Page 12 of Caged In

He’s going to have a panic attack. Or is he already in the clutches of a panic attack? He’s never had a panic attack before. If he had to guess what one would look and feel like. This right here. Would be it.

The killer doesn’t walk in. Doesn’t say a word. Or appear to even be breathing. Maybe there really is an oxygen problem in here? And it’s not just a problem in his head. But a physical one that also affects others.

Izz averts his eyes, glancing down—

Whoa. The same dripping bloody red ink is splattered down the insides of his thighs. Matching his arms—it hadn’t been a result of the shadow concealing the patterns, there are no patterns, it’s . . . blood . . . Whoever did the work knew what they were doing. It’s absolutely life-like.

The black tattoo on the killer’s abdominal muscles is well-crafted artwork too. An assortment of different animal skulls, held together by twisting, looping barbed wire. All interwoven into some kind of devil’s mark. A cross of some type . . .

Leviathan cross? If Izz remembers the name correctly, from his dark-things obsession back in his earlier school years—

He’s been staring too long, a few seconds is too long. Dead on the first day in prison is not how he wants to go out.

Shifting uncomfortably, cheeks burning red hot, his gaze roams to the killer’s crutch. He quickly averts his eyes. This is definitely one of the times in life where he does not want to be mistaken for checking someone out. Even if he may have—somewhat—been doing just that, it’s beside the point. He does not want to offend this particular inmate in the slightest way—

“Izz,” Zidie bellows, from around the dividing partition separating the changing rooms and the showers. “What’s taking ya so long, we wants’ to go.”

The bellowed words must have snapped the killer into motion. He strides off. His shoulders rolling in a predatory prowl. His footing sure and strong, his long strides shifting with coiled strength.

Izz stands there, shaken, and staring wide eyed at the doorway where the red and black haired inmate had been standing. His heart still stuttering wildly—the organ hadn’t given out yet, so that’s a bonus.

Yay for me.

Zidie’s head pops out from behind the brick partition. An irritated expression taking over his cupcake face as he spots Izz standing there, “hurry up,” he wines.

Izz blinks back into reality. Glancing over his shoulder, but doesnt see who he’s checking for. The killer must have been showering further in. He looks back to find Zidie is gone.

Taking a deep breath, he hurries over to retrieve his clothes and get dressed with the rest of The Gang who are fully clothed. Except Blake, the pale inmate is in the middle of pulling his shoes on, and still shirtless. The vampire lookalike has a nice build, with black tattoos marring the pale skin on his back. His chest completely clear of ink.

“You all good?” Blake shoots an enquiry over to Izz, pulling his slip shoes on—no laces for prisoners.

“Y-yeah,” Izz clears his throat, slipping his shirt over his head. “Yeah. I’m good. Just lost in thought.”

Blake hums, probably not buying it, but nods anyway.

~~~

Izz and Reni made it back to the cells shortly after their showers. Dropping off a few members of The Gang at their own cells along the way. Which’s how Izz found out about their differentWings, and where their cells are.

His number is A-18910, and his cell is located in A-Wing. He discovered that he and Reni are the only ones in A-Wing. Isco, Erik and Zidie are located in B-Wing. David and Phelix had C-Wing. And Blake is in E-Wing. He isn’t sure which block the guy in The Hole is from. But he can always ask or just read the number on the man’s shirt when he gets out. However far away that might be.

He was told D-Wing holds all the other activities. Self-help groups, classrooms—because you can study degrees in prison?—There are addict groups—he’s sure they’re not actually called that, but Zidie was explaining things, so he’s not taking the man’s word for it on the names.

The Med-Wing is located past D-Wing on the way to E-Wing. Like that’s supposed to mean something to him? He can scarcely remember how to get to the showers, let alone where the various Wings are located.

Izz groans again as he shifts in the dark cell, trying to find a comfortable position on his bunk.

It’s no use.

Everywhere he rolls—every position he tries—ends with the same results. Metal grinding against bone. It’s a torture in and of itself. If being in a cage isn’t punishment enough, this paper-thin mattress sure is. If he never has to see, touch, or associate withthese mattresses again, he’d vow right here and now to never commit another crime.

He’s not impressed with the prison’s standards. With how they see fit to punish them in this way. He flops onto his stomach. It’s the position with the least amount of pinching and digging.

Reni laughs, from his own bunk, apparently amused by Izz’s discomfort.

He glares at the dark lumpy mound on his cellmate’s bunk. Unsure if his displeasure is seen in the low lighting—either way, he gives it his all. “How can you lay there so damn still? These things are terrible.”

“You get used to it,” Reni murmurs, half asleep already.

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