Content warning: implied gore
The key could have been there for months. I’ve always been a bit of a packrat with small things – my purse, you know, my attache, my keychain. My apartment might be tidy and free of clutter – at 100 feet square, it’s kind of got to be – but you could find a door to Narnia in my purse and not be all that surprised.
And my keychain? Keys from every place I’ve ever lived or worked or even crashed. I’m a compulsive key-copier, not because I want to break in anywhere, just… I like having them.
This one was pink. It looked like some sort of office key, thick and official and Do Not Duplicate… and pink.
And it was new.
I found it Saturday, while looking for the key to my mother’s place – feeding her dogs while she’s out of town, crashing there ’cause the guest room is three times the size of my apartment. And now that I have it, I’ve been trying it in every door I can get away with trying it in.
Today I found the door it opens.
And I’m feeling like Bluebeard’s wife, except nobody warned me.
The question is, if I call the cops – and I really ought to, I really, really ought to – how do I explain how I just happened to have the key? When I don’t even remember, myself, how it got here?
Written to the prompt here: https://promptuarium.wordpress.com/2015/12/23/new-key/
This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/1115074.html. You can comment here or there.