I stare quietly at my hands as my memory comes to a blank. My mind had taken me on a trip through the past, and now it’s coming to a complete and utter halt. I’m still in the basement, but the lights are turned back on and I’m not tied to the chair anymore. In fact, I never really left. It was only a dream, a memory. It happened at one point in time before, and now I was simply remembering it. Sadly enough, it feels as though something has gotten in the way. My brain is malfunctioning; only giving me bits and pieces of things. I can see faces coming back to me, voices, color, but the only clear image I’ve got is from the moment my mother told me Mikey and I were going to my father’s house to the point when the kid locked me in this very basement. And then nothingness. It feels as though only those events had happened. Everything in my mind is still a pitch black, as it had been before, and now a spotlight is being shined upon the tiny sliver of memory my head can hold.

Sitting here staring at my hands gives me a good excuse to mill this all over.

The first thing that comes to mind is the kid. Yes the one who knocked me out, tied me to a chair, and locked me in a basement. His face seems so oddly familiar, and not because of my run away memory. I had seen those gorgeous, sparkling, ocean eyes after I came out of the coma. He was the boy from my dream. The only thing was that the boy in my dream had a black and blond faux-hawk and the memory version of him has short shaggy brown hair. But the simple difference sort of makes sense because you can cut, dye, and style hair in a matter of hours, less than that even. What doesn’t make sense is why he had captured me and then locked me in the basement in the first place.

And how in the world had I survived?

My handicapped memory isn’t helping much. It would all be okay if I could only remember what happened. I would know how I had gotten out of the basement, and how I came to a point where I was attempting suicide and inducing an accidental (and extremely lucky) coma upon myself. I would know what happened to the boy, maybe even who he was and where he came from. I could figure out what in the hell Helena really was and why I could see her (don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I don’t trust her, but this ghost thing is sort of crazy). My past with Mikey and the rest of my family would be evident. Everything would be all better. Better than this hell hole, at least.

It’s hard to tell exactly how my family works. Mikey and I never knew our father, we were told he was dead, and my mother dragged us around the world on her modeling gigs. Meanwhile our father was sitting here in Belleville doing… well nothing. At least, that’s what I got out of my dream-memory-thing. My mother either thinks Daddy Dearest is a no good scum bag who left her for the army or she thought he had died in war and suddenly got a hold of him again just around the time she needed a baby sitter. My father on the other hand is either a no good scum bag who left my mother pregnant and helpless (like moms said) or he was telling the truth and mom simply ditched him while he was at war. Honestly I don’t even want to think about it. Family drama is too much for my poor head right now.

All this thinking is hurting my brain, so I decide to stand up and walk around, attempting in vain to clear my head. I fold the chair back up after a close inspection for anymore notes, and then set it back in its proper place against the stack of metal seating leaning on the wall. Not succeeding with my note search on the chair, I turn the place over looking for another clue. The chest still won’t open and there isn’t anything behind it. There isn’t anything else in the fridge, and nothing but rags and buckets and duct tape on the work bench. The sink is empty, a ring of rust and mildew lining the once snowy white ceramic basin. I turn the tap but only cloudy colored water and loud grinding noises come from the old pipes. I even do a sweep of all the corners and under the back stairs before I finally give up on the next clue. I would just have to go home and wait it out. If there even was going to be another clue.

What if this mysterious note giver person isn’t actually planning on leaving another clue? What if they didn’t even mean to bring back my memories? In fact, I’m probably being led on a wild goose chase, wasting my time with this whole clue thing. I have no idea who this person is, what their intentions are, and how the hell they even know I had been in this cellar before. The only person who knows would be the kid with the ocean eyes. Unless I had told someone, but I have this strange feeling that the only person I would have told is Mikey, and he would have just flat out explained to me about all of this crazy basement shit instead of leading me on with this whole note thing.

So that leaves the kid.

But how did I get away from him in the first place? And why wouldn’t he just capture me again? Or maybe he led me here on purpose!

My heart beats faster in my chest with the possibility of this being a trap, but I calm myself down slowly. If it was a trap he would have already attacked me. You’re overthinking everything Gerard.

I sigh, finally deciding to not think about it. It doesn’t matter who this mystery person is. I’ll find out soon enough. And if this is all a wild goose chase then oh well. I wasted a tiny bit of my time. I can always just move on with my life. Right?

Shoving my hands in my pockets, I saunter toward the cellar doors.

