InsaneJournal

Who: Robert Drayton
What: Soundtrack in the Lobby.
Where: The lobby.
When: Early evening.
Warnings: None as of now.
Notes: This is an open narrative though it can stand alone as well.



Robert had been practicing solely in his apartment since the night the apartment building went black. He could lie to himself and pretend it had nothing to do with what happened, but it wouldn't matter. Someone coming up so close and invading his bubble when he couldn't see, and then petting him, well it just triggered old reflexes and panics he thought were long gone. Those fears only intensified when he realized it wasn't in his head--others confirmed the intruder's presence. It was cold comfort that it wasn't one of the other residents.

So he stayed inside, throwing everything into playing the guitar and keyboard, grinding through scotch and cigarettes to get the mess in his head that he couldn't describe nor wade his way through onto paper, molded to notes and rests, to something he could understand.

The tiny apartment wasn't enough though, and he burned himself through the last cigarette. Without choice, he hesitantly ventured outside only to the nearest liquor store, then paused as he set foot inside the lobby, hearing his footsteps echo off the walls. Needing his outlet, he settled down on one of the lobby cushioned seats and took his guitar out of the case originally slung over his shoulders. Lighting up, he tipped his fedora down a bit and began playing Hellhound on My Trail. It wasn't original, but it was a song he hadn't been able to get out of his mind. He wondered if that meant something. Either way, he couldn't stop plucking the strings, his fingers aching but not bleeding.

The music was all he had left.