Page 73 of Caged In

“We were just walking. Nothing happened,” Izz can hear the panic in his own voice. No way the others can’t hear it too. Hesounds guilty as hell. How he hasn’t been caught yet—for the guard’s . . . murder—is a miracle.

“Uh-huh. Sure,” Sinj winks at Izz, which makes Izz sink further into the bench trying to disappear into the table.

“Lay off, Sinj,” Blake scolds, “Izz is smart enough to not get involved with the likes of that . . . murderer.” Izz can tell Blake’s being nice with his wording. Choosing not to curse out the dangerous inmate in front of the entire cafeteria.

Izz drifts away from the conversation—his mind blocking them out, as they continue to bicker amongst themselves—pushing his food aimlessly around his tray. He isn’t that hungry. He hopes his appetite comes back soon, or he’s going to become skin and bones if he keeps skipping meals—

The hairs on the back of his neck stand up, prickling. He looks out from under his lashes—to the far table. Sinn'ous is there, and is openly staring at Izz.

Man, this relationship—or whatever it is—is going to get him killed. What are the chances of a serial killer attaching themselves to Izz purely out of innocence, and not a rooted desire to draw in his next victim.

This cage is going to be the death of him. He won’t survive long enough to be a free man. He’ll throw himself a party if he makes it past a year—nah, if he makes it to six months, he’ll punch the Warden in the face. He knows he’ll never win the bet. He’s leaving this Hell-hole in a body bag—if the prison has body bags, they probably class it as a waste of money. No doubt they bury the deceased inmates in a hole out in the yard, and make the living inmates dig it. No money spent on a funeral for the forgotten prisoners.

This place brings out Izz’s dark and depressing thoughts. Things he didn’t know lived in his mind. His mind will be the first thing to die in here. His sanity lost, his soul corrupted. Will he be forever changed? His very essence becoming nothing morethan a walking breathing dead thing. Forever lost . . . A death that cannot be physically seen.

Thumping his head down in his palm, Izz gives up any pretence of eating. He’s not hungry and playing with the food on his tray will not magically bring back his appetite. Along with his other problems he’s developing an eating disorder.

Terrific, what I always wanted. Not.

Movement to the side tugs Izz out of his depressive spiral. Sinn'ous is leaving, packing up his tray and sauntering off in his predatory way. An inmate who isn’t going to allow this cage to change him. Izz envies him that. Sinn'ous is put together. Not scaredof anyone or skirting the boundaries of sanity.

Perhaps I should take notes from him. See if he can teach me.

Izz tries his best to wait an appropriate amount of time. To not draw attention to his going after Sinn'ous. To spend some time with the male in his Satanic cell.

When Izz’s sure he has left an adequate amount of time, he excuses himself from The Gang. Letting them know he needs to piss and he’ll catch up with them later. It’s a lie but he doesn’t stick around long enough to see how many of The Gang know it. They seem pretty engrossed in whatever topic is being discussed. He’ll meet them at dinner, or perhaps not even then.He may skip the laundry work and dinner to chill with Sinn'ous until lights out.

If Sinn'ous wants to. Maybe Sinn'ous will hate the idea. Or maybe the other will encourage it and he’ll find himself bleeding out in a supply closet.Right alongside the guard’s body—

Izz’s instincts flare to life—three seconds after he rounds the corner to pass B-Wing on his way to A-Wing. A three second warning, time enough for his adrenaline to jump start, and zero time for his body’s reactions to kick in—

Izz gets jumped.

For the umpteenth time, he is attacked. Though this time, it’s swift and his attacker silences him fast. Hands clamping down on his arms and mouth, thighs and waist—too many hands to be one attacker—as he’s carried back down the corridor, towards B-Wing.

The inmates lugging his flailing body are stronger than him, and their grips are stable and powerful. He can’t wriggle free. He can’t yell for help—not that anyone will come to his aid either way. He’s not getting lucky again with Zidie and Reni. They are back in the cafeteria. Eating and chatting away. None the wiser.

And Izz . . . He doesn’t know where he’s going. Has no say in the matter. He never does—

The hands release him in a coordinated move, and Izz finds himself falling. His arms shooting out to try to break his fall—

He needn’t worry—at least, not about the landing—a mattress breaks his fall, half-heartedly cushioning his impact with the bunk below. He’s in a cell. Not his own, and not one he recognises.

There’s a sheet too, hung over the cell’s entrance. Hanging open far enough for them to walk in. And it is them. Four of them. Four snarky smug-looking inmates squished together in a cell built to hold two prisoners.

One of the four inmates crowding the cell, pulls the sheet’s corner, effectively blocking them off from prying outside eyes . . .

The eyes of the men leering at him send cold shivers down Izz’s spine. Their snide expressions, menacing smiles, eyes twinkling with delight . . .

Oh, God . . .

He can feel his face draining of colour. His chest caving in on itself. Dread seeping into his stomach and twisting his insides. Deep down he knows what is happening. Knows what the men want. He refuses to allow the thoughts airtime. He refuses to acknowledge them. If they aren’t there, then it won’t be true.It won’t happen to him. He’ll be safe, so long as he doesn’t acknowledge the dark truths rattling his skull—

Izz darts up, to make a break for the door. His body operating on pure adrenaline-fuelled terror. The cell door is blocked by four inmates who each have more muscle mass than Izz could ever dream of possessing. Fearing he is prey, all his panicked mind wants is to flee. He is barging straight through—

He’s easily grabbed and thrown back down onto the bunk. Thenthey’re on him. Hands grabbing at his legs. His forearms. Pinning him to the bunk. Holding him down as easily as if he isn’t struggling tooth and nail to break free. His lungs screaming, his breathing coming in irregular gasps as his entire body flips into extreme panic mode.

“Please, don’t do this. Please.” Izz tries begging. He isn’t getting anywhere with his struggles.

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