Page 63 of Caged In

He falls back on his ass, disbelief welling in his chest, staringat the guard’s slumped, motionless body . . . at the pool of crimson gradually spreading over the floor, the puddle darkening as it becomes deeper and deeper. Thickening to the point of black sludge.

What have I done . . .

Izz’s mind snaps into focus—he’s in a locked room, with a . . . with a dead guard—He can’t stay here, he can’t be caught. He wants to run and keep running, but there’s nowhere he can run to in this cage.

He’s beginning to shake, the combined effects of adrenaline and shock spearing into his core. Closing his eyes, he breathes. Forcing himself to calm and to think.

What can he do . . . ?

Grabbing the hem of his shirt, Izz wipes off the broom handle to remove his fingerprints. He does the same to the boxes scattered over the floor in case he touched any of them. He rubs over the shelves nearby before checking his clothing for blood—finding no blood he sends up a prayer to whoever’s watching over him. If anyone is. He sends his prayer anyway. You never know.

Moving carefully around the blood, Izz snatches his sister’s drawing off the shelf. Relieved it remained safe in its resting place. Holding it carefully in one hand, he hopes the guard didn’t lock the door. He doesn’t want to reach into the puddled mess to find the keys on the guard’s belt.

Using the inside of his shirt once more, Izz treats the handle the same as the rest of the room. Wiping it down—he sighs, relieved when the handle moves under his palm, twisting open with ease.

He wipes the outside handle off before snapping the door shut—he can’t remember if he touched the door on his way in. Better safe thansorry.

Izz rushes down the corridor, moving swiftly. Constantly glancing over his shoulder to check if he’s being followed. Who would even be following him—

Did anyone see him enter the room with the guard? Did anyone see him leave? Or hear the fight? Was there a loud noise to draw attention to it? How much time does he have until the bod—until the guard is discovered . . . ?

Stop. You’re acting suspicious.You’re going to draw attention to yourself.

Relax.

Relax.

Slow down . . .

Izz forces himself to slow down, to keep his shoulders squared and his head straight. No more looking over the shoulder. No more rushing movements. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Act normal, or you’re going to get caught.

If someone didn’t already see you—

Stop it. Izz reprimands his inner voice,it is not helping the situation. In fact, it is making everything worse—

Shit. Shit. Shit.

He’s a murderer now . . . This death is his fault. He can’t blame it on the serial killer. He can’t blame it on anyone. He can’t dismiss it.

I did this . . .

It’s all my fault . . .

19

Izz driftsin a numb haze through the corridors. His mind floating free of his body. It’s a surreal dream, coating him, consuming him. His spirit torn, his soul fragmented.

Is this trulyhappening . . . Is this where my life has led. . .?

Is he really a murderer now . . . ?

What is he going to do? He’s killed someone, a guard. He has no idea how to cover up something like this. What if he left his prints on the body—

Murderer.

Izz wipes frantically at his eyes, he needs to keep it together. He needs to hold his head high and not let anyone know something’s terribly wrong.

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