Page 41 of Caged In

His hands squeeze shut, tightening, ready to swing his fists at the perv’sface. Tensing, he plants his feet, shifting to swing—

The dinner bell rings—snappingIzz out of his bravado, and sapping his couragelike a deflating balloon—informing them dinner is now commencing and serving is due to take place.

Ha. Saved by the bell. Never thought that would be something I ever said.

“You’re on serving today, Sugar,” Levis grabs Izz’s shoulder, guiding Izz towards the front of the kitchen.

Levis’s unwelcome touch hashis skin crawling, a gritty charcoal taste coating his mouth. His body’s negativereaction to this man is so intense it’s manifesting itself into a physical form which can be felt and tasted.

Why does Levis insist on calling him Sugar? It’s gross, demeaning and flat-out weird. He is not some productto be consumedby whoever wants it, without any say in who consumes it.

Begrudgingly, Izz stomps over to the serving bar, allowing himself to be guided by the kitchen boss. Hating every second of the close contact between them. Not wanting to cause a scene or garner attention, he keeps his displeasure to himself. Too many inmates out here, he doesn’t want them catching on to how freaked out he is.

He’s relievedwhen Levis leaves him alone to serve, disappearing back into the kitchen. He tries his best to move through quickly. To give the inmates their meals fast and not hold up the line. It stilltakes him a dozen or so inmates before he gathers his witsand finds his rhythm.

By the seventh dozen inmate, he isa pro. He is also figuring out that he hates serving people. It’s gruellingwork. Slow and monotonous.

He’s sick of repeating the same sentences over and over. What’s on today’s menu, do they want this or that, yes this hasthat in it, no there is none of that available or in any of the dishes.

It’s repetitive,tedious work. And hot. It’s hot as Hell back here with all the food. Like the kitchen’s heat is an invading parasite hell bent on making his life as miserable as possible. It would be so much better if the inmates served themselves.

Why can’t they serve themselves?

He’s marchingback to the start to begin the next order. The umpteenth time running through the same routine—

The change in atmosphere is nearly instantaneous. A dark glacial torrent hitting Izz from the other inmates. A solid mass of frozen terror. He surveys his surroundings, dread filling his lungs, constricting his chest. The next inmates in the queue shuffled back quickly, opening a large space in front of the serving bar.

The next male to step up—skipping the line—is HIM. Red and black mohawk spiked hair, in its signature presentation. Sharp eyes cutting through everyone, missing nothing. Thick legs corded with muscles devouring the distance to the bar. The killer moving with deathly purpose across the vacated space.

Striding straight towards Izz.

Why do I have to be the unlucky one in charge of serving the next inmate?

The entire room washes away, drowned out as Izz stareswith wide eyes at the serial killer approaching him. The killer who is right there. Right in front of him, and getting closer . . .

He swallows hard, his eyes drawn to the killer’s face. With only a serving bar separating them. A bar he wishes was bigger, with safety glass separating him from the room beyond.

The killer stops in front of Izz, close enough to see the flecks of colour in the male’s irises, an onyx black with little flecks of chocolate brown. A multitude of dark colours framed by thicklashes. At a distance, the killer’s eyes appearedjet black. But this close . . . Izz can see the flecks interwoven within the black.

He drags his eyes downwards, to the tattoos covering the killers arms. Dripping down to pool in the crook of his elbows. Blood droplets escaping from a blood splatter peeking out under short sleeves.

Wonder what made him get that design—

Oh, right. Serial killer.Dah.

The killer reaches for a tray, flashing a wrist inked bya black triple six tattoo, at the suicide point. If it’s called that? It’s apt to call it that, considering the killer’s arms are covered with lifelike blood. The three thick black letters standing out from the deep red rivers flowing over his upper arms.

Devil worship? Or a random design he just happened to like the look of?

The male is a serial killer—supposedly—Izz would place his money on the tattoo being a worship one and not anit’ll-look-cooltype thing.

“I’ll take the potato, and whatever pasta you think tastes the best,” the killer’s voice is deep, commanding . . . domineering—

Izz clears his throat. Trying to gag his mind as his emotions rise inside him, hot and heavy—

You’re gawking. Like a fool—a fool with a death wish.

He doesn’t have a death wish. Although from an outsider’s perspective it would appear as though he does. With the way he’s staring and not moving—

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