I cant find my keys. I’ve been told many times before in my life that I’m quite the forgetful person. I forget just about anything and everything. You got a birthday? Ill forget it. Just met you? Consider your name forgotten. So with this forgetfulness, I tend to lose many things.
Jewelry, phone, charger, clothes, wallet, Etc. You name it, i’ve probably lost it before. I don’t really know why I’m like this though. My parents weren’t forgetful people before they aged. In fact my mother was one of those people who remembered the small things nobody else usually would. My dad, like many other men, doesn’t remember the small things. Not saying he is forgetful, he always remembered anniversaries, birthdays and lyrics to his favorite song. I guess that’s why they were perfect for each other. He could remember the important stuff so that she could recall the little things.
I always admired that about them. They were the same but different, and it’s beautifully romantic. I guess that’s what drew me to fall for my husband. My husband remembers things. He would remember where my keys are.
Oh right. My keys.
I have to find my keys. I don’t know why but I know i’ve been looking for them. Apparently very urgently it looks like. My kitchen is trashed. Plates broken on the floor, food everywhere, cabinets and counters banged up. Did I do this while looking for my keys? Why did I do this?
Wait. Why am I looking for my keys again? Gosh something must be wrong. I’m a forgetful person but this all just seems wrong. I feel a deep sense of dread within as well. The kind of feeling you get while watching a horror movie. When you know the killer is behind the door but the victim doesn’t.
Suddenly my vision clears up. I hadn’t even noticed it was blurred. I’m now aware that i’m on the floor. Why am I on the floor? Geez I’m losing it.
It appears to be dark outside. I stand up wondering if i’ve eaten dinner yet. My body feels sore as I rise, as if i’ve been thrown in a washing machine. I stand up and go into the hall. It’s from there I enter the living room leading to the stairs. What the heck. Much like my kitchen, the living room is torn up. As if bulls ran through while being chased. I’m so confused. I don’t think i’ve ever been this disoriented in my life. I head for the stairs. My husband is going to be pissed when he gets home. I cant believe i’ve made this mess all over my keys. As I get to the stairs, I feel a chill run down my spine. On the stairs railing, there is smeared blood, trailing up the stairs.
I feel like my heart has just been put into my stomach. Suddenly every nerve in my body vibrates in fear. Who’s blood is this? Wait, what time is it? It’s dark outside but it doesn’t get dark till 6:30. My husband gets home at 6 usually.
My husband. I feel the strongest headache i’ve ever felt bang it’s way into my temples. My husband should be home. Is he home? Where is my husband? I feel my heart beat pick up, still in its designated home being my stomach. I push past the soreness in my legs screaming at me to lay down, and I run up the stairs.
Blood trails, almost like breadcrumbs, leading to our bedroom. I freeze. The door stands slightly ajar. Open enough to see the light on inside, but not open enough to show what’s inside. I’m afraid what I find behind the door will send me into overdrive. You have to push through. He might be okay. My constant feeling of dread is at its peak.
Stepping forward, my hand reaching out, I open the door the rest of the way.
I feel myself scream, but I hear no sound. I feel the wet tears run down my face, but can’t determine when they started falling.
The bedroom, much like the other rooms in our home, is destroyed. My husband lays dead on the floor. My beautiful, generous, comical, and meaningful husband. He lays face down, in a pool of blood. From where he lays I see no wounds. I tiptoe over. Slowly stretch my arm down to him, I flip him over. His throat cut. I grab his hand but flinch when I feel something in his palm. I flip his hand to reveal it. My keys.
I feel as though I can’t breathe. Like every breath of oxygen in my body has exited with no intention of entering again. My husband is holding my keys. The keys I’ve been looking for. Why was I looking for my keys? Who did this to my husband?
Oh my. I was looking for my keys. I was looking for my keys and my husband had them. Did…did I?
Why can’t I remember anything? Why was I looking for my keys? Why is my house in such bad condition? Did I do all of this, while looking for my keys? The same keys resting in the palm of my husbands hand.
I’m getting so frustrated. My memory is bad but never this bad. What’s going on? What happened today? When did I get home? When did I start looking for my keys?
I feel like i’m having an episode of some kind. Is this what Alzheimer’s patients feel like? Like the world around them isn’t real. Like you watched an entire movie but for some reason can’t remember the plot.
All of these questions, but the most important freshly in my mind. What do I do now? I stand, not sure of where i’m headed. I look towards the master bathroom, and slowly make my way inside. I stand in front of the sink and raise my head to stare at myself in the face. I see blood on my face, initially believing it to be my husbands, until I see the gash in the corner of my forehead.
When did this little guy get here? Is this the culprit for my amnesia? Jesus. I must’ve hit my head while hastily looking for those keys. I sigh and stare at myself in the mirror. Was I capable of all of this? Was I seriously so set on finding those keys I killed the love of my life?
Woah. Did that shadow just move? Before I can begin to call myself delusional, I finally remember. I don’t remember much. But I remember why I was looking for my keys.
There was an intruder, he killed my husband and told me I could live if I could find my keys and drive to get help. He said you have ten minutes, time starts now.
My blood runs cold as I hear a sound come from the shadows. It’s a beeping sound. A watches alarm.
“I saw you found the keys…but your time is up.”