Sadness breaks through the fragile glass of his soul. A sorrow so deep, so black and so painful that the scar will never heal, and the blood never stop pouring. He walks down the wooden stairs, painted white with linoleum. His mind is heavy with the normal burdens of schoolwork and high school love. The floor stones are tediously grey and arranged in a monotonous pattern, filling the staircase. An ivory knob attached to an ebony door is slowly turned. A smell of agony dances a morbid dance with his nose. The door is opened, slowly, with the fearful care that only imminent dread can bring. A fog machine sprays his mind with the darkest mist. In a comfortable chair, wrapped in red linen, a man sits with glass-opened eyes. In one hand a half-filled glass of poisonous scotch, and in his other the permitted last cigarette. On his mouth a peaceful smile. A mind is broken, a heart is shattered, a soul in a thousand pieces. His mom passed away last winter, but his father sits right here.
A bottle of bailey by the swing of a hand. One more, two or three! All by his demand. His mind is a fog of forgetting the pain; his soul is as rotten as the cause of his name. His hopes long forgotten, his wishes in vain. His clouded mind focused. Forgetting the pain. He seeks to fill the emptiness, that loosing left behind. He seeks to clean with alcohol, to clear away his mind. And in the haze of despairing rage, he clears away the blood. His heart is pumping with woeful strength, his life by now forgot.