he wrestles his clothes on inside his blanket cocoon.

12

Breakfast hits all too soon the next day. Izz couldn’t avoid it because the guard marched into his cell and told him he can either get up on his own, or be dragged out to prep breakfast, and then go tosolitary confinement—they don’t call it The Hole, guess the guards’ are toocoolto speak prisoner.

Izz informed the guard he’d choose the former and be at breakfast prep. Even when he was nearly overwhelmed with the urge to blab, he knew it would do him no good. The guards’ don’t care—

Which is how he ended up in his current position—hiding out alone in the dark of the showers. Uncannydoesn’t even begin to describe the place. He thought he felt wary in the showers when it was open for the inmates to use. That pales in comparison to the trembles racking his body with nervous anxiety while alone, with little more than a square of light by the door to navigate his surroundings.

It is way worse in the dark. As if he’s the star of a horror film, about to be dragged back into the shadows and murdered in the dark dingy cold room.

He does not relish the idea of his death certificate reading the cause of death as a prison shower shanking—shivving?

He thinks he’s been sitting on the cold tiles for the better part of an hour. His ass numbed out a while ago, he no longer has feeling in that part of his body. He’d like it to have been an hour, but knowing his luck in this prison so far, it’s likely to be more like ten minutes. Wishful thinking has him hoping it’s the former.

So far so good.

No guards have come in looking for him. No alarms have gone off indicating his disappearance has been noticed. Things are starting to look up. If he can hang out here until the breakfast siren sounds—when the rest of the prison becomes alive with activity—he’ll be in the clear, at least for breakfast prep. He has no idea how he’s going to avoid lunch and dinner. But he has to try.

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