Prisoner's Key: A Luca Balsa X Reader

The Arrival/His Perspective

TW//Existential mentions of death

Prisoner's POV:
  I can feel reality sinking in a bit more today. I didn't think I could feel the looming, empty anxiety any more than I already have been. Throughout the halls, it's quiet... Despite the rowdy "debate" from other inmates in the eatery it's still quiet. The thoughts in my brain have faded, leaving me with incoherent feelings, regrets, half an ounce of wishful thinking and whatever memories my mind can hold on to. I was destined to die in two or three days but I had the unfortunate luck of feeling every passing hour go by slower than the last. The ambiguous time frame didn't help either, whoever runs this place didn't seem to care about keeping their paperwork in order, or- whatever it takes to properly set up a death appointment. The mere possibility of an extra day added to the agony. Horrific and unrelenting anticipation conquered me regardless of whether or not I dared glancing at the clock. Why me? Why was I stuck feeling the last hours cling to me so tightly? I begged for some miracle that the time comes sooner than later. Anticipation; Anxiety; Waiting is something I've developed a hatred for ever since the fucking day that put me here. I didn't want to die, I just... I only wanted to get it over with.
The determination and drive I had for finishing my invention had almost completely depleted along with my will to fight back. As unusual as this was for me it felt deserved. Strange how this was when my perspective on justice was clearest. That incident though... The trauma I've gained and the memories I've lost. Even though I really did feel like I deserved all of these feelings, I couldn't help but feel like I didn't do it on purpose. What a strange feeling to be morally guilty without the legal guilt. That didn't stop fate though. Those lawyers played hard against me using evidence I couldn't prove or deny. In my opinion, not that it matters now, I believe the judge ruled against me just to get the case over with. I doubt half the people in that courtroom understood any of the logistics in what we were trying to achieve that day, or why. Theoretically, this is what makes the most sense to me looking back on it. I don't have the confidence to put myself on a pedestal because of my intellect or talent. Secretly I never did. Too late now though, I've run out of time to prove myself.

Tomorrow is when the clock will really start winding down. Tomorrow the ambiguity of the days will eat at me, shackling me more than this prison alread-
"Balsa! Ass outta the cell" I'm caught of guard by the badge-adorned pig in front of me. "I ain't risking getting my neck rung out by whoever has their shift after mine tonight. If one person hears you whining about being hungry it'll be me getting the earful" they continue. I had been too spaced out to see them approach the cell door, I still hadn't fully returned to realize they hauled me all the way to a table in the eatery. I felt a thud on the back of my head. It triggered a flashback for a moment but the prison guard didn't notice, thus they continued, "You're getting chopped in a couple weeks anyways, aren'tcha? Don't make my job harder than it needs to be, arsonist bitch".
"You're confusing me for the other Luka" I began, "I'm getting cut in less than whatever eternity it takes for you to take a shit. And it wasn't arson. The domestic explosion was an accident-" I was cut off by another hit to the head. This time it was harder, but because I was already trembling from the last one it gave me a slightly shorter but much more abrupt flashback. I yelped involuntarily and dropped myself on the table as if I were trying to take some kind of cover. Already in my overwhelmed state of mind the fluorescent lights gave me a headache, reminding me of the flash and smell of what I had gone through.

It was then that the guard picked my entire body up, though not very high, and slammed me carelessly onto the table. At that moment I was too staggared to hear them falsely accusing me for attacking them. Part of me was hoping that whatever just took place was enough to get the death ball rolling. Imagine my surprise when two other guards drug me to a rather nice but retro looking office instead of my cell. Not only was I too groggy to understand what was happening, but I saw a mysterious man speaking to the head correctional officer about some odd looking letter. It was like a prop from an old fashioned movie, the wax seal on it looked so real and... Almost as if it really were written today. They both looked at me as I slowly started blacking out. Right as I did, I could've sworn I saw the mystery man mouth my name followed by "let's go". The atmosphere grew quiet and empty again. When I came to, the mysterious man was next to me with a fresh, untouched glass of water. I moaned at the slow return of the migraine, startling the man. He spoke with an affable tone, "Mr.Balsa take a moment to rest. I tried closing the blinds for you but they seem old and finicky". He handed me the glass and leaned forward in his chair. Seems as though he's been thinking awfully hard. "Wasn't I just in trouble for something?" I asked. "My beliefs don't exactly call for angels with deep voices, so I assume I'm somehow not dead. But since I'm not locked up either... Is this the waiting room? You don't look like an executioner". I look him up and down curiously. I've decided he looks more like someone's dad. He laughs and stands up, gently flipping threw papers on a desk until he pulls out the letter from before. As confused as I am I'm still impressed at myself for remembering such an odd detail.
"Detective," I began asking a question only to sharply process that I have no reason for knowing this information. Still, I proceed, "Why am I here? What do I do now?" The unnamed detective now has a blank yet expectant expression as he gestures for me to take the letter. Despite the room being much brighter than before I get a cold, harsh breeze over me. It's building up more and more the longer I consider taking the letter. I can feel my hair standing up, I can smell the outdoors with traces of rust and old wood, I can feel the letter in my palm before I've even taken it. One step forward... I reach out my hand. Right as the letter touches my fingertip, I feel myself wobble as we drive over a bump.
My eyes shot open then instantly shut again, regretting feeling the streetlight's beams hit my face. I'm in a car? My head still hurts terribly, but when I go to adjust myself I don't feel the fence or shield I was expecting. Just the back of the driver's seat. I'm in... A regular car? I can't see who's driving but I can already tell I don't know them. I attempt to raise my voice enough for them to hear me over the gravel road. "Hey, weird question but... Am I supposed to be in hear? Do you know who's escorting me once we get to-" the surrounding area is entirely forest. It's night now and the road is only big enough for one car, meaning this is either a driveway or something I'm frightfully unfamiliar with. My mind is racing now. I was blacked out for over nine hours according to the driver's watch. Anxiety starts to settle and settle hard once I process that this person might want to kill me. If I've been kidnapped for some reason then I can't predict how I'll die or if I can get out, at least at the prison there were a limited number of possibilities. I don't like the extreme conclusion that I've been stolen from a prison, but since this isn't a bastard pig's car or a uniformed driver, I might really be shit outta luck this time. As I recite my famous last words, "Where are we going?", the driver points to an estate on the other side of the wooded valley.