Through the hazy smoke-filled room, blue tinted people were everywhere. They were kissing each other drunkenly, throwing up, half clothed and lying on the floor. Suddenly, a movement broke up the calm. It was an arm, his arm. He was sitting on an orange couch, next to a couple who had passed out on top of each other. His face was barely visible, due to the many wine bottles on the cracked glass coffee table in front of him. He was smoking a cigarette, concentrating on sucking in the drags deeply, his cheekbones protruding. He had sad, downward slanted eyes, that looked slightly too large for his face. Through the blue smoke, his week-old stubble could barely be seen, creating a shadow on his chin and jaw. His long black hair was carelessly tousled looking, in a way that could be mistaken for purposeful styling. He exhaled a long line of smoke, and his features were momentarily undeterminable again. He rolled his shoulders, arched his fine neck, and reaching up with his right hand, ran his fingers through his hair. Sighing, he threw the still-burning cigarette in a blue wine bottle and stood up, stretching. He picked his way through the drunken bodies, lovers, and passed out people with syringes still in their hands. He ended up by the window. Nervously, almost surprisingly, his eyes darted in a way that seemed uncharacteristically frantic. He squeezed his heavily lidded eyes together. Sinking slowly to perch on the sill, he opened his eyes and pulled back a deep-purple curtain with his right hand, a beam of light hit his face and his pupils dilated quickly, consuming almost all of the green of his iris. Deep shadows were carved under his eyes, which made his angular features almost dangerous looking. To look at him now, it could be wondered if he wasn’t some sort of primal animal, fierce and rugged. Whether the light was from pub signs blazing neon, or the moon, it was surely not from the stars, as they don’t shine in a city like this. He tilted his head wonderingly, shifting the light to shine fully upon his face, illuminating it. Almost as furiously as he had turned animalistic, he appeared innocent. He pursed his lips and closed the curtain, leaving only a sliver of light shining. He ubuttoned his red and black plaid shirt. His eyes were averted, looking at his leather oxfords. As the light caught his right wrist, his palm facing downward, his eyes slowly, almost reluctantly, moved towards where the light shone upon his arm. In a controlled manner, he slowly turned over his hand. Silvery stripes traveled up and down his wrist, tracing veins. They were delicate and eerily beautiful. Using his left hand, he pulled back his sleeve, the movement of his elbow pushed back the curtain, releasing more light. As his sleeve travelled further back, the fragile silver streams turned into rough jagged rivers. When he was consumed fully by the light, it could be seen that he was trembling, looking upon his marred arm with fascination and horror. He started gasping, shