Prolouge!
You can tell a lot about people from the places that they live. Not just neat and organized versus messy and obnoxious, but they the colors, the decorations, the placement of the furniture as well.
What this apartment told the world is that the people who lived in it didn’t actually live there very often. It went beyond neat; it was unlived in. The furniture was good, the sleek modern style for those with money but a desperate hate of cluttering. The only decorations were some pictures on the wall, of a large variety of people ranging from family to friends, posing and smiling, and perhaps the occasional plant hanging from the ceiling or sitting on a flat space.
The apartment looked like a picture of what an apartment was supposed to be like and could be, if the people who lived there never touched anything and, best scenario, didn’t live there at all to taint the picture with a real human touch.
The bedrooms weren’t much better, taking up much of the second floor and next to the study (primarily hers, since he rarely needed to work long hours on a computer) and the bath-based bathroom. The larger of the two was even more spartan than the downstairs rooms, consisting only of a black and white bed, pale hard wood floors, a black dresser with a mirror, a nightstand, and a black desk holding a laptop (also black). The walls were white, the curtains, thick black ones that were designed to block sunlight if they needed to, generally were pulled and blocked the hallway leading to the small deck.
The other one was better, but not by much. She had gone with more color, blues, browns, and some reds, in addition to the black and white. Her lights looked almost organic, a bronze twisting made to look like vines and leaves, with a light fixture almost like a flower. But the amount of furniture she had was the same, in browns or blue instead of black, with one notable difference: the bookshelf. It sat on the wall connecting to her study, filled with books of various sizes. Many looked like photo albums, thick spines with pretty, fanciful designs, and the bottom shelf was entirely of folders packed to the brim with newspaper clippings.
It was a nice apartment. However, it was an apartment without soul, and without a human touch involved. Even the pictures, on the surface and taken in context, looked fake, only put up because someone wanted to hide the soullessness of the apartment.
It didn’t work.
What this apartment told the world is that the people who lived in it didn’t actually live there very often. It went beyond neat; it was unlived in. The furniture was good, the sleek modern style for those with money but a desperate hate of cluttering. The only decorations were some pictures on the wall, of a large variety of people ranging from family to friends, posing and smiling, and perhaps the occasional plant hanging from the ceiling or sitting on a flat space.
The apartment looked like a picture of what an apartment was supposed to be like and could be, if the people who lived there never touched anything and, best scenario, didn’t live there at all to taint the picture with a real human touch.
The bedrooms weren’t much better, taking up much of the second floor and next to the study (primarily hers, since he rarely needed to work long hours on a computer) and the bath-based bathroom. The larger of the two was even more spartan than the downstairs rooms, consisting only of a black and white bed, pale hard wood floors, a black dresser with a mirror, a nightstand, and a black desk holding a laptop (also black). The walls were white, the curtains, thick black ones that were designed to block sunlight if they needed to, generally were pulled and blocked the hallway leading to the small deck.
The other one was better, but not by much. She had gone with more color, blues, browns, and some reds, in addition to the black and white. Her lights looked almost organic, a bronze twisting made to look like vines and leaves, with a light fixture almost like a flower. But the amount of furniture she had was the same, in browns or blue instead of black, with one notable difference: the bookshelf. It sat on the wall connecting to her study, filled with books of various sizes. Many looked like photo albums, thick spines with pretty, fanciful designs, and the bottom shelf was entirely of folders packed to the brim with newspaper clippings.
It was a nice apartment. However, it was an apartment without soul, and without a human touch involved. Even the pictures, on the surface and taken in context, looked fake, only put up because someone wanted to hide the soullessness of the apartment.
It didn’t work.