Page 15 of Caged In

It’s too early in the morning to be dealing with this intrusion.

He takes another step back—

Colliding into a solid chest. Izz pitchesforward, away from the inmate athis back. He hadn’t been aware of anyone else approaching him. He’s lucky the other inmate doesn’t hold a weapon—he hopes the other inmate doesn’t have a weapon. Glancing between the two men, he can’t see any weapons, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t armed. The second inmate is twice Izz’s size, a weapon would really only be a flex. The man’s sheer size is weapon enough.

He opens his mouth to tell them to leave him alone. He’s not interested. Doesn’t want any trouble. But before he gets a word out, they back off, slinking away as fast as they slitheredup.

Well, that was weird—

Reni is at the top of the metal stairs. Frown in place, he clearly saw the interaction taking place. Or at the very least, saw the two men standing close to Izz, before they scurriedoff, to who knows where.

“Ignore them,” Reni states, strolling over to stand at Izz’s side. “They’re all talk. Got no spine in ‘em.” Reni rests a comforting hand on Izz’s shoulder, directing Izz towards the stairs, “let’s go eat. Shall we?”

An order? Phrased as a question? Is Reni more worried than he let on?

No . . . You’re overthinking it.

~~~

Breakfast is basically the same as dinner. A long queue. Numerous voices mingling together fighting for dominance. Too many smells to separate food from body odour. Four inmates pacingup and down serving. Trays being lugged off to various tables.

On the menutoday is bacon, cooked to a perfect crisp. A tray of scrambled eggs. Toast and various kinds of spreads in little containers. Small cartons of milk and juice boxes. Sausages. Some type ofgooey sludge—oats?

Gross, oats are the worst.

He’s served by the same beefy inmate, who gave him extra bacon, and commented on his politeness once more. He can’t help it, he’s always said thank you or please to people serving him. From clothing stores, to restaurants—on the rare occasion he went to a restaurant. He was taught to use manners, it’s hardwired into him, he does it without conscious thought.

Izz tearsinto a bacon strip, slouching at the same table where he had his first meal. However this time he deliberately sits facing the kitchen. Studiously avoiding a certain back corner, at a certain barrentable, to which a certain spikey-hairedindividual is present this morning. Not that he was looking when he walked over to The Gang’s table. Of course he wasn’t because that would be wrong.

It was merely a little glance. Does not count.

He knows he has no place to eye fuck a frickin’ serial killer. Sure the male is handsome. But he‘is’a killer. A murderer. A psychopath . . .

Izz will end up being a name in an article, if he’s not careful. A name lost within an arrayof other names. A statistic in a listof kills for a famous serial killer. Forgotten except for a number people recitewhen talking about a serial killer.

Everyone knows the serial killers’ name, no one remembers the victims’ name. They become part of the number of kills the serial killer accomplished during their reign of terror.

He needs to focus on something less depressing. Less real. He doesn’t want to know how many people in here have killed. He’d rather not think about it when he’s living with them.

Izz digs his forkinto the scrambled eggs, they don’t taste that bad, a little bland, but overall not too bad. Orange juice to wash it down with—

He would love some pancakes. He usually drinks orange juice when he cooks pancakes, so his stomach automatically puts two-and-two together—his stomach is very disappointed it isn’t getting pancakes with its orange juice. But the only other options were apple juice and milk. He didn’t want apple juice and he hates plain milk. Flavoured milk is the only way he can drink it—he isn’t sure the prison puts flavoured milk in their meal plan. He’ll guess that they don’t.

He isn’t too fond of the processed orange juice either. He squeezed his own at home, when he cooked pancakes every Saturday as a treat for his little sister. She loves pancakes . . .

He’s brought back from his memories when a hand ruffles through his hair. Blinking, he realises he was so engrossed in his memories, he’d missed when the table cleared off.

The Gang is lingering near the double doors by the kitchen, waiting patiently for Izz—while Reni is taking back his hand, an inquisitive expression on his face.

“Ya coming? Or are you going to sit here all day staring off into nothingness?”

Izz smiles, pleased he hadn’t imagined the friendships he’d formed among the group. Rising to his feet, he dumps his tray and joins the others. Walking as a group off to wherever. Hehas no idea where they’re heading, but he doesn’t care. It’s not like they have many options, they’re in a giant cage with little to nothing to look at. Everything is white bricks and long corridors. Corridors which twist, and turn, and weave throughout the prison buildings.

When they eventually arrive at their destination, he is officially lost. Absolutely no clue how to get back to the cafeteria, or his cell.

He can see a glassed-in room—a tiny prison store, with one inmate behind the bulletproof barrier. A guard stands close by, leaning back against the wall near the inmate, with a bored expression stamped on his features. Barred doors hang loose in front of the pair—like the shutters of an old house—indicating the store is open for purchases.

This must be the Commissary Store—do they call it a Commissary Store? or just Commissary?

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