Page 62 of Caged In

Is he really doing this? Is this what his life has become?

Is this who I have become? Who I’ve chosen to be.

No. Hehas a choice. And the drawing is safe, at a safe distance. Far enough away that the guard can’t grab it. If he plans this right, executes the plan correctly—

One misstep in timing and Izz will destroy the picture he is here to protect. He isn’t a fighter, that has been proven. But he’s also not aboutto bowdown to rape—

Izz attacks—he’s sloppy and uncoordinated—trying out an under the arms and over the shoulders tackle he’s seen inmovies. It works—taking the guard by surprise is in his favour. He now has the guard flat on his back. And Izz’s out of ideas, he hadn’t thought this far ahead in the plan. He’s surprised he made it this far—

The guard solves the stagnantpause, fist snapping out to take Izz’s head off. He barely manages to duckout of the way. Grabbing at the arm before the guard can pull it back for a second strike.

Izz punches out, aiming for the fleshy muscles over ribs, hoping to break one—

Izz’s sure he broke his fist instead—who knew it hurt so much to punch someone. Even with the adrenaline pumping through his veins.

Izz has the advantage, he is on top, it’s easier for him to control the guard and swing blows down at the a’hole. And it’s clear the guard is struggling to swing a decent punch up at him. He also has more room to dodge and weave. Punching down with uncoordinated fists, trying to hit the guard’s face, being blocked every time. His pummelling blows end up hitting the guard’s arms more than anything else.

He’s not letting up. He keeps punching. If he stops, he’s dead. There is no getting out of this. He knows attacking a guard will have direrepercussions, worse thanThe Hole—

Izz’s knocked off balance, a surge from the guard throwing him backwards and out of the dominating position. Not good.

He quickly scrambles up—

Get on your feet. You hit the ground, you’re done.

—grabbing the first thing he touches—swinging it forward, aiming at the guard’s unprotected mid-section—

A broom.

The broom makes a nice cracking sound as Izz slams it into the guard’s middle, followed by a series of grunts and curses. The prison’s cheap wooden broom handle splintering.

Ha. I actually managed to break something. Granted it isn’t ribs, but it still feels like a win.

Izz snaps out of the premature celebrations, his hands tightening above the shaggy end to keep his weapon in hand, swinging what is left of the handle—

The side of his knee is kicked out, toppling him into a shelf, knocking boxes off and scattering them over the floor—

The guard charges, grabbing at the broom Izz holds in an iron grip—he is not about to let it go—he shoves into the guard, using his shoulder like a battering ram to drive the guard back into the opposite shelves—

The broom’s scruffy end catches in the bracingof the shelving unit and, with a crack, it snaps off, the brush landing somewhere in the scattered paperwork. His weapon is shrinking, soon he’ll have nothing left to defend himself with.

The guard strikes Izz in the stomach, doubling him over. Winded, his lungs screaming at him for being hit again in so many days. His body is still recovering from the last beating.

Izz stands strong by force of will. Kneeing up into the guard’s side, shoving him back against the shelves. Trying desperately to knock him over. To plant him on the floor, to keep the larger man from regaining his footing—

The guard tugs at the broom chunk in Izz’s hand, trying to yankit away from him. Izz wraps both fists around the splintered wood. Curling himself around it, twisting to the side to shake the guard’s hand free—he can’t lose his only weapon. Can’t let go of his defence—

The guard’s grip is strong and unrelenting. So Izz does the next best thing—outside of pulling away—he drives forward. Intending to wind the guard, ignite some pain, to make him let go—

Izz feels a sickening squelching wet popand a soft giving resistance at the end of what’s left of the broom handle. It’s anoutcome he hadn’tintended. An outcome he doesn’t want to accept—

The resistance Izz’s up against falls away,the guard’s mass slipping free, slumping onto the floor with a sloppy thud—

Izz stares ahead at the shelf in front of him. He knows deep down what just happened, but his mind doesn’t want to acknowledge it. He can’t look down, at the broom handle still gripped tightly within his hands. He can’t look at the floor below the wood, to the . . .

Izz drops the handle, stumbling away from the shelf, away from the weapon, away from the . . . body . . .

Oh, God.

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