The room was desolate, just a barren waste-land entombed within four walls.
Sorrow and gloom have mute conversations with one another.
Depression wraps itself around one's throat as they enter this depressive Hell.
Pain, sorrow, and lost love is the only things that inhabit this cell.
Unless you call the shell of a man sitting in a corner, rocking to and fro, living.
A lone temptress sits upon a rack on one wall.
The barrel and trigger cast alluring glances at the poor soul in his wretched corner.
He reaches out for this salvation, but shrinks back in cowardice, afraid of the bitter-sweet relief.
Every day the temptress tempts him with her assets.
Each day he gives in just a little more.
Then one day, depression chokes the final breath from him.
In one torrent of emotion, a sound splits the air, making depression shrink back into the shadows.
A sickening thud echoes in the room, then silence....
The smell of gun powder, lays heavy in the air.