Who: Robert Drayton. What: His escapism is no longer his peace. Where: Starting in the lobby before moving back to his apartment. When: Around midnight. Warnings: Nothing really. Notes: Closed narrative.
Robert hadn't stopped playing his guitar in the lobby for a little over a week now. What once had been his means of communication and expression became a necessary escapism from something that turned into a prickly sensation at the back of his neck, constantly aware of everyone and anyone who passed by him.
It was the fear.
He hadn't felt such loss of normalcy since he was ten and sent to live with his grandfather. Sure, the building was in no way normal, but it hadn't taken the time nor bothered to mess with him. Until now.
If it wasn't for the calluses on his fingers, they would be bleeding and cracking from the over extensive use. Robert Johnson, Muddy Waters, Charles, Clapton, they all flowed until he couldn't hear his own voice anymore. It was definitely not his own harmony. So chaotic.
At the sound of an A sharp twisting flat, he broke from his trance and stared at his guitar before finally returning to his room. He left his instrument of torture behind to deal with his own demons.