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Description
Hope and Power

A dim light hanging from the ceiling was the only light source illuminating the room. Mystical trophies adorned the black walls, giving the feel of a certainly powerful force. An old worn couch lay off to the west wall under the protruding head of a goat, while the north wall secured a crystal clear glass table under an old wooden staircase. The glass table gave a perturbing memory to the room; it didn’t belong. It was the diamond in the ruff, the pearl in the sea, the one in a million, yet the worth of it still remained a dime a dozen; and yet, it was the most important thing in a world. Who ever thought such a simple object could hold such meaning? This table holds secrets; it tells stories. The concentrated scratches furbishing one end of the table each tell a story; a story of a razor, a straw and a fine white powder. Each told a story of insecurity, rebellion, and most of all, escape. It took people soaring to another world; a world in which no one cared and everyone felt fine, a cloud nine, per se. And on this particular day, this is exactly what was taking place. A man sitting on his knees, in front of the table, made small scratches at the table as he gathered a fine white powder into a line. After he was satisfied with his work, he took his praise by sniffing the powder deep into his nose with a clear short straw. Instantly, a nirvana overtook him and he fell to the floor. Strange thoughts ran through his mind, tainting him with crazy ideas and meaningless thoughts. Soon, he began playing with his tools, reminiscing pain and suicide thoughts. His fingers seductively ran along the blade, dancing on its tip ever so lightly until he accidentally pressed too hard. A drop of blood slowly ran down his finger, sliding lightly down defined skin when it was caught by his tongue. He savored the taste, making sure to get every drop of the dark red fluid. Finally, the blood had stopped flowing from the small gash in his finger; however, he still wanted more. Again, he took the blade, but not to his finger, but to the lighter side of his arm just below his hand. Quickly, the blade went deep into his arm and cut down to near his elbow, exposing vein and muscle. He began sucking on his own wound uncontrollably, attempting to drink every drop but the blood was too fast for him; it poured out in buckets, shooting every which way it could. It was not long to when he began to feel light headed from the loss of blood and not much longer till he fainted from such an extreme loss. Who ever thought such a small item, such as the fine white powder, could contain so much power?

Yes, there was no hope for this one.

Description
Hope and Power

A dim light hanging from the ceiling was the only light source illuminating the room. Mystical trophies adorned the black walls, giving the feel of a certainly powerful force. An old worn couch lay off to the west wall under the protruding head of a goat, while the north wall secured a crystal clear glass table under an old wooden staircase. The glass table gave a perturbing memory to the room; it didn’t belong. It was the diamond in the ruff, the pearl in the sea, the one in a million, yet the worth of it still remained a dime a dozen; and yet, it was the most important thing in a world. Who ever thought such a simple object could hold such meaning? This table holds secrets; it tells stories. The concentrated scratches furbishing one end of the table each tell a story; a story of a razor, a straw and a fine white powder. Each told a story of insecurity, rebellion, and most of all, escape. It took people soaring to another world; a world in which no one cared and everyone felt fine, a cloud nine, per se. And on this particular day, this is exactly what was taking place. A man sitting on his knees, in front of the table, made small scratches at the table as he gathered a fine white powder into a line. After he was satisfied with his work, he took his praise by sniffing the powder deep into his nose with a clear short straw. Instantly, a nirvana overtook him and he fell to the floor. Strange thoughts ran through his mind, tainting him with crazy ideas and meaningless thoughts. Soon, he began playing with his tools, reminiscing pain and suicide thoughts. His fingers seductively ran along the blade, dancing on its tip ever so lightly until he accidentally pressed too hard. A drop of blood slowly ran down his finger, sliding lightly down defined skin when it was caught by his tongue. He savored the taste, making sure to get every drop of the dark red fluid. Finally, the blood had stopped flowing from the small gash in his finger; however, he still wanted more. Again, he took the blade, but not to his finger, but to the lighter side of his arm just below his hand. Quickly, the blade went deep into his arm and cut down to near his elbow, exposing vein and muscle. He began sucking on his own wound uncontrollably, attempting to drink every drop but the blood was too fast for him; it poured out in buckets, shooting every which way it could. It was not long to when he began to feel light headed from the loss of blood and not much longer till he fainted from such an extreme loss. Who ever thought such a small item, such as the fine white powder, could contain so much power?

Yes, there was no hope for this one.