Page 79 of Caged In

His body hurts. His throat’s a ball of agony. His joints, old rusted hinges who refuse to work without complaint. His eyes, would burn less if they were stuck open in a desert heatwave, they sting so much.

Flopping over in his heavenly warm cocoon of blankets, he blinks up at Sinn'ous. The male is perched on the edge of the mattresses. A small bowl held in steadyhands. He can see the triple six tattoos on Sinn'ous’s wrists. A dark branding on otherwise flawlessskin.

“Sit up,” Sinn'ous instructs, presenting the bowl, “I have pain meds for you too.”

Izz doesn’t ask where they came from or how they’d been acquired. For either the soup or the medication. He’s appreciative of both. Bracing his elbow into the mattresses to cradle the cold sustenance in weak hands. Setting it down to balance on the prison bunk, in order to accept the pills without spilling anything.

He keeps his words internal, smiling a thank you to Sinn'ous. Pinching the three little pills between his fingers, plucking them out of the offered hand. He doesn’t hesitate to scoffthem down, using the soup to swallow them.

The nourishment is bland, tasteless, yet he’s thankful for it. No spices to irritate his throat, or any chewing required.

Izz snuggles back into the bedding once he finishes the soup, Sinn'ous taking the bowl from him to place on the floor out of the way. The meds are already working, his battered and exhausted body drowsy and sluggish. A combination of his physical exhaustion and the drugs are demanding his eyes close and his mind rest.

~~~

He’s brought to consciousness by a nice smell wafting throughout the cell. Sinn'ous has more food awaiting him. Where the meals are coming from, Izz does not know.

Did Sinn'ous leave to collect them? Or have someone collect them for him? Would anyone do that? They all fear him . . .

Does he have a guard to do his bidding? Does Izz really want to know either way? It’s probably safer not to know. In fact, it would have been wise not to eat meds from Sinn'ous in the first place. Especially with the luck he’s having so far around inmates . . . and guards . . .

I know nothing about him.

But he can find out. “Why the Satanic stuff? Were you born into the religion? Or did you take it up on your own?” It’s as good a time as any to ask. He’s curious to learn more about Sinn'ous.

“Something I picked up as a teen. It was easy for me to relate to,” the mattress shifts with the weight of Sinn'ous sitting on its edge. Handing Izz a dish of rice, with little chunks of vegetables mixed throughout. And three more little pills.

Do I want to know why it’s relatable? Do I need to know the details?

“Do you sacrifice virgins?” Izz mutters, picking through the rice with a slim spoon, to inspect the types of vegetables it houses.

“You watch too many movies, Beautiful,” Sinn'ous strokes his fingers through Izz’s hair. Chuckling softly as he hands Izz a small cup of water to take the pills with. “A misconception. Satanism isn’t based on sacrifices and deaths. It’s being true to yourself and not apologising for it. You can be a nature lover and a Satanist. I, on the other hand, use it for the former. I’m true to myself and who I am. I will never apologise for what I’ve done. Or will do.”

Whoa. That’s a lot to take in. Izz hadn’t known Satanism is deeper than sacrificing people to the Devil.

Sinn'ous clicks his tongue lightly, “you could be a carer for your family and a Satanist. If it’s true to who you want to be. You don’t have to get on your knees and pray to Satan.”

“So you don’t believe in Satan?”

All the paintings and markings over the walls present as someone who worships the Devil. As offerings to an out-of-this-world deity. The admiration clear in the carefully constructed wall of arts.

Sinn'ous tilts his head, scanning over Izz’s features, “Jasper Marcelo. Yet you go by Izz, why is that.”

Whoa. He’s asking a question in return.

Is this the first time Sinn'ous has asked him a personal question? Enquiring into who he is as a person. Granted, it was spoken more along the lines of a statement, but it’s the closest to a question he’s heard from the male, so he’ll take it as such.

Sharing personal information with someone who everyone believes is a serial killer . . . Stupid on his part. He’s half witnessed murders committed by Sinn'ous. He’d heard two—or perhaps three—of the four inmates who’d assaulted him—die. He’d witnessed their murders. He can’t remember if he’d actually seen Sinn'ous kill any of them, his memories are foggy from that day, but it’s obvious.

Izz draws in a deep breath . . . and jumps off the ledge . . .

“My sister had brain cancer. She used to have a toy horse. Her favourite,” Izz closes his eyes, the memories visually dancing over his eyelids. “During one of her seizures—in the beginning stages before we knew it was cancer—she fell down next to the fireplace. Her little horse fell over the rails and went in.”

She’d been more upset about her horse than the seizure she’d suffered. It was a gift that she didn’t remember the uncontrollable seizures. Izz was scarred enough for the both of them, by the image of her little body flailing on the floor.

That day had been horrifying. He hadn’t known what was wrong, why she was convulsing on the carpet. He’d never seen someone in the middle of a seizure. Waiting for the operator to answer his call for an ambulance was the longest three seconds of his life. He can stillhear every syllable of that ringtone.

“I found her a new horse, the same colour and everything but she knew it was different. She didn’t want it. Wouldn’t accept the new toy.”

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