Page 67 of Caged In

“You were given that name at birth?” he isn’t entirely sure why he asked. Maybe hoping the small talk will bring him out of the numbness.

“Is it relevant.”

Clearly Sinn'ous isn’t big into chit-chat. Or he doesn’t possess the emotional awareness to know Izz’s talking to ease his worries? To distract himself. It’s well known that serial killers enjoy their kills, don’t they? They wouldn’t need emotional support after a kill. Unlike him—barely holding it together.

“No, I suppose it’s not . . .” Izz mumbles, dartinghis eyes away from Sinn'ous to the other side of the cell, so he can no longer see the male.

The small grace of not having to look at the other inmate doesn’t last long. Sinn'ous moves to sit on the edge of the bunk. Effectively placing himself in Izz’s line of sight.

Izz can always leave. If he truly doesn’t want to look at Sinn'ous. But right now, he does not want to be alone. He doesn’t want to be near Reni, or Zidie, or even Blake. Those three would see right through him and see something is wrong. They wouldn’t stop until they dragged the secret out of him. He can’t deal with their questions and their caring compassion. He doesn’t deserve it, doesn’t deserve to feel better. He’s murdered someone, he deserves to suffer for it.

Will suffering make it better?Izz’s inner voice questions.

No, nothing will make it better. How can it? Not unless he can turn back time and stop the events unfolding in the first place. What would he do to change it? He has no idea. But maybe if he’d known, he could of . . .

He won’t ask, he will not ask Sinn'ous what has been done. He doesn’t want to know what Sinn'ous has done to the body. What can really happen? It’s not like the body can be dumped in the woods or buried. They are locked in a cage, with surveillance camerasall around. And guards patrolling the fence lines and corridors, always watching—they hadn’t seen what occurred, otherwise Izz would already be in cuffs, dragged to The Hole.

One thing he’s sure of, if he ends up in The Hole, he won’t be making it out alive. Not with what he did to a guard, the other guards’ will surely kill him for it—

Oh, God. I’m responsible for the body. For the death. It’s all my fault.

He isn’t aware he’d started crying until he’s pulled up against a solid body. Tucked in under a comforting arm, a hand rubbing littlecircles on his back. He leans into the hold, squeezing his eyes shut as he cries in a prison cell, against the chest of a serial killer, over a murder he committed.

Where has his life taken him . . . ?

When Izz calms down enough to breathe without choking back sobs, he pulls away, not enough to dislodge the comfortingarm, but enough to not be completelyrelianton Sinn'ous to hold him up. “Thank you . . . For helping me with this. And for . . . everything else.”

“It was no problem.”

“I can’t pay you back. I have no money.” Izz has nothing, he doesn’t even have the clothes on his back—they belong to this Hell-hole, not to him. He has nothing. Absolutely nothing. He’s lost his freedom. He’s lost his humanity. He is nothing but another killer now. A terrible irredeemable murderer.

Another murderer in prison. Where we deserve to be.

“I don’t need your money, or want it. I have plenty of my own—which is sitting around attracting dust while I’m in here. May as well use it on something.”

“Then what do you want?” Surely Sinn'ous isn’t doing this out of the goodness of his heart. Serial killers don’t have that capability, do they?

“I’ve told you. You intrigue me. I savourgifting you things. I like watching your reactions to them.”

Izz snorts, a genuine laugh bubbling up. Pushing away from Sinn'ous, he rights himself, “you’ve been spying on me. Stalking me. Reni was right about the stalker type.”

“Stalking . . . I suppose, in a way. But there is little to do in this place. I’d call it more . . . observing a fine creature. A fascinatingcreature.”

Izz rolls his eyes, failing miserably to suppress a small smile, “stalker.”

Sinn'ous chuckles, a bizarre sound coming from a serial killer. Izz’s surprised serial killers laugh. It seems odd—thenagain, they are still human, so why wouldn’t they laugh—

Izz’s stomach lets loose a strangled noise. Demanding food before it dies—or a threat it’s going to eat itself if Izz doesn’t feed it instantly. His stomach at odds to the rest of his body. Everything else is nauseous.

Sinn'ous stands and moves around the cell, collecting different items to place on top of the cupboardnext to the sleeping bunk. A metal pan, with some kind of makeshift heating device clipped onto it. Water added from a bottle, ramen packets going into their water bath. Flavouring added to the boiling prison stove.

It’s absurd, watching Sinn'ous cook. Not only is it weird to see someone cooking using such a peculiar contraption, but to know a serial killer is doing it.It’sa normal thing to do, yet completely at odds to what he expected. He clearly has a lot to learn, and can’t base his knowledge of how serial killers act from movies.

Sinn'ous hands him a bowl filled to the brim and watches as Izz greedily scoffs down the noodles. Mumbling, “thank you,” as he continues stuffing his mouth. Ignoring the half smile Sinn'ous gives him. He’s starving, sue him. His nervous energy needs to be expressed somehow. And eating is his outlet.

As Izz forces himself to slow down—and reminds his mouth to chew to avoid choking—he eyes the paper and envelopes neatly stacked on the floating shelf above Sinn'ous’s bunk. Maybe . . .

Well, Sinn'ous did say he isn’t shy in handing out his money. And he definitely implied that he likes Izz . . . ? He has to, why else keep giving out gifts.

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