Peculiar how adaptable the human race can be, one day murder and then next we're back to the 9-5. Kids playing soccer out on the fields, parents rushing to finish all the duties before the next day. This value is what ensures the survival of something ultimately vulnerable on all accounts but it's the same thing that makes them ignore the warning signs.

This isn't a hard concept to grasp but still, it lacks meaning without an example. A simple one could be the fact that Nick doesn't remember everything that happened, or that he's come to live with the fact that the key to the door to the closet under the stairs had been missing for exactly 100 days. This didn't seem relevant in the big picture but, you should know, there's no such thing as coincidences in the grand scheme of things. Just like his mind, it had been locked for what it held inside, yet one cannot control all, things spill out regardless.

Nick, on the other hand, had trouble sleeping since his last nightmare, as he would label it, images swirling his mind paired with a dozen questions that would rapid-fire when his mind had a second of rest. He knew what he had to do, what the questions had to point to but he feared he wasn't strong enough to face it. He was afraid of learning who he was after, as well as rhe deed itself. Perhaps that thought is exactly what lead him to lose chunks of himself.

One good thing that came from these recent developments was that the house had received a deep clean it hadn't seen in close to a decade while he tried keeping himself busy. It was doing him good, a feeling of new beginnings and progress with every task fulfilled. Perhaps he was caught up in the past and needed to let go, live a new life away from the memories and people. Trouble was he was told not to leave town, turns out the bunker incident was suggested to be linked to the recent happenings. It was all but an open accusation, never mind that the detective held sympathy in his voice when he had said it.

He gripped the broom a little tighter as he swept over the hardwood floor, as if he hadn't had to deal with enough. Granted, most of it was in his head but still, it was occupying too much space in his mind when he should've been able to move past all the shattered pieces by now. He gave them every piece of information, access to a home he allegedly hadn't been to in a few years when they found him. They couldn't even tell him who he was found with or any theory as to why. Some whispers say he made a pact with the devil and that's how he ended there, ritualistic sacrifice on the account of the odd relics in the bunker but even if that was true, why was he the only one to survive? Where was the so called devil in all of this.

He clenched his jaw as he fell on the chair that now sat facing the wrong way, not having been put back in place after being moved to sweep under it. At least he could now live with the fact that if the two situations were connected, he had no action in it. His survival wasn't due to something sinister, some pact or curse.

It was quiet like it was each night in the house, the sound of nature blowing against the edges of the house, pristine image on the surface but feeling so empty within. It was meant for so much more.

Something peculiar caught his eye at this moment, a sliver of white stained wood that shouldn't have stood out from where he sat. It shouldn't have stood out like that, especially since the door had been closed for months now, key forgotten and a choice to not forcibly open it.

He stood with the broom still in hand, brows furrowed, for a moment wondering if he hadn't fallen asleep and reliving another terror but cognitive as it was, it felt real and so he must assume that it was. He moved in view of the closet door, cracked open about an inch, barely even enough to see inside but he could see the light was on, on the inside, it couldn't have been on since he was last in here, could it?

He used the end of the broom to push it open, not really knowing what he expected other than what he saw. A few boxes, old memories, and forgotten items. Things they could live without, most without its shine and covered in dust. Despite the image, something still called out to him from inside. Memories, things he lacked. He knew it couldn't help him, he probably wouldn't get anything from going through these boxes except the emptiness he felt growing in size with the evidence of what he had lost.

Regardless, mind over matter did not work this time as he sat down beside the door, dragging a box near. A broken frame sticking out of the box delivered no feeling or new information, his eyes lingering on a few nicknacks they'd been too attached to throw away. He placed the box beside him and moved on to the next, something telling him that's not what was calling to him. An umbrella, set of small gumboots, deflated ball. All reminders, all causing a pang to his chest but he had to push through, just don't place too much attention on it and he'd be able to keep moving.

The next thing, however, took him by surprise. As he stretched his hand inside, a sting ran through his veins which resulted in him retracting his hand on impulse. A small cut running over three fingers, resulting in a pause of his discoveries as he got up to press a paper towel to the wound to soak up the small droplets of blood that spilled. When he was satisfied with the pressure and sure it wouldn't end with bloodying the closet, he walked back.

Whatever it was, had been placed carelessly. This time he looked at what he had taken, confusion took hold when he couldn't place the object. A knife curved in an odd way, he suspected one of those 'built for lethality' designs. He had never been one for knives or weapons of any sort. An odd gold color that glimmered in the light which highlighted the symbols running down its length. He held the object in the air as he studied it, head tilting slightly. If he had gotten into collecting in his spare time, this was a very odd place to store it.

Nick dropped the object,  a thought chilling his body. The accusation as to why he was in that bunker seemed increasingly accurate. Again, questions were pilling with no one to turn to, to ask. The thought that will bring it to light just sat on the tip of his tongue, just beyond his consciousness. He could feel it.

He dropped to the floor, hands reaching into the closet once again to find some sort of explanation, even if it was for the worst, at least he would know. Cracked mirror, old baseball bat, blood stained hammer. One of those things wasn't like the others. He dropped the hammer back into the closet, falling behind a smaller box so the handle was still visible.

No, no. It's an overactive imagination, there's a logical explanation. Paint.. maybe he used it as a tenderizer. Both ridiculous straws to grab onto but there had to be an explanation for it that didn't involve him going completely off the rails. He wasn't the type to..

It was quick work to put everything back in the closet, door closing shut behind it like he could bury the newfound information, like the questions would stop hitting where it hurt.

As the new ideas settled, the question now was how do you accept a person so different than you perceive yourself. How do you accept the choices that were allegedly made, do you keep it to yourself and try to do better or give yourself up because that's what you were told is the right thing to do.

Wordcount: 5230