Page 6 of Caged In

He caught a glimpse of a black rose, on the vampire’s palm, in the seconds before they clasp hands—

Izz scolds himself for not remembering the rule about shaking hands. Not greeting people in this way is going to take some getting used to—he better learn fast. He doubts his cellmate is exaggerating the warning. He will be disappointed in himself if he’s sent to the . . . infirmary? . . . leaking blood, on his first day.

“Izz,” he mutters, grinding his teeth in frustration—

Izz jumps out of his skin as someone’s hand grips his shoulder firmly, as a collective weight drops down on him. A warm body half draping over his shoulders, to bellow right in his ear, “new guy. Hello.”

He jerks his head away, wincing as his ears scream at him, yelling silent profanities at the loudmouth who nearly killedthem. Squealing and ringing in protest, to drag his skull into the suffering right alongside them.

“Zid. Jesus, man,” Blake reprimands, pulling his hand away from Izz, taking an offended step away from the inmate in question, “lower the volume.”

“Oh, my bad. My bad,” Zid shoves his face into Izz’s personal space. Sticking his hand out, this time Izz remembers not to shake the hand and receives a devilish smirk from Zid as a result, “I’m Zidie.” He breezes over the lack of reciprocation to the hand-on-hand action, “you can call me Zids, Zido, Zida, Z—”

“I think he gets it, man,” Reni butts in, cutting off Zidie’s long list of self-appointed nicknames.

The first thing Izz notices about Zidie, is his crazy blue-tinted blond locks, scruffy and wind swept, as if he ran to the cafeteria. With a tattoo under his left eye of some kind of little cupcake covered in frosting.

Why would you put a cupcake right there on your face?

Inwardly, Izz chuckles. Luckily, it’s a well-done tattoo, and not some back alley, five bucks job by a colour blind crack addict. He must admit, it does suit the man. Even though they met a literal second ago, he’s already sensing a playful child-like attitude from Zidie. Cupcake is going to be fun to hang around with.

“Hi,” Izz responds, still fighting with his ears to calm down and do their job—their protest is painful. “I’m Izz.”

“Izz.” Zidie purses his lips, his nose scrunching as he scrutinises Izz, “why Izz?”

Apparently Zidie has no filter from his brain to mouth, either. To go along with his loud boisterous energy.

“Dude,” Blake cuts in, glaring daggers at Zidie, a displeased noise escaping his throat.

“What?” Zidie asks with an innocent expression plastered on his face, his devilish grin growing wider by the second, “it’s a weird name.”

“And yours is normal?” Blake shoots back, crossing his arms over his chest. Presenting awfully close to a disapproving older brother.

“Never said it being weird was wrong, us weird named individuals gots’ to stick together. Ain’t that right? Izz,” Zidie turns his colourful cupcake face to Izz, grinning from ear to ear.

This feels normal. The interaction. The teasing friends. He could almost forget where he is. Where they all are. He has no idea what these men had done to get themselves thrown in here—he prays it’s nothing terrible or malicious. But he can see himself becoming friends with them.

“My real name’s Jasper,” Izz offers. Rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, unsure how much of his personal life he’s willing to share with these unknown inmates. “Jasper Marcelo. People call me Izz—it’s a long story.” A story he’s not willing to share with these men. Not so soon anyway.

He returns a smile of his own to Zidie, leaving the explanation at that . . . Perhaps one day he may trust them enough with a snippet of information about his life outside of these walls? His family and friends. His failures . . . But not today—maybe not ever.

“Ugh. Well. Boring.” Zidie pouts, flicking his hand dramatically in Izz’s vague direction. “Don’t spread that around. I’m happy my best friend has a weird name like me.”

“Best friend?”Izz blinks in stunned shock at the phrase. He isn’t sure how long you have to know someone to class them as abest friend, but he’s sure it’s longer than five seconds.

“Just go with it,” Reni mutters, shifting to close the gap as the line drifts closer to the food serving bar. “He calls every newbie joining our group his best friend. He’s like an overgrown puppy.”

“Ay.” Zidie protests. “I am not a puppy.” He glares playfully at Reni, devilish smile in place. “If I’m anything, I’m a falcon. Swooping in to bring joy.” His eyebrows dance mischievously to join his grin, the combination exaggerating his teasing tone.

“Falcons swoop in to kill,” Izz adds offhandedly, rotating his head to take in the room for the umpteenth time. Mentally tallying the inmates constantly dribbling into the cafeteria.

How many more are in this cage?

A generous number of inmates are obviously part of gangs. Easy to distinguish from the other tables of regular men. A few clusters proudly displaying tattoos of a similar nature. One table is filled entirely with men sporting shaved heads—if the shaved head is a condition to join that particular gang, he will never be joining it. He’s rather fond of his hair, thank you very much.

Zidie waggles his eyebrows in mock mystery, “I have many skills,” he ominously informs Izz. Laughing moments later when Izz gives him a sceptical look.

They’re at the front of the line before he realises it. Standing within the surprisingly delicious aroma of foods. His cellmate grabs a tray, slapping it down, before handing another tray back to Izz.

---