Page 20 of Caged In

The man had been on a roll—nice and kind—thenkilled it with his salad ofcrush-your-dreams-and-sharpen-your-fears.Why can’t the counsellor be more joyous? Dish out a bit of hope and ease your worries. Not stack onto them with more stuff to worry you to death after deflating your small balloons of light and hope in this colourless place.

“I know that,” Izz grits out. It’s increasingly hard not to lose patience and snap at the man.

Doesn’t mean you have to bring it all up. I’m happy to live in a bubble, while I try to stay sane during my time in this cage. Thank you very much.Izz grumbles to himself.

“Very good. Okay, I’ll add you into the system to get you that job assignment.” The counsellor rapidlytypes into the keyboard. “Anything else happened? . . . Anything noteworthy? Anything got you worried?”

First inmate in here who caught my eye is a serial killer.Who was staring at me as I stared at him. Something I’ve been told I’m not supposed to do, or I will end up dead—

“No. Nothing.” Izz elects to say instead. “I mean, the mattress sucks,” Izz tacks on, chuckling nervously. “But, no, nothing.”

“Good . . . Good . . . You can come by anytime if that changes, or you just have things you want to get off your chest.”

I’d rather tell the metal non-mirror mirror in my cell, at least that won’t lob more things at me to stress over.

“Thank you.” Izz forces a polite smile.

“Okay, off you pop. I’ll have a guard let you know when that job assignment comes through.”

Izz nods, straightening to his full height, to leave the bad newscounsellor and the rather comfortable chair to their own devices. Rushing to the door and his prison life waiting beyond it.

~~~

By the time Izz enters a familiar corridor leading to the cafeteria, he can hear the busy hustle and bustle of lunch being served and consumed. The discussionin the counsellor’s office had takenlonger than Izz initially anticipated. And his directionless wandering—throughout the prison, to find his way back to A-Wing, and in turn, the cafeteria—wasted even more time.

Izz pushes pastthe double doors—the same doors The Gang left from to go to Commissary—opening the way into the busy cafeteria. He must have arrived nearthe end of lunch, the cafeteria isn’t its usual busy self, appearing rather empty. Many of the tables are bare and others only dusted with men finishing off their meals.

He spots the others with their own trays gathered around their usual table. At least they’re all there, and he won’t be stuck eating alone, with nothing to occupy his mind.

Izz joins the back of the queue. There aren’t many inmateswaiting to eat, he’s at the food serving barin no time. Sliding his tray along the wooden bar to collectwhat’s left over to choose from. He doesn’t have much of a selection, most of the holding trays now empty.

“Was wondering where you were at?” The usual beefy server enquires of Izz. “You almost missed lunch. How’s your first day going?”

Izz always seems to be served by this specific inmate. Not sure if it’s a coincidence or not? Probably a coincidence. He hasn’t been to too many meals and there aren’t many servers. Not compared to the amount of inmates they prep food for.

“Was here yesterday.” He’s tired of all the questions being thrown at him. He wants to sit and eat, and not answer any more questions today. It’s only lunch, and he is alreadydrained, his life force sucked dry.

“First official day,” the server smiles, serving a large portion of lasagne and a bottle of water.

Izz’s fighting his fatigue. Trying to keep his mind involved in the interaction is like staring at high beams—lots of effort to keep his eyes open, loads of pain shooting through his head with little to no outside information being retained, his whereabouts a foggy and blurry uncertainty.

“It’s been alright. I guess. Beds are uncomfortable. Had to see the counsellor to get a job assignment.”

“Explains why you looked so tired this morning. Takes a while to get used to sleeping here. And the counsellor is a real . . . nutcase.”

“I’m not really a morning person anyway,” Izz half-heartedlyexplains, dismissing the counsellor comment. He agrees but he’s not about to bag-out the guy who sends reports to the Warden. He’d prefer not to piss off the one who could potentially sabotage his transfer paperwork if he wants to move jobs or anything. Best to avoid it, just in case.

“You want chocolate or vanilla cake?” The inmate serving enquires, his mood way too cheerful for Izz’s liking—

Come to think of it, Izz doesn’t know the inmate’s name. Has never bothered to ask—he’s too tired to care to ask now.

“Chocolate would be nice, thank you.”

The server stackstwo hefty slices of individually wrapped cake on the side of Izz’s tray. He scrutinises the cakes, puzzled why this server is always so nice to him. He’s certain the other inmates aren’t getting two slices. Although . . . after his crappy start to the day, he isn’t about to question this one kindness.

“Always got extra for those with manners,” the beefy server smirks, leaning in closer to Izz to whisper, “don’t go showing the others, they might get jealous.”

~~~

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