Page 2 of Caged In

He can hear heavy footfalls—boots thumping on hard ground, echoing off empty corridor walls. The jingling of keys tells him it’s a guard approaching.

Finally,I can get out of this stupid, boring, cell.

He’s not thrilled at the concept of meeting his new house-mates—cage-mates?—but he is going to die of boredom if he’s left here any longer. He needs to get out and move around, stretch his legs, interact with others.

Do they have an outdoor area with enough space to jog? Like a football court? He frowns as the thought crosses his mind. He hopes they have some sort of grassed area. Not sure he can last his whole sentence without access to fresh air. Being stuck inside a stuffy prison, all day, every day, for months on end . . . it’s a terrifying thought.

“Inmate,” a deep voice booms, announcing the guard’s arrival. “Turn around. Hands behind your back. Walk backwards to the bars.”

The guard’s a tall, hulking man, with long blond hair pulled into a ponytail. Weird that they would be allowed to grow long hair working in a prison. Wouldn’t it be, like, a safety risk, or something?

Izz complies. Excited at the prospect of leaving the tiny transition cell. Doing his best to keep his happy little jig to himself. Pressing his back to the barred door, and patientlywaiting for the guard to finish cuffing his hands. He groans under his breath at how tight they’re fastened to his wrists.

It would be a bad idea to complain. Pissing off a guard on the first day, he can imagine isn’t a hot idea—

The cell door clunks open, without the guard touching it. Sliding away from the wall, removing the barrier between himself and the guard.

Must be electronic? Would explain the weird clunking noise he hears every time a door unlocks and opens. Some sliding, some opening like your regular push-pull doors.

His upper arm is grabbed in a crushing hold, and he’s dragged down the corridor—it’s a long corridor to be manhandled down, with an unflattering grey door awaiting their arrival at the far end.

More clunking—this time the blond guard pushes the door open—no sliding back for this electronic mass. Someone must be watching them from a control room? Surely the guard doesn’t have one of those sensors to open the doors? Like the dogs have in their collars to open those expensive electronic doggy doors. Those had made it very easy to break into someone’s house. He had a way with dogs, they all seem to love him—a happy, tail wagging bundle of joy, easily manipulated into opening their owners’ home for him.

The room beyond the grey prison door is small, with a glassed-in cubical off to one side—in what looks to be bulletproof glass. It’s extremely thick, like something you would find in a bear enclosure, thick enough to keep those fuzzy balls of teeth and claws locked away from people with nothing better to do thanstare at them.

Behind the glass, a cheerful red-headed woman is putting some sort of pack together, as he’s pulled over to the cubical. The guard doesn’t say anything, he just stands there, holding Izz in place.

Izz watches the woman stuffing a pillowcase with a towel, toothbrush, toilet paper roll, soap, second set of orange prison assigned clothes—twins to the orange prison outfit he is currently sporting. And will be sporting for some time. He hates orange, his least favourite colour. Another way for them to stick it to him, he supposes.

“There you go, sweetie,” the red-head chirps, a smile gracing her lovely face. She slides the well-stuffed pillowcase under the slit in the glass wall. Offering it for him to take.

“Thank you.” Izz smiles back at her. Not sure how he’s going to pick up the offering, with his hands secured like they are behind his back.

The guard solves the problem. Grabbing the case, and shoving it behind Izz, where he has a split second to grab the cotton material beforethe guard lets go. He barely manages to grip it and save it from hitting the floor.

Do not snap at the guard, you do not want to go to solitary confinement on your first day. Izz grits his teeth.The least the guard can do is treat me like a human being and not garbage.

He’s led over to another door on the far side of the little room. More electronic locks clicking open, this door being another one the guard has to push open—

And they’re back in another boring white corridor. It’s a shorter distance to the door at the other end—in the same unflattering grey colour. Only change this time is the noises he can hear, muffled voices drifting out of the door’s seams.

Here we go.

Izz takes a deep breath as the next door is swung wide—

A bombardment of loud voices barrelling in, bouncing off the walls, drilling into his skull, spiking his anxiety. The hot air racing to follow, clogging his lungs, and prickling his skin in warning.

Prison life here I come.

2

The prison is massive. Izz had admired its size from the outside, now he’s within its walls, it is daunting. Even with a ten-foot ladder and a dozen inmates playing ‘stack the criminal’, you wouldn’t come close to touching the ceiling.

He steps into a two-story, rectangular room—crowded with inmates. Every space he can see, there are inmates clad in grey prison shirts and pants, with white sleeveless undershirts—a few inmates wearing blue prison clothes, and the occasional is in a black version. Everyone’s shirts showing a combo of black letters and numbers stitched to the front—except the black shirts, those are grey, or perhaps white, at one point in their life before years of wear and tear stained them grey. It’s dehumanising to be reduced to nothing but a barcode.

I wonder what the different colours mean?

He has to assume his orange uniform is for the new arrivals as he’s the only one sporting the nauseatingly bright colour. He prays he won’t have to wear it for long.

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