The year is 1981. Arthur came home from work, lazily dragging his feet down the hall to his apartment. He felt tired, the weight on his shoulders felt especially heavier today, unable to draw his thoughts away from the nagging negativity eating at his heart and soul.

He unlocks his door with a gentle click, being greeted by his cold apartment — Things felt bleak here ever since his mother died (Or, ever since he killed her) She was always in the apartment one way or another, always having the TV on playing some slapstick sitcom, or keeping the warm lamps on... And now it just looked... cold. It left a bitter taste in Arthur's mouth, more angry than upset — He was frustrated, with every right so to be he would assume. She was a liar in his eyes, and had wronged him.

He closed the apartment door, swaying on his frail legs before shuffling his feet, hanging his wet coat up on the small hook by the kitchenette doorway. Though he's jolted from his mundane trance, physically flinching as a knock comes from the apartment door beside him.