Apt 555
The smell of smoke filled the cramped apartment from top to bottom. Stepping into the first room on the left, the door creaks when opened, reminiscent of an old rusty gate. Papers are scattered on every surface of this untouched office. All the windows are closed, and the light shining in illuminates the dust particles dancing in the air. Wads of paper occupy the small trash can in the corner. A mousetrap sits in the other corner. There’s a slight hum when you step out of that decrepit space.
A strum of a guitar is heard through the paper-thin walls. The walls were yellowed with age and had not been properly cleaned in years. Stepping further into the apartment, the sound grows louder.
Where could it be coming from?
From the bedroom? The bedroom that has only a mattress on the floor and clothes strewn about, whether they’re clean or dirty. The bathroom across from it is certainly an eyesore. The walls are yellow as well, making the green mold stand out even more. There’s a subtle Plap, Plap, Plap. A drip, where could that be coming from? From the leaky faucet or leaky shower? The mirror is broken, and there's a tray sitting on the grimy sink full of ash.
The kitchen, only a step away, is in a similar condition. Empty shelves and an empty fridge sit beside a full trash can. There’s another mousetrap in here; however, there’s no cheese on it.
Another strum of the guitar.
A simple note.
Where is it coming from? The window is open, there’s smoke leaking through it into the apartment. Through the foggy smoke, the inhabitant sits, guitar on his lap and cigarette hanging lazily in his mouth. Sat on the fire escape that would violate up-to-date safety codes above a city that never sleeps
