Page 10 of Caged In

“Don’t stare, man. Seriously,” his cellmate bites off in a hushed, harsh whisper. “That’s Sinn'ous.”

Izz blinks at Reni. What’s that supposed to mean? Should he know who that is? Is he famous or something? A singer?

“THE Sinn'ous.” When Izz merely shrugs, Reni’s exasperated voice adds, “the serial killer. He’s killed, like, hundreds of people. They just can’t prove it’sthatguy.” Reni flicks a thumb towards the corner, careful to keep it concealed by his body so only those at their table can see the action. “Not officially, anyway. He’s killed guards and inmates in here too. Stay as far away from him as possible, and don’t frickin’ look at him. Keep your damn eyes averted. Keep your whole body averted.”

Izz checks the rest of the table occupants to ensure he isn’t being punked. A messed-up prisoner fraternity pledge thing, or some kind of joke played on the newbie. The collective fear in their faces tells him everything he needs to know. Even Isco appears worried.

“And stick to large groups,” Reni continues, laying out the rules in a freaked-out life and death tone. It’s completely at odds to his fun-loving easy-going self.“Especially if he ever enters a room you’re in. Make sure there are a dozen or more people around you. If you count only eleven, you sprint out of that room so fast the wind’s impact will land you with black and blues, like you went up against a guard hell bent on beating you to death.”

Izz swallows hard—and, because your mind has to look at a car crash—his eyes flick over to the inmate in question.

The serial killer—

Blake slaps him on the back of his head—Izz quickly snaps his attention to his tray, digging his spoon in. His appetite is gone, shrivelled up, along with his mellow this-prison-stay-shouldn’t-be-too-bad mood. He uses the spoon to push his food around, playing with the leftover meal as a distraction.

. . . Well . . .

. . . Shit . . .

He’s lucky he hadn’t strolled over and clumsily introduced himself, and tried to flirt with the mohawked inmate . . .

A serial killer . . . ?

5

Izz’s slapped in the face the moment he enters the shower room. The heavy steam assaulting his lungs. Thick and constricting, he wades through the smoggy sludge to get to the benches where they leave their clean clothes. With the amount of steam clogging the space, his clothes would be better off having a shower with him to stay dry.

Worse than the stream, is the pungent rank stench, its foul odour gagging him. A hundred times worse than anything he smelt back in school in the boys’ locker room. He hadn’t thought how prison would smell when he was being transported here. He fears his sense of smell will forever be tainted.

He sticks with his new friends. They seem to have taken him in with open arms. And he’s glad for it. If he’s to guess, having allies in prison is a good thing. Befriend as many as you can so you have less people to worry about attacking you. It’s what he’s planning to do anyway.

He’s thankful he isn’t alone the first time in the showers. He doesn’t want to admit it, but he has been dreading this moment since he was found guilty. All the stories about what happens in prison showers have been close to mind, playing on repeat to frazzle his nerves. Being in this relatively large prison . . . friendship group? he feels somewhat protected.

He has a better understanding of the pack mentality now. It’s comforting and safe. Better than going it alone, with no one to watch your back—or ass, in this case.

Pulling off his prison-issued clothes, he dumps them onto the ever-growing pile of dirty clothes from the rest of the group. He keeps the clean clothing at a safe distance, not wanting clean threads to be near the large pile of pungent fabric—

Izz yelps, stumbling forward as a towel cracks him on the ass. He’s not sure which is louder, the towel’s snap on his bare ass or his girlish noise.

“Don’t drop the soap, new-boy,” Zidie teases. Grinning madly while brandishing the towel like he’s gearing up for a second whip.

“Piss off, or I’ll throw it at you,Cupcake.” Izz bites out with no real venom, raising his bar of soap. Grinning at Zidie, he shoves him away. He hates to admit it. But Zidie’s nonchalant demeanour and joking nature is helping to ease his nerves.

He has no problem with his body, he’s proud of his figure. Stripping naked with strangers isn’t too bad. What he has a problem with is those strangers trying to get all touchy feely with him—all grabby, clawing hands. He can’t close his eyes to wash his hair in a normal shower by himself without worrying about imaginary demons grabbing him. It’s a weird thing but common. Maybe your body wants to remind you that you’re naked and vulnerable?

But in here. Those grabby hands are a very likely outcome to closing your eyes. Or turning your back. Izz will create a mental note to shower with his back to the wall. It might expose his front, but better the front than the back.

His thoughts slowly drip away, as Erik joins them. The scrawny inmate shuffles in slowly, stiffly, as if he might have injured his leg—

Izz frowns at the bruising around the small inmate’s neck. Was that there before? He can’t recall. It must have been? It’s a strange spattering of bruises, resembling a hand mark—

Izz swiftly turns when Erik begins removing his shirt. Not wanting to be caught staring at another inmate while they undress. He might be gay, and open about it on the outside, but that doesn’t mean he’s stupid. He knew damn well peopleget beaten and killed for that stuff. He isn’t interested in testing whether or not the inmates in this prison are open minded.

Naked, and wanting to get this first shower over with, he follows along after Isco. Who’s back is littered with ink, and scars, in a patterned way—

Scarification? That’s what it’s called, isn’t it? When someone has skin removed to form pictures and designs, so it stands out as scars and not as ink like a regular tattoo.

It’s unique. Intriguing. He’s never seen someone with scarification done, he’s only ever heard of it being done, and seen a few random pictures in tattoo shops.

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