Page 3 of Caged In

Bring on the grey.

Izz follows along next to the mute guard who has a permanent scowl etched onto his face, and a grip like steel. Why do they feel the need to drag him around? He’s in a cage, where exactly is he going to run?

Lining the fringes of the room are cells with barred doors, and brick walls to divide each cell, blocking you off from your neighbours. They are a decent size—for what he expected to get for cells. Although . . they do look kind of cold and lonely . . .

He passes by a small round table, identical to the others sparsely scattered down the room’s centre. The metal tables are bolted into the concrete floor, inmates surrounding eachone, sitting on them or on the round stools—that are likewise anchored into the ground.

He figures there has to be more sections in this prison containing cells. His view from the prison transport bus had shown a large spread out facility. Definitely big enough to hold more than the couple hundred inmates in this room. No doubt about it.

If he has to guess, he will say there are a hundred—or so—cells, if he combines both top and bottom floors. The second level is accessible by two metal staircases—one on either side of the room—and is also wrapped in cells, with metal rails to keep you from stumbling off the platforms edge—

Granted, you can still climb the rails and jump off the ledge—to the concrete floor below—if you truly desired to end your life . . .

He’s led straight through the room, dragged in the direction of one of the staircases. Where he immediately catches the attention of all the inmates. He feels like a bug in the spotlight, being scrutinised and sneered at. He certainly doesn’t want to draw so much notice, but his bright orange clothes make it virtually impossible to blend in.

He holds his head high as best he can, keeping his body facing forward, tension tingling his spine, and a cold sweat building. He allows his eyes to scan the room. Portraying confidence he doesn’t possess, showing everyone he isn’t going to be easily intimidated, that he isn’t an easy target. Deep down . . . deep down he fights the urge to run and hide.

Don’t let them see how terrified you are.

Inmates are huddling in groups or wandering alone. Some stopping their conversations to turn his way, others pausing their card games to glance over. Emerging from their cells to get a look at what all the fuss is over.

All the attention is amplifying his growing anxiety. He tries to ignore the lewd comments, the catcalls, the wolf whistles, the nasty suggestions and slurs thrown his way. He knows they’re doing it to get under his skin. And he refuses to let them rattle him, allowing the words to roll off his shoulders as best he can—or perhaps . . . suppressing his external reactions to them is a better description? Because internally . . . Internally he’s freaking out.

His march through Hell ends at the base of the stairs on his left—

How will he manage to navigate them with his hands cuffed behind his back?—

The guard solves the issue by half carrying him up them. It’s the only time he’s grateful for the guard’s constricting hold. His stumbling and slipping, on the metal stairs, does little to slow the guard down—he’s a rag doll along for the ride.

This is not at all humiliating. Izz mutters sarcastically in his head, loathing the silent guard more than before. Why does he even need the cuffs? No one else has them on.

There are inmates on the second floor too. Leaning back on the railing, milling around outside the cells and clustered within them. Sitting or lounging on bunks. Reading, or chatting. A few sleeping? Or perhaps passed out. A couple empty cells scattered among the lively ones. An inmate taking a dump in a metal toilet at the back of a cell—

Izz turns away immediately. Wanting to give the guy privacy—and he isn’t interested in watching another man use the toilet. He could have gone his entire life without seeing it. The quick snippet he caught is now forever ingrained in his mind.

Thank you prison system. Not.

It isn’t long before the guard stops outside an empty cell. And he finds his hands freed from the cuffs—

Izz pitches forward—a hand between his shoulder blades shoving him into the cell. His grip automatically tightening on the pillowcase as he catches himself. Pivoting back to the guard, he barely suppresses the urge to snap at them. Good thing they leave before his will to stay out of solitary confinement crumbles, due to the disrespectful treatment. He may be a prisoner, but that doesn’t give them the right to treat him like shit.

Uptight A’Hole.Izz bristles, glaring at the empty spot the guard vacated.

Guess this is my cell . . . ? Whatever.

Weird ass guard.

Izz inspects the two single metal bedding platforms protruding from the cell’s brick walls. One neatly made bunk, blankets and pillow arranged respectably. And one with a bare mattress—if you can call it a mattress—maybe‘foam paper’would be a more apt title for the flat thing. The mattress has no padding whatsoever. Might as well sleep on the metal bedframe, wouldn’t make a difference.

He dumps his pillow-pack on the paper mattress. Peering up at the little shelf sticking out of the wall above his bunk. A good place to place possessions, photos perhaps? The other bunk has one as well, holding a few books and other items—he hopes his cellmate isn’t a crazed lunatic or something worse.

He braces his hand on the smooth metal bunk, leaning to the side to check out under it—no legs or stand, they’re embedded in the walls. He’s not sure how he feels about this arrangement. Is there a weight limit? Before they bend and sag, causing you to roll off the slippery metal like a slide.

Righting himself once more, he inspects the rest of the cell. At the head of both bunks are short square cupboards. He opens the doors to the one near his bunk—three shelves greet him, with enough room to fit his spare clothing items, towel, toiletries, and maybe a few other little bits and pieces.

Down from the cupboard—on his side of the cell, against the wall—is a sink, with a mirror made from a reflective hunk of uneven dinted metal. No glass mirrors in prison, it seems. A metal toilet sits beside the sink, a little metal friend to keep it company in the corner. He does not look forward to using it—ignoring the cold metal on his ass—it’s out in the open, anyone walking past will see him using it.

No privacy in prison . . .

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