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❛ PAST COMES KNOCKING ❜ ・₊˚៹ . ❪ bohemian — act one ❫ ˖ ₊˚.⋆ 。✧˖° ࿐⠀┊ ⠀PROLOGUE⠀┊ 🏹🎨👻 ▅▅▅ ▅▅▅ ▅▅▅ ▅▅▅ ▅▅▅
THE AFTERNOON WAS GLOOMY and spread thick was a heavy rain, causing the sky to gray and the pavement to slick with dew. The atmosphere gave off the feeling of dread and blandness as the people on the streets hurried to their destinations in a monotonous routine. They all seemed the same, with their dark toned clothes and their sunken faces, either on their phones or their heads hung low under a black umbrella like a moving black and white painting.
On the corner between Morton and Lennard street, sat a little slice of light in the form of an apartment building. It was tall, all brick with over twenty open windows, and looked like a rejected structure to a fire station. And on the fifth floor, three doors down was the source of that light.
The sound of Carmen Suite No. 2 echoed loudly through Bowie Winchester's studio apartment from an old rusty record player, the window slightly ajar for the world to hear. His eyes, which were a soft brown, strained in focus on the canvas in front of him. The paintbrush clasped tightly between his paint-stained fingers pressed softly on the cotton.
He tugged slightly at his bright green shirt, coating it with blue paint. He hummed to the music, his bare feet tapping against the vibrations that bounced from the vinyl to the wood. His brow creasing in annoyance when he couldn't hear the lower notes, and with a sigh, he reached up and raised the volume on his left hearing aid before doing the same to the right.
A pitched, seagull-like bark made the man jump, the paint on his brush slipping out of its penciled lines and making him mutter a curse, "Relax, Stevie!" He glared.
Ironically, his dog — an brown Labrador with a single white spot just above his snout — was blind. His neighbor had found him wandering and thought, 'who best to take care of a disabled dog than a disabled man?' slightly insensitive but one look at the dog and Bowie had fallen in love. Hence the name Stevie, after the blind singer he loved to listen to.
The Labrador barked again, his voice carrying over the loud music. He watched as the dog turned his head toward the door and it was then Bowie had realized someone was pounding on his front door.
"Shit." He winced. He placed the paintbrush softly on the easel and rushing toward the window to remove the needle from the vinyl, causing an abrupt stop. The pounding echoed again, "I-I'm coming! One sec!" He shouts.
The person pounds the door again, and with a frustrated huff Bowie grabs the handle and throws the door open.
