Page 28 of Caged In

Izz trails along behind the guard meekly. Back to the see the dreaded counsellor, and kill the light happy mood he had newly acquired in this depressing cage.

“Yay,”Izz mutters sarcastically under his breath.

~~~

The room hasn’t changed. White walls encroaching on Izz. The counsellor in his office throne with eyes that judge. Thelingering smell of cut grass and tea tree oil. The comfortable chair in front of the desk as soft as the first time Izz graced it with his ass—

How many asses have sat in this chair before him? How many of them did the counsellor actually help? He’s thinking less thanfive percent, if he’s being generous with the percentage.

“Hello. Jasper, wasn’t it,” the counsellor asks without actually asking. They both know he knew, so why put on the charade?

“Yes,” Izz answers the non-question anyway.

He still hates this counsellor. Now that he knows the man’s a consumer of life’s joy, he can see the sketchyaurasurrounding the counsellor. It’s obvious now that he knows it’s there.

“So, how’s it going? Still settling in?” The counsellor steeples his fingers over the desk, the same way he sat last time Izz was here.

“Fine,” Izz avoids looking at the counsellor by eyeing the pens nestled in their little cup home on the desk. The same unhappy conviction surrounding him as it had on the first visit. “Thank you,” he tacks on, not even remotely meaningthepolite phrase. He’s merely being nice, to not piss off the man in charge of the transfer paperwork.

“Okay, so. Your job assignment has come in. And I’m happy to inform you that you’re working in the kitchen. Starting tomorrow—the paperwork is being finalised and all that jazz.”

Izz will never get used to how this counsellor talks. Dressing all professional, and yet talking like a high schooler.

Why didn’t the counsellor tell the guard who collected Izz and escorted him here? Would have saved everyone this unnecessary hassle.

“Okay. Is that it?” Izz dismisses.

He wants to leave. He trusts the inmates caged in with him more thanhe does this counsellor. And that’s saying something,considering his run-in with dragon-ink-vomit dude. And that this prison holds at least one serial killer.

Or so Izz has been told. He’s not sure he’s completely on board with believing the mohawked inmate is a serial killer. Perhaps it’s more wishful hope than actual truth.

“Yes, yes. That’s it. You’ll start tomorrow. Guards will collect you from your cell for breakfast.”

Izz springs to his feet, hastily launchinghimselftowards the door. Not wanting to stick around a second longer and give the counsellor an excuse to question him about other things.

What a waste of time.

He’s not sure he wants the kitchen job. He has no cooking experience. It took him dozens of tries to get simple pancakes right. He has no illusions about how long it will take him to learn how to cook actual meals.

He hopes they’re fine with a novice in their kitchen. And don’t hate him for becoming part of their cooking group. After all, it isn’t his choice. Not much in this cage is his choice. He’s beginning to understand the full extent of what had been stripped away from him—his freedom isn’t the only thing he lost. He lost any power he has over himself, any control—he’s nothing but a number, a criminal in thejustice system—if you could even call it ajustice system.

When Izz enters the corridor, there is no sign of the intimidating young guard—guess he’s on his own navigating back to the cafeteria. Unfortunately,he’s beginning to get the hang of where things are located.

~~~

Izz finds the cafeteria quickly this time, with only one wrong turn which he had to backtrack.

Chatting with the beefyserver guy like always, a routine with which he’s now familiar. The server’s nice, nicer thanother inmates Izz has interacted with. He’s convinced it’s not a coincidence the same inmate serves him at every meal. He holds no complaints on his end, the server always gives him a little extra food.

He sits his butt on his usual bench, at his usual table. It’s his place and has absolutely nothing to do with how it faces directly towards where the mysterious killer usually resides at the back table—half hidden in shadow. The killer occupies the same place every meal—except for this one where the killer’s table is unfamiliarly empty.

He isn’t going to admit he’s disappointed to discover the inmate is not sittingin their usual domain. The killer’s territory is empty and cold, as if no warmth has graced its presence this meal. Not that the usual presence houses any of thewarm and fuzzies.

I don’t think I’ve seen the killer smile once . . .

What would it look like? Izz’s sure his smile would be warm and kind.

He’s not sure why he’s thinking about it or needs to know what the male’s smile resembles—

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