Page 61 of Caged In

Crass and disgusting.

Izz cringes and moves back, “the fuck is wrong with you? You’re seriously asking that?For me to keep a child’s drawing? Are you kidding me?” Izz throws his hands up in astonished outrage.

This guard is more thanan asshole, they are a rapist asshole. There is no way he is going to do anything for this prick. They have another thing coming if they ever thought he would—

Izz’s eyes widened as the guard shrugs, lifting the picture up, holding it between two hands to ripit in half—

“No. Wait. Stop.” Izz surges forward, but doesn’t dare actually touch the guard.

He knows the cancer could return and he could still lose his sister. It might be the last picture she ever draws for him. The last gift she ever gives him. He can’t let this ego-swinging a’hole take it away from him. He can’t let them destroy it—

Izz must have paused for too long, the guard raises an eyebrow, moving his hands to show he’ll do it.

“Okay. Okay.” Izz holds his palms up, in a surrendering gesture, “I’ll fucking do it. Just give me the drawing.”

Is he truly going to do this? He regardsthe drawing in the guard’s clutches—his sister’s face flashes before him, her loving smile as she presented the drawing to him. How proud and happy she was to give it to him. Her joy when he told her he loved it.

“You can get it back after,” the guard’s sinister smile thickens.

Izz wants to throw up.

When the guard turns to leave, struttingoff down the corridor. He has no choice but to follow, gritting his teeth to keep his anger in check. It’s the only thing he can do. The guard holds all the cards over Izz. There’s nothing he can do, no moves he can make. He’s completely helpless.

Completely . . .

. . . Alone . . .

18

They arrive outside a door marked‘FilingRoom’—must be the one the counsellor was talking about, it feels like years ago since the first time he’d been to the counsellor’s office. He’d thought things had sucked back then, he was wrong. He never would have guessed his life’s path would have drivenhim to this moment in time. These events unfolding right before his eyes, an avalanchehe can no more prevent than he canstop from burying him alive.

The guard unlocks the door, using one of the many keys attached to the uniformed belts’ all guards’ wear. Shoving the door wide, and stepping back, flicking his head to indicate Izz’s to go inside.

Yeah, that’s obvious, you asshole.Izz electsnot to voice his displeasure—this doesn’t need to be worse than it’s already going to be.

The room’s filled with row after row of shelves, holding stacks and stacks of boxes. If he has to guess he’d say the boxes are filled with files. There had to be more files in here than inmates in the prison.

Are these files the documentations of every single person who’d ever been stuck in this cage? The history of the prison, boxed up in this airless cramped room.

He swivels back around at the sound of the door clicking shut. The guard’s hulkingframe taking up the space in front of the door.

“I’m going to do it,” Izz states, holding his hand out palm up towards the guard. “I just want the picture back . . . please.” He pushes the last word out through gritted teeth. He hates havingto beg. But he wants to be sure it isn’t going to be for nothing. He needs the image to be in his possession by the end.

The guard doesn’t move, doesn’t waver, doesn’t appear to have heard Izz. He completely ignores Izz’s words, not fazed in the slightest.

He tries again, executing a different approach. “At least put it down over there,” Izz points to one of the shelves with a space between boxes, “so it doesn’t get ripped or scrunched up.”

He’s thankful when the guard complies, he doesn’t appreciate how the guard tosses the drawing down, but at least it’s away from the a’hole. The one solace in this crappy situation—

Izz’s grippedby the shoulder and shoved down onto his knees. The hard concrete flooring offering little cushioning as his bonesmeet solid mass. He winces, unsure if it’s the pain or the degrading position.

I don’t want this. I can’t do it.

He wants to stay strong. To steelhis emotions and do what has to be done. But he can’t. . . he can’t pretend like this is okay, like it’s not affecting him.

It isn’t okay, this scumbag’s forcing me.

He doesn’t want to cry, doesn’t want to give this a’hole the satisfaction.

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