The steps are steep and hard and my bones feel like they’re about to shatter from exhaustion. All this remembering has made me tired and I just want to go home and crash on my bed. If I even make it up the stairs. I’ll probably end up sleeping on the couch or something.

I step out into broad daylight, the sun high in the sky. Pulling out my phone, I find that it’s already 12:06. I had been in the basement for a <i>long/i> time. It definitely hadn’t felt like it. The whole thing was all a blur. Maybe sitting in a chair for three hours is the reason why my ass hurts. Makes sense.

The freezing November wind nips at my nose and slips up under my clothes, settling goose bumps up and down my arms and back. I shiver, pulling my leatherjacket up closer to my chin and wandering out into the side yard of the house. I let the door close behind me, happy to be free of the eerie old cellar, hoping to go home and crash on the couch, maybe watch some TV, hop on the play station, anything but continue with this game of real life clue. I am sick and tired of trying to find out if it was really Mr. Ocean-eyes in the basement with the duct tape.

But you see, life ain’t that simple. Not by a long shot.

As I go to step forward and leave the yard, something falls in my way. It’s a small something, connected to a tiny parachute, the kind that went along with those miniature plastic army dudes you had when you were a little kid. It falls gently to the ground in front of my feet, the cheap cotton parachute crumpling in a heap of dead weight. I bend over, pick up the ‘chute and then jab my nose toward the sky, looking for who dropped it. Either this was an accidental coincidence, or someone was standing on the roof. I back away from the house as far as I possibly can; trying to spot something, anything, that could have dropped the parachute. But I don’t see anything. I contemplate going up to check, but decide not to. The front porch steps are too crumbled to walk on, I can’t imagine how broken the roof is.

But I still can’t help thinking about who exactly dropped it. It just has to have been the same person who left me the sticky note and the ice cream. But the problem is that I don’t actually know who that person is.

I sigh heavily directing my attention back to the parachute. Something is attached to the bottom of it.

It’s a key. And a note.

The key is small, old and black, and fits nicely in the palm of my hand. The note is scribbled on a very familiar notebook paper, in a very familiar forced sort of handwriting.

Some say love is all in your head.
I say it’s in the chest.

A riddle? A goddamn riddle?! Seriously?!

How in the world is a riddle supposed to help me here?

Mikey’s the smart one, not me. How can someone expect me to come up with the answer to a riddle? A really weird one too. I mean what does love have to do with keys? This is too weird and I’m too stupid.

The little black key sits in my hand, it’s cold teeth softly pressing between the creases of my palm. It’s taunting me. If the key were alive, it’d be pointing straight at me and laughing its little key ass off. I glare at it, willing an answer to come to me.

But of course, one does not. Again, life isn’t that simple.

So I bring my attention to the riddle. I read it over and over again maybe a million times, but I still don’t see how it’s supposed to be related to keys. I mean keys don’t have anything to do with love, except maybe ‘holding the key to someone’s heart’, but that was metaphorical. It’s not like there’s a real key that can actually unlock your brain or your chest or-

Wait a second.

I read the riddle once over.

Some say love is all in your head.
I say it's in the chest.

It’s in the chest. Not your chest. Not my chest. Not his, hers, or its chest. The chest.

Who said that the riddle was referring to a human chest? Why not a big black locked chest that was so ironically sitting in the basement I just left?

Shoving the note in my pocket, I take the key off the parachute and drop the toy on the ground. I dash back into the basement, flipping the lights, and skidding over to the chest. My heart flutters with anxiety and my stomach feels like it’s filled with butterflies. Well maybe not butterflies, but moths. Yeah, nice manly moths.

The key is the same shade of black as the wood and I can’t help but feel stupid for not getting the riddle right off the bat.

Raising my hand, I quickly shove the key into the hole. It fits. Squinting a little, I cringe as I turn the key, hoping with everything I’ve got that it works.

Click.

Notes

Uber short this time guys, sorry. It was gonna be longer, but I wanted to stop there and leave it at a cliff hanger 'cause I'm evil. (Then again, I'm pretty sure you have to have a moderate ammount of evilness inside you to write about psycho murderers.)

I've learned some things about writing Fanfiction from a friend of mine. Use as much suspense and teasing as possible!

So here you go. A teaser.

Oooooh and give a big cyber hug to my best friend Rosco (whom of which doesn't have an account, but y'know, just like give a hug to the air, she'll get it) for being my Beta. She's awesome and helped me out soooo much with this. If it weren't for her, this chapter would have sucked major balls, so yeah. She's great.

Hmm hmm, enjoy!

-Locusts