Page 4 of Caged In

The back wall holds a miniature window, set unevenly in the middle of the white bricks. He doesn’t have OCD, but even he’s pissed off at the lopsided window. The mini square trapping a thick protective glass shield, with bars on the outside—kind of pointless, considering the window is so small, even without the bars and glass in the way, he wouldn’t be able to fit his head through it, much less his entire body in an escape attempt.

He sighs, sitting down on the bare mattress, ass sinking in to hit the metal below. He reaches over to begin unpacking his makeshift pillowcase bag—along with the items he watched the red-head pack, it also contains sheets and a thin pillow. The flat pillow is more inviting to sit his ass on than the paper-thin mattress. And that’s saying something considering the pillow contains an insignificant handful of feathers, like they plucked a pigeon for the stuffing—

“Hey, I’m Reni. Sticks said you’re in need of a tour and a rundown of the rules.”

Izz startles at the hyper-excited voice piercing the cell, heart stuttering behind his ribs, his eyes flashing over to the barred door.

The inmate occupying the space in the doorway is a well-built man—similar to Izz’s height. Short brown hair—laced with red highlights, flickering when he shifts his head. Tattoos ringing his neck and wrists—some sort of detailed intricateswirling design, not something Izz suspects would be possible to have inked in prison.

“Sticks?” Izz frowns at the man, unsure what to make of the name? If it is a name?

“A guard.” When Izz shows no signs of understanding, Reni tucks on. “Long blond hair. Hates talking to inmates. We call him Sticks, ‘cause he has a stick up his ass.”

“Oh. Yeah. Him.” Izz mulls the description over. “Makes sense.” The guard had been stiff, and their expression did have a fuck-off-and-die vibe.

“Don’t call him that though,” Reni continues, the rest of his words spilling out in a rush, “Unless you want to be sent straight to The Hole, call him Sir, you call all the guards Sir. Some you can get away with a first name basis. Others you go into first names and they want second and third base, if you get my drift—handsy assholes—But anyways, call them all Sir, so you don’t invite trouble.”

Does this guy breathe when he talks?

He would laugh, but he isn’t in a particularly laughing mood. This place oozes depression, an aura rubbing him the wrong way. A shadow of darkness creeping over him the longer he’s within its walls. He has a bad feeling about this place. A fear he won’t leave here with the same morals and frame of mind he came in with.

What had Reni said . . . The Hole . . . ? Must be what they call solitary confinement? He knows what it is from movies, a solitary place built for punishments. Filled with dark sunless cells, to sit in your own thoughts and drive you crazy.

“Alright—” Izz barely manages to get the word out, before Reni’s voice floods right over him. Continuing in the same breathless speech.

“I’ll be your guide, I usually guide all you newbies, not normally as easy as having the new guy in my cell, hate walkingall around the prison to find wherever the fuck they put the new guys, guards are never any help.” Reni thrust out his hand towards Izz, offering his palm for a handshake. “Sorry, if you haven’t already noticed, I talk a lot, like a lot, a lot. My name’s Reni, nice to meet you, and you are?”

Guess this is my cellmate.

“You told me your name already,” Izz informs him, standing to shake his hand, “and I’m Jasper Marcelo, but everyone calls me Izz—long story.”

“Well. Izz. Now you can’t give me any excuses for forgetting my name,” Reni makes a face like you better not forget, and Izz can’t help but laugh.

His cellmate’s energy level is way out there. He can see himself getting along fine with the man. The outgoing vibe matching and melding with his own—when he’s comfortable and not internally panicking.

Maybe this prison stay won’t be so bad after all? If I have Reni to keep me company.

Reni abruptly swivels, marching straight out of the cell. “Come on. Dinner should be getting served any moment now—oh, and don’t shake people’s hands, they pull you in and shiv ya. Unpleasant experience.”

Izz absorbs the information, keeping it close in mind, so he won’t screw it up and get himself killed—sounds like his cellmate is talking from experience?

He follows after Reni, jogging to keep up with the man’s long strides. He keeps his eyes on the tattooed neck, avoiding looking too closely at the many inmates staring at him. He’s antsy enough as it is, without knowing precisely how many are judging him—or sizing him up . . .

Would they have a go at him to garner how tough he is? Or is that something strictly left for the Hollywood team to build tension and amp up violence in their movies?

“Come forth, newbie.” Reni throws over his shoulder. “I will introduce you to The Gang—not really aganggang. We tried clique or misfitted clan or coven, but it sounded weird and witchy, so we call ourselves The Gang. Makes us sound tough, even though we’re just the random leftovers who couldn’t cut it into the actual gangs that do all the shady stuff around here.”

They hit the metal platform at the top of the stairs, taking them down rapidly. Not by his choice, Reni walks like he’s on a mission with a time crunch breathing down his neck.

Izz perks up at Reni’s words, specifically,shady stuff?Meaning drugs and contraband? He’s hopeful that’s what it means. And not some underground prison fight club. Another thing he isn’t sure if it’s a Hollywood fake or real life. This gang business could, however, mean he has a chance of scoring something to ease his nerves. To lift some of the stress off his back after the trial.

“You know anyone to get weed from?” Izz’s not entirely sure why he asked. He doesn’t have any money to offer, and he’d literally just met the man. For all he knows, Reni’s an undercover cop—

I need to stop watching so many fake crime movies . . .

Reni swivels to face Izz, eyebrow raised, “you’ve been here ten seconds and you’re already talking drug buys.”

“Weed’s not a drug.” Izz scoffs, glaring at the other, he isn’t some drug addict. He merely needs something to mellow his nerves. It’s not like weed makes him see things or start eating people’s faces off—like whatever drug that guy in the news report was on. Some nasty cannibal action was going on there—

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