Lucy's Key

You can tell a lot about a person by their keys, arguably, everything you need to know. Some people have one car key, one house key, and absolutely zero exciting prospects in their lives. Others have countless keys, a couple reward cards, and maybe one ornate key chain in a pathetic attempt to convince themselves that they have a life outside their daily responsibilities. They’re frugal though, so at least there’s that. On the other side of the spectrum, you have those with no intension of facing adulthood and just pile on the decorative key chains that surround a lone key to god only knows what.

And then there’s Lucy. Lucy’s keys that loop around a bright yellow carabiner include: a key to an old Sable that threatens to break down on the daily, a key to the outside of her apartment building, as well as the accompanying one to her actual apartment, one to her office, another to her sister’s place, a gym card, and one to receive all the perks of a local grocery shop. But for as long as I’ve known her, Lucy had a mystery key jangling among the rest. It was pewter- like, the kind of hefty key you’d expect to lock castle doors with. The weight of that one alone was probably doing a number on her ignition switch. The tip was rounded and dropped suddenly into what looked like a jagged puzzle piece. A hollowed eight, large enough for two sizeable fingers to slide into, composed the bow.

I became obsessed with this key, but Lucy wasn’t the type you could ask direct questions to, at least not unless you wanted a completely roundabout answer that wasn’t really an answer at all. So, I did the only logical thing and directed my inquiries towards her sister. Unfortunately, all I received was a somewhat ominous warning that, “if I valued anything in this world, never ask Lucy about that key.” It seemed comical at the time, like the kind of warning you’d expect from an old woman who lived at the edge of a forest about not straying from the beaten path. And so I continued my investigation of this cryptic object.

The research on keys, as I’m certain you’re well aware, is extensive and absolutely useless if you want to know about a specific one. There are countless models, numerous time periods that fit such a key, and no one alive with any interest in talking about them. That is, of course, except for Mr. Ponderosa, our friendly neighborhood landscaper, who may as well be dead to me. How in the world could I possibly know that a middle-aged, weed whacker wielding widow had this particular interest? A severely overlooked side effect of being clumsy, I suppose. I struggled with my own front door one day as he happened to be strolling around the neighborhood. He shouted his pleasantries as one does around here and spouted off about how they didn’t make keys like the used to. He mentioned something about a bow and a shaft and I giggled as the image of a rather phallic key popped into my head. I can only assume that he thought I was laughing at his overabundance of knowledge on the subject of keys, but his stare had the devil lurking behind those eyes. After that day, I ceased to exist in his world. It wasn’t that he simply refused to acknowledge me, but if our eyes happened to meet across a well-manicured lawn, his glare could set the grass ablaze.

It seemed like the only way I would ever get an answer to my burning fixation was to simply ask the unaskable. Oh how I wish logic and I had a better friendship. A working relationship. Even an awkward wave as we passed each other in the street. Alas, it evades me. I walked over to Lucy’s apartment, unable to satisfy my interest in her outdated key. A stranger held the inner door, so I slipped in and climbed the stairs to the second floor. I knocked but no one answered. My knuckles rapped on the door harder, but still there was no response. Finally, I called out between the thumps.

“Lucy?” Thud, thud. “Lucy are you in there?” Thud, thud, thud. “It’s Vivian. Look, I really need to talk to you.”

Only silence answered my plea, so I turned the doorknob. Unsurprisingly, the door was open. Not many people around these parts felt the need to lock them. My inquisitiveness let me in, but it was fear that kept me there.

“Hello, dear,” a rumbling voice broke the placid air and replaced it with a tentative fog. I turned and found Mr. Ponderosa stroking a plant settled in the corner of the kitchen window. “So glad you could join us.”

“Us…” was the only thought I was allowed to have before a debilitating whack to the back of my head severed any and all thought patterns.

That was the last true memory I have. The rest, I’m afraid, I’m unable to decipher whether I dreamt, hallucinated, or actually experienced. My apologies, friend. It’s been five days, I think, and I’m starting to consider my mortal reality. I imagine if you’re reading this, you’re suffering a similar fate, so there’s no point in keeping the details from you. But before I delve into my last memories of life, I implore you to add to this wall of remembrance like the others who have come before us. Together perhaps we can paint a more complete picture of why, where, and maybe even who. My one suggestion is to write your story using the sharpened bone of whoever was kind enough to leave part of themselves. I found carving into this stone tomb much more effective than attempting to stay alert while writing in blood.

There were voices, a man and a woman, I could swear on my life they belonged to our friendly neighborhood landscaper and the girl with the mysterious key, but for the moment I opened my eyes as they dragged my semi-conscious body through the dirt, their images were too blurred to be certain. What I am certain of though, is that lock on the door that will never open looks suspiciously like it would fit a certain ancient key and the wood chipper in the middle of this room makes another convincing argument.