Page 30 of Caged In

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Izz chooses to relax in his cell during his downtime while The Gang are working their prison-assigned jobs. He’ll have to do that tomorrow. Something he is not looking forward to. Not only is he stuck in this cage, but he has to go to work too. Talk about being screwed over twice.

It might not be all bad, he supposes. He’s sure he can make friends in the kitchens, he already has one server who likes him. He’s sure the others will be fine once they get to know him.

He’s not too keen on them being part of a gang—an actualgang. On the outside he’d never met a gang, let alone cooked with one. Now, inside these walls, he’s seen too many gangs to count, and he’s expected to cook with one. He could encounter hostility or he could encounter kindness. He’s leaning more towards the former, he’s sure gang members are not too pleased with outsiders hanging around on their turf.

His biggest worry is if they try to recruit him—do they call it recruiting? Sounds more like a military termthana gang one.And no, he will not be asking them what they call it. He’ll not say anything even remotely related to gangs or joining or anything in between. He’s alreadyin prison, he doesn’t need to be in a gang on top of that.

And when he saysno? What will happen to him? Will they accept‘no’for an answer? Or will he be killed—

Dropping his increasingly troubling thoughts—not what he needs to be working himself up about. Best to let events play out and not imagine scenarios that have not transpired and may never come to pass.

Yawning until his jaw spasms and cracks, Izz settles back against his soft bunk. The alarm for dinner should rouse him, hedoesn’t see an issue in catching some shut eye, while the inmates are off working. Seems safe enough, and not a disaster to end with him alone and defenceless getting shivved . . . He hopes.

Tucking in, he curls into the fetal position. Pulling the thin blanket over his head to block out the majority of the prison’s invading lights. Drifting off into a peaceful sleep.

~~~

The blissful respite had been God sent. Izz feels refreshed and revived. Ready to kick this prison life in the butt. He’s not sure why violent thoughts are necessary, but he isn’t questioning his eager, energetic mood. It’s better than his down and depressed moodever since he walked into prison.

He hadn’t realised how bad it’d been, how much weight had been slumpedover his shoulders. Now that its lifted, he feels a milliontimes lighter.

It’s a euphoricfeeling.

Grinning to himself—like a lunatic—he tries, and fails, not to skip down the metal steps. Swinging off the railing to jump the last couple, plopping to the first level’s concrete flooring. Ignoring the snide comments aimed his way by passing inmates.

Dinner time.

Wonder what they have on the prison menu tonight. The food has been surprisingly diverse, a huge variety of ever-changing assortments to pick from. He hasn’t attended many meals, those he had were all different. He’s cheerfully optimistic it’s the case for all the meals. So no one gets bored by the food. You know the saying, ‘boredom leads to fighting’—

Is that a saying? Or something his mum made up? It’s true either way.

Izz extends his arm to trail his fingertips along the rough bricks as he makes his way down the corridor. The lumpy paint jobexaggerating the defects in the bricks texture. The paint may have smoothed it out, taking away the gritty brick texture, but it did little to smooth out the lumps and divots. A slippery slide for his fingers to trace over.

“Well looky here, boys. We gots’ ourselves a little lost birdy.”

Izz wheels around, to find he is no longer alone in the corridor. Four inmates have ambledin after him—looking smug and self-satisfied.

The leader in front is the one who spoke, Izz assumes he’s the leader by the way he holds himself. Sure, confident, commanding. And very, very, bald. His lackeys are likewise as bald as a baboon’s ass.

They have to be part of that gang Izz noticed on his first day. The whole table that was filled with shiny hairless heads. The one gang he will never join—not that he’s going to be joining any gangs. This one though. No frickin’ way is he shaving his head for a prison gang.

Heck no.

Should I say something? Will it help the situation or make it worse?

“Um, can I help you?” Izz questions, he figures ignoring them will be rude and would garner a worse reaction thenacknowledging them.

All four laugh.

Not a nice, happy, joyouslaugh. No. Rather it’s a mocking, distrustful, sarcastic laugh.

They remind him of cats. Flitting in, mock striking, assessing their cornered plaything. A poor mouse trapped in the clutches of a group of feral felines—

Definitely not a hot idea referring to himself as a mouse. Or plaything for that matter.

“You’re walking on my turf,” the leader one snarls, confirming he’s the leader. Wouldn’t be his‘turf ’if he isn’t.

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