Page 33 of Caged In

Izz’s stunned, to say the least. He’s never heard David speak so much, and he never would have guessed the man harboured so much anger towards him. He thought David was merely shy or didn’t like talking much.

Never would have guessed it’s due to him hating me.

Isco? Sure, Izz can see the man hating everyone—he still gets jumpy around the other and he has no idea why. And as for Phelix? Izz’s learnt he’s the pacifist, the background man who doesn’t involve himself in any drama. The glue no one notices keeping The Gang in check.

Izz turns away, not interested in listening to Isco’s reply, limping back to his cell. Maybe they aren’t his friends. He can’t say he blames them. He’s known them for ten seconds, can he blame them for not wanting to die for him. He doesn’t want anyone to die for him.

But what is he supposed to do? He didn’t ask to get attacked, he didn’t ask Reni or Zidie to step in. Of course, he’s beyond grateful they did. But he never asked for it.

He doesn’t understand why the gangs are pissed off at his group because of him. What did he do? He hasn’t talked to any of the gangs, he’s kept to himself and only hung around with The Gang. Sure he spoke to the server but he’s only being polite. That gang can’t possibly be the one David’s talking about, can it? The server is always nice to him, always pleasant and chivalrous towards him.

He knows it isn’t the bald gang members, he’s never once spoken to them. And he has no idea why they picked a fight with him.Bored? Or something else? He can’t think of anything else, so boredom must be it—bullies looking for their fucked-up idea of fun, someone to poke at and occupy their time with.

Izz stretches out on his bunk with a grunt. Too exhausted to wash his face, the blood already dry and cracking, itchy and flaking off.

His body hurts. He wants to sleep. He’ll deal with the blood in the morning.

His stiff legs are doing a marvellous job of impersonating jelly—it’s impossible for him to stand any longer. He isn’tinterested in face planting the floor by attempting to wash his blood off. He doesn’t need to add to his injuries when his legs inevitably give out on him. With his luck he’ll split his head open on the sink on his way to the floor, and bleed out alone in his tiny cell.

Stretching out slowly over his bed, he groans as his muscles twist and pinch him under his skin. The double mattress pile may keep him off the metal bed frame, but it does little to cushion his bruises. The aching twinges surging involuntarily through his limbs. His bones ache—how do bones ache?

I wish I had something to kill the pain.

Sleep claims him quickly—had he not been in so much pain he might have considered sleeping a bad idea. If he has a concussion, sleep is a terrible idea. He’d heard that sleeping is a no go for concussions. His mind—and body—have other plans, slipping him under the black veilof a deep, dreamless abyss, before he has the sense to stop it.

11

He isn’t impressed.

Pulled out of bed by a guard and told he has ten minutes to be ready and down in the kitchen to start his shift.

That was about ten minutes ago and he’s still in his cell hovering over the sink.

Izz has been in a go-slow kind of mood since the guard left. His attitude is likewise slow and grumpy. He’s a zombie—he has the same brain function as one. His body is stiff, sluggish, and he groans in pain with each step—a zombie.

It’s so early he has to squint in the darkness to navigate his box of a cell. No light coming through the tiny window. The sun is sleeping comfortably behind the soft blanketing hills, marshmallowed in their fluffy embrace—unlike Izz. Who is out in the cold, with a headache to rival the dead.

What time is it—

Izz squints at his little cupboard, at the dark shapes on its surface. He hadn’t put anything on top of it, so what is . . .

Shuffling closer, he grunts his way over to inspect the foreign objects. It’s medical supplies. Bandages, tapes, some type of disinfectant wipe. He sifts through the little assortment of first aid gear—

Pills. There are two little pills wrapped in a square of plastic. Tiny little white pills. No label. No name. No description. Just pills.

He knows he shouldn’t take them. He really shouldn’t. But he’s racked with aches and random muscle spasms threatening to drop his ass to the floor—and it’s killing the possibility of rational thinking.

He gathers the pills with trembling fingers, plopping them into his mouth. Swallowing them dry is a no go. He has to hold the tiny dissolving drugs on his tongue as he wobbles back over to the sink. Using his hand to scoop water into his awaiting mouth, swallowing it down and taking the pills with it.

At this point he is okay with whatever effects present themselves. He’d take anything as long as it took away the excruciating tenderness. He didn’t start the fight. He didn’t cause it. But it doesn’t matter. He is still the one who’d been viciously beaten.

He isn’t a fighter. He’d been lucky Reni and Zid were nearby to come to his rescue. He’d tried his best to lay low, to settle into his new life in this Hell-hole.

He’d failed spectacularly.

Please let these pills kill the pain, and not me.

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