Category Linkin Park

Amnēsia by Remy

Chapter 1

The headlines that morning of July 23rd, 2012, were dramatic and flashy, and perhaps rightly, given the occasion.


The Phoenix Sun


Los Angeles Times


New York Times


Oakland Tribune


A Few Hours Earlier

Mike woke that morning with a strange, musty scent lingering in his nostrils. He opened his eyes and sat up, wondering why his shirt felt so sticky and wet. He tried to adjust his eyes to the bright room, feeling nauseous.

His eyes went wide when he saw the dark red stain on the front of his white T-shirt. He brought up his hands to rub his eyes, but stopped short when he saw that his fingers were stained with red liquid, that smelled like rotting meat. What the fuck happened? he wondered, panicking slightly.

He looked around and realized he didn’t recognize the room he was in. Panic and confusion fought for dominance inside his mind as he got to his feet and took an unsteady step. The movement awakened a throb in his forehead, and his bad breath confirmed what he’d guessed – he was hungover.

Still didn’t explain the liquid, though.

He wondered if it was a prank Joe and Chester were playing on him. Maybe this was their idea of a funny joke. Once he found those two retards, he was going to tell them exactly what he thought of their sad idea of a prank.

Using his arm to shield his eyes from the blinding sun that was making his head throb even more, he shuffled into what he assumed to be the living-room of a studio flat. Suddenly his feet hit something, and he looked down, squinting.

It was Chester, lying prone and unmoving. Mike asked himself uneasily if this was part of the prank, and then bent down, groaning at the ache in the base of his skull.

He shook Chester lightly, his heart jumping to his throat when the singer didn’t move. “Chester? Chester, wake up, man,” he muttered, his shaking getting more energetic.

Chester’s skin was a bit cold, and his body was frighteningly limp. Mike smelled an odor that was flat and stale, resembling meat. Heart racing, Mike grabbed his arms and turned him over, hoping to find some signs of life on his face.

He nearly vomited when he saw Chester’s face. There were blue-black bruises on his face and neck, and his eyes were open and red and lips slightly parted. He was pale and from his purple lips Mike could see a trail of dry blood. His neck held bruises and the veins were swollen. His jeans were stiff and dark with blood, and his shirt was torn, exposing more bruises and even some lacerations on his torso and arms, including a particularly nasty bruise shaped like a shoe print. There was dried blood on his forehead and his normally perfect hair was disheveled and matted with blood.

“Chester, oh my God,” Mike muttered, lightly slapping Chester’s cheek in hopes of getting him to wake up. “Wake up, man, this isn’t funny –”

But it didn’t seem to be a prank anymore. Chester knew better than to give Mike a heart attack like that. The fog in his mind clearing a little, Mike grabbed Chester’s cool wrist and felt for a pulse.

There wasn’t any, and Mike’s panic, as well as his headache, intensified. Chester wasn’t dead, was he?

The eerie circumstances told him differently. Even the atmosphere was haunting; the window was open and even if the sun shone bright, the curtains moving in the wind made this room look uncanny.

Mike registered the pool of blood he was kneeling in. It seemed to be coming from Chester, and Mike traced it to where he thought its source was. He took the edge of Chester’s thin, not-so-blue-anymore shirt gingerly between his thumb and index finger, and lifted it up.

A long, deep gash stared up at him, starting from Chester’s left side and travelling across to his right. The edges were dark, but the blood that had risen prevented any sight into how deep it was. It was easy to see, now, why there was so much blood everywhere.

Mike found that he was unable to breathe. He felt his chest get tighter with every breath he took, as if reality was a boa constrictor. This had to be a dream. A horrible, horrible dream, because there was no way Chester could be dead. This wasn’t how he’d imagined his life to be. There was always a Chester whenever he thought of his future.

And who the fuck would do such a thing, so fucking brutally?

Mike felt his eyes sting, and before he could fool himself he watched the tear stain Chester's shirt. He felt himself hovering over Chester, cradling him, not wanting to believe it was all be true. And he wished, he now wished, that this was all a joke. In one hour, Chester would come and laugh at him. He had to.

His reverie was cut short when the door banged open, and two men in dark uniforms burst in, screaming “FREEZE! POLICE!”

Mike looked up at them. “Please,” he cried. “You’ve got to help me, my friend, he’s not breathing, he’s –”

“Are you Mike Shinoda?” one of them interrupted, advancing with his gun aimed on Mike.

“Y-yes,” Mike said, feeling confused but in no position to act. “Please, you’ve got to do something –”

“I want you to stand up, hands behind your head, and step away from him,” ordered the second cop loudly, as his friend took careful aim at Mike just in case he tried something.

Mike did as he was told, feeling more bewildered by the second, and now also lost. Maybe it was a prank, it had to be a prank, because Chester was lying there, and all the cops did was act like they were in a movie.

The second cop, who was taller than the first and had flaming red hair, was now kneeling down on Chester’s other side. He did the standard checks, and then reported to his blond partner, “He’s dead.”

Mike felt his world fall away. “What – no,” he mumbled, his knees giving under as he tried to grasp the reality of it. The first cop grabbed him by the arms and prevented him from falling.

“Okay, quit the drama,” he ordered roughly. “Why are you covered in blood?”

“Because I was trying to see what’s wrong with him,” answered Mike, still trying to digest the fact that the person he loved most in the world was dead. The person that he needed the most was dead. The person that always was there would never be with him again. He didn't grasp it. He couldn't imagine a world without Chester.

This had to be a joke.

The redhead scoffed. “Yeah, right,” he said. The blond took that as his cue and before Mike could react, he was handcuffed.

“You have the right to remain silent … anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law …”

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