Letters To A Killer

Prison life was a far cry from the glittering world Luka Mapalo had once known. Gone were the penthouse parties, the tailored suits, and the ceaseless buzz of high society. In their place were steel bars, cold concrete, and a regimented routine that dulled the edges of time. His world had shrunk to the confines of a cell, punctuated by the echoes of distant footsteps and the clang of metal doors.

Yet, despite the monotony, Luka had become something of a sensation. The flood of fan mail and gifts he received daily was a stark reminder of his peculiar status as a prison celebrity. Accused of a crime that had gripped the nation—a high-profile murder case—his name had become a lightning rod for public fascination.

Every morning, the guards would approach his cell with arms full of letters and packages, grumbling under their breath about the extra workload. Luka's cellmates teased him endlessly about his "fan club," their jokes ranging from lighthearted ribbing to outright disbelief.

"Who knew murder suspects were such heartthrobs?" one of them had quipped, earning a wry smile from Luka.

But Luka didn't mind. In fact, he found a strange comfort in the attention, even if it came from strangers. The letters were his lifeline to a world that seemed divided—half of it rooting for his innocence, the other half condemning him without hesitation.

It had been a year since his arrest, and in that time, Luka had learned to navigate the rhythms of prison life. His mornings started with the familiar routine of cleaning his cell, a quick shower, and a bitter cup of instant coffee. The rest of the day was filled with prison work: farming, woodworking, or organizing shelves in the library.

Farming was his favorite. It gave him a chance to be outside, to feel the sun on his face and the earth beneath his hands, even if the boundaries of the prison yard reminded him of his confinement. The library came in at a close second. Surrounded by books, Luka could escape into worlds far removed from his own—a small reprieve from the crushing reality of his situation.

Evenings, however, were his own. After dinner, he'd retreat to his cell, sorting through the pile of letters that arrived daily. At first, he'd eagerly read every single one, devouring the words of encouragement and admiration. But as the months wore on and the letters multiplied, he found himself skimming most, setting them aside for a "later" that rarely came.

One evening, just as Luka was about to lie down on his narrow cot, a familiar voice called out from beyond the bars.

"Mapalo! Your mails," the guard announced, dropping a hefty stack of letters, a package, and a book onto Luka's bed.

Luka smirked as he sat up, stretching his arms. The scene was almost routine by now, though tonight's delivery seemed heavier than usual.

He reached for the package first, tearing it open to reveal a thick painting book. A note was taped to it:

Hi Luka,

I'm Mariana from Brooklyn. I don't know if you remember me, but I sent you pictures last week. Did you get them? I hope this will entertain you!

I love you, Luka! Stay strong!

Love, Mariana

Luka chuckled, recalling the blonde girl with piercing blue eyes from her earlier letters. Her boldness had stood out among the rest, especially with the photos she'd sent. He folded the sweater neatly and placed it aside.

Next, he picked up the book: Gödel, Escher, Bach: An Eternal Golden Braid. His eyebrows lifted in surprise. It wasn't the kind of light reading one might expect in a prison, but it was exactly the sort of intellectual challenge Luka enjoyed. Flipping through its pages, he found a card tucked in the middle:

Hey Luka,

I hope this book keeps you company. If you enjoy it, I'll send more! Stay strong, and don't lose hope.

Love from France, Sophie Auclair

This letter was different. Sophie's words weren't dripping with adoration or pleas for a response. They were thoughtful, sincere, and refreshingly grounded. Luka found himself smiling—a rare occurrence these days.

He read a few more letters, most of them variations of the same theme: admiration, sympathy, or outright obsession. By the time he was done, the sweater was hanging neatly on the wall, and the book had taken its place beside his pillow. Luka lay back on his bed, staring at the cracked ceiling above.

The trial was only five days away, and its weight pressed heavily on him. Every hour that passed felt like an ominous drumbeat counting down to his fate. The odds weren't in his favor; they never had been.

The media had painted him as a villain, their relentless coverage turning him into the face of guilt. His once-glittering reputation was now a tarnished relic of the past.

Even his family, the people who were supposed to stand by him no matter what, had stopped visiting. Their absence was like an open wound, raw and unhealed. Friends who once celebrated his successes had vanished without a trace, their silence more damning than any accusation.

And then there was Emilia, his lawyer. She was brilliant, relentless, and determined to fight for him, but even she couldn't conjure miracles. Luka could see the strain in her eyes during their meetings. She was running out of strategies, out of time, and, perhaps, out of hope.

As Luka lay there, the weight of it all threatened to crush him. The trial would be the end of the road, one way or another. He closed his eyes, letting the silence of his cell envelope him. Somewhere in the stack of letters was a glimmer of hope, a reminder that someone out there believed in him. But for now, all he could do was wait.