Page 64 of Caged In

Because it is terribly wrong. I’m terribly wrong. I’ve killed another man. How could I—

Hold it together Izz.Izz’s inner voice hardens like it’s trying to gather all thefrazzled strings floating around his head. Trying to tie his sanity back together.

It will never be put back together. He will never be the same. How can he be? When he did . . . When he . . . He . . .

Murderer

Izz needs to do something, but what? How can he be sure he left no traces behind? Is that even possible? Or is that only something you can do in a movie . . . ?

Heneeds someone to talk to. An expert or something—someone . . . Someone who’s done this before . . .

Is he reallygoing to do this? Is he delusional . . . ?

He may be incredibly stupid, but Izz’s going to do it . . . . He’s going to find a serial killer. Find a serial killer to ask for help in a murder he’s committed. He never would have thought hislife would come to this. Not in a million years would he have pictured this scenario. Seeking out a serial killer for advice . . .

While The Gang and the entire prison is off at their assigned jobs, he is tracking down a serial killer. And hoping the rumours are actually true, and the mohawked inmate has experience in this field. Otherwise he isn’t sure what he’ll do, who he can approach.

He can trust a serial killer to keep his secrets . . . can’t he?

It’s an hour into the search when Izz comes to the realisation the killer is probably at a prison job. Complicating his plans. How is he going to find where the killer works, let alone get him somewhere to ask for help. It’s not as if he can walk up to the male and be like‘Hey, I need a little help with this guard I left in the filing room.’

He sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Who knew murder could be so stressful. He’s pretty sure he’s in the denial stage of his grief or depression or whatever it’s called.

Giving up, resigning himself to his inevitable—and well deserved—fate,Izz trudgesback to his Wing, to his cell, to sit and dread what will come next. Where does killing a guard place him . . . ?

Did the guard have a family? Children . . . ?

It’s too quiet in the corridors—in the prison. It feels like death. His mind is chaotic, if only he had his headphones, some loud music to drown out the screaming fear in his head.

The world is too silent.

Alone . . . He feels so alone . . .

A-Wing is empty when he arrives. Barren. A wasteland of barred skeletal rooms filling him with unease and dread. This cage is so much creepier when it’s deserted. He thought it would be better not having so many criminals lurking about, fearing they will stab him in the back. But no, it is way worse beingalone. He hates quiet loneliness on the best of days—out in the real world. Today, however . . .

It had never been so eerie on the outside.

He cannot feel his body, it’s disconnected from him—from the world. Somehow he movesup the stairs, his body a liquid mass. His slip-on prison-issued shoes scuffing and thumping, announcing their presence to the second floor. The metal clanging and echoing through the empty Wing.

Izz finds his way to the top, without giving in to his impulse to scream. He’s hanging on to his sanity by his fingertips, sliding closer and closer to the edge by the second—

A flicker of movement seizes his attention in the opposite direction to his cell—

Maybe fate is trying to make up for all the crap he’s been dealt.

At the end of the second-floor platform—leaning casually against the wall—is the mohawked male. Smoking with no care as to whether or not a guard passed by. White roll flaring orange with each draw.

Guess the serial killer doesn’t have to go to a prison job.

Izz turns towards the killer, his back to his own cell. Sucking in a deep breath, he slowly shuffles to the far end, scuffing his shoes when his feet lag behind. Nervous energy rolling off him in waves.

Years pass before he’s standing in front of the killer—the male has not shifted a single muscle. A frozen statue of dangerous intent in the path of Izz’s life. Granted Izz has a good reason to be here. He also isn’t foolish enough to leave himself vulnerable while alone with the one individual everyone in this Hell-hole fears.

His eyes dart everywhere but to the killer’s face, he can’t look the male in the eye, scaredhe might recognise himself in the killer’s eyes.

He, too, is a murderer now . . .

His eyes land in the last cell, shocked at the sight before him. It has two bunks, like any other cell, but the similarities end there. Only one bunk has mattresses on it—and he means mattresses—there has to be a stack of at least half a dozen hidden under those sheets.

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