Page 50 of Caged In

Screw the kitchen boss, and the fake leverage to get into his pants. The freak is trying to manipulate him and give him extra things to push him intoowingsomething.

Izz rolls onto his side, peeringout into the dark cell. His bunk’s way more comfortable now that he has two mattresses to lie on. With the ever-present question ofwho-done-it—

His innermonologuedoesn’t contain a whole lot of sense. His mind and body are so exhausted he can’t line up his thoughts. His new laundry job is draining and labour intensive. Muscles he didn’t know he had are aching something fierce.

He does have one upside to his days, kind of. He’s receivinggifts each day, usually in the form of chocolates or beef jerky. He has seen the price tag of the latter in Commissary and it’s not a cheap product. Whoever is leaving him the snacks does not lack funds.

To those on the outside, these gifts would be insignificant and hardly worth mentioning. But when you are on the inside, it is a massive deal. Being able to enjoy chocolate is no longersomething you can simply go to the store and buy for a few dollars. It costs three times more to buy it in this cage, and the money you earn in the prison jobs is less than a dollar an hour. There is no cushy thirty dollars an hour job on the inside, no freedom to go to the shop whenever you want. Commissary is open four days a week for a few hours at a time. Usually for the duration between breakfast and lunch, but it’s unpredictable.

Izz digs into the snacks and doesn’t regret it for a second—okay, so maybe there are times he worries over what the gifts mean and what will happen if he keeps accepting them. But thenhe would spotReni and remember the fight—he is in over his head in this cage already. He has been targeted and treated like garbage by most inmates—Levis for one. So why not enjoy the gifts in the meantime? If the gift giver wants to hurt him, he’s sure they’d find an excuse to do so either way.

And he is drowning in food. He has his own hoarded collection stashed away in his cupboard. He’s running out of room and will have to figure out where to put it when it reaches overflow levels.

Maybe I can leave a note on my bed to tell whoever is leaving the gifts that I have no more space to keep any more—

“Or maybe I can justeat more,”Izz chuckles to himself in the darkness, a crazy person whispering in the lightless cell.

The prison lights have yet to blast into life for the start of a new day. Izz’s inner alarm clock woke him slightly earlier thanthe automatic time the cell doors open. His cellmate is still out cold in the other bunk, quietlysnoring away.

Another day in Hell.

~~~

He’s tucking into his breakfast when the two side doors clanked open, allowing two inmates to walk in late for the party. He wouldn’t have taken noticeif the second inmate hadn’t been one he’s thrilledto see—

Zidie is out of The Hole. Accompanying an inmate Izz does not recognise. They both bypass the food line, gunningstraight for The Gang’s table. A massivegrin plasteredon Zidie’s face.

“We’re back,” Zidie’s sing-a-song tone is musicto Izz’s ears.

He’s delightedto see Zidie out—the guilt is still there, but less so with his best friend no longer stuck in The Hole. Which was his fault—

He winces, refocusingon his food. Will Zidie stillwant to be his friend? Or did that ship sail when Zidie spent all those weeks stuck in a dankcell all alone?

Zidie throws an arm over Izz, planting his assdown beside him. “Hey bestie. How are you?”

Zidie pinches Izz’s face between two fingers to turn his face side to side, looking for any marks?

“You don’t look like you took a beating,” Zidie informs Izz.

Izz takeshis head back, sticking his tongue out at the other. “Ha. Ha. Very funny. I was doing just fine in the fight. Definitely winning.”

“Uh huh, right,” Zidie raises an eyebrow at Izz, “so you weren’t on the floor about to become chow.”

Izz snorts dismissively at Zidie, “no. No way. Not at all. That time alone in The Hole has you hallucinating what happened.”

Zidie laughs, “sure I did. You keep telling yourself that if it makes you feel brave.”

“I don’t need an ego boost, I already know I have madfighting skills—”

A scoffing noisecatches Izz’s attention, bringing his face around to the new inmate. “Madfighting skills . . .Anyone who has to say that has zero fightinganything.”

For the first time Izz scans the new arrival. The man is handsome, in a savage tough guy kind of way. Hazel eyes, the perfect shade to link nicely with his messy dyed-red hair, ruggedly cut into scruffy layers. Its length disappearing behind his back, peeking out to kiss his elbows. The hair style fits the man’s perfectly symmetrical features. Hands encased in a black splatter ink tattoo design which speckles into sleeves, mixing and mingling with golds and reds. A whole arrayof different images merged together to make two incredible sleeves.

Unique.

He could study the tattoo designs for hours and still find something new in the network of art. All the details that went into the piece must have taken days.

“Hey, I’m Sinj. And you must be Izz.” Sinj liftshis chin in a half nod of greeting.

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