Page 65 of Caged In

What catches Izz’s eye more thanthe nice soft bed are the walls. All over the white-washed cell walls are pictures, cut outs, photos. Pages and pages of . . . Satanic drawings. Monsters, demons, devils. Pentagrams. Pages ripped from books, with upside down crosses or triple six drawn in thick black letters over the pages of whatever book it once was. The deep blacks and dark reds, mixing and mingling, to form a kind of wallpaper . . . a Satanic wallpaper . . .

The second unoccupied bunk holds a treasure trove of items. Shoes, clothes, books, pencils, food. The little cupboard’sdoors hanging open, spilling out its contents all over the bunk.

On top of the opposite cupboard is a small baggie of weed, rolling paper, and a lighter—an actual silver flip lighter, not the battery foil combo the stoner in the yard used—are laid out in the open. Disregarding the potential threat of The Hole if a guard were to see it.

The floating shelf above the messy bunk has lines and lines of chocolate bars, books, and other snacks. Unlike its counterpart—above the human occupied neatly arranged bed—immaculately stacked with papers, pencils, pens and sharpies—

Where did the killer get those last items? Do they sell those in Commissary? He’s sure he’s never seen pens or sharpies available for purchase. Wouldn’t inmates use them as weapons—

“You here for a reason.” The deep voice behind Izz thrust him back into his body. Without realising it, he’d walked inside the killer’s cell.

He throwsa glance over his shoulder, to the killer through the bars, the male is in the same casual laid-back position against the wall.

He isn’t sure what he’s supposed to say. Now that he’s found the killer, he is lost for words. Not sure it was a smart idea on his part to seek out this type of help. Is it true that this male’s a serial killer? He has no evidence. No proof. Only the rambling rumours of gossipy bored inmates. He has no idea if the killer shivved Levis—or anyone else for that matter. Perhaps he’s letting his imagination run wild.

Izz recalls the look on the male’s face, the slight nod the killer had given him in the cafeteria. He doesn’t want it to be true, would be happier to never know the truth. To never know if he is to blame for Levis’s demise. He’s already a part of death, even before he took it with his own hands.

Izz takes a step back, so he isn’t in the cell anymore. The cell he doesn’t need to be told belongs to the killer. Who else would harbour a Satanic worshipping cell?

“Your cell?” Izz enquires anyway, pointing into Satan’s lair, well aware he’s stalling.

The killer nods in way of answer. Inhaling the joint pinched between his fingers. Its orange flames working hard to consume the last of the paper, racing to his fingertips, threatening to burn them.

“It’s . . . unique.” Izz has no clue why his mouth is spouting small talk. Is it small talk?

He has no idea how to ask what he came here to ask. He’s struggling to hold himself together, to not blab every random thought crossing his mind, to delay the inevitable question.

How does one ask a stranger for help covering up a murder?

He’s an amateur. He isn’t a hardened criminal. Not like the drug dealers and gang members who handle these bloodyevents all the time. He’s never had anything remotely close to a murder to deal with. Breaking into empty houses doesn’t result in cleaning up dead bodies.

He must have been pulling some sort of wincing expression becausethe killer chuckles. Straightening up from his casual lean to his full height. Towering over Izz, in both height and experience. And everything else.

“Not a Satanic fan,” the killer observes, his dark eyes roaming over Izz’s face.

Izz gulps down his nervousness. He can feel the black irises on his skin, pinpricks of sensation following their path. He feels himself heating up and shivering at the same time, a strange combination of sensations.

“I’m not really religious. But I hold nothing against those who are. It wouldn’t surprise me if the Devil exists.” With all the evil in the world, it has to come from somewhere, doesn’t it?

The killer humsin a way that could be anything from agreement to disapproval. Izz worries that he’s pissed the killer off, destroying his only chance to get help—

That is until the killer offers Izz the last dying end of his joint. He takes the offering, relieved he has an excuse to not speak. Although, he can’t pretend to be engrossed in the smoke’s relaxing hold for too long. There isn’t much left of the white roll of blissful delight.

Dragging the smoke into his lungs,he watches the end flare to life, eating away the white paper in seconds. The killer raises a brow at him, as he makes quick work of the remainder. He is sure he looks like a rattled mess. But why wouldn’t he be? With everything that’s happened. With his messed-up thoughts, the gut-wrenching fear, the helplessness . . . the guilt . . .

God . . . The guilt.

It’s crippling. He wouldn’t have thought he’d care, considering what the guard had tried to do. He does care though,he cares and he hates himself for what he did. His conscience is gnawing at him, consuming him with remorse for the killing. He knows he hadn’t intended to stab the guard—that knowledge does nothing to ease his regrets.

He sucks down the last of the joint—nearly burning his lips—discarding the ashes into the small metal bin near the cell door. Watching the very last lick of life flicker out of the smouldering tip. Wishing the wisps of grey would reveal the answers to his problems.

Glancing back down the second-floor platform,Izz checks to ensure they are alone. That the whole prison hasn’t discreetly snuck up on him. He is faced with an empty line of cells. No commotions. No voices. No one else in sight.

He’s exposed out here. In the open. With what he’s about to ask, he doesn’t want to risk anyone so much as hearing a whisper of it. He does not want to be seen with the killer. He has blood on his hands. Blood he can’t physically see. Blood he can’t wash off, no matter how many times he scrubs himself clean. Blood the other inmates will see. They’ll know—

As if the killer senses Izz’s unease, he steps around Izz to move into his cell, blending in flawlessly with its Satanic decor. The whole room an extension of his essence. Flicking his head to indicate Izz should join him.

Izz follows him awkwardly. If he felt alone with the killer before, he’s utterly isolated and helpless now. This could easily go south, and he knows he doesn’t stand a chance if this inmate decides to kill him. His lack of experience and fighting skills leaves him vulnerable and defenceless, unable to protect himself against a serial killer who will crush his attempts to fight back.

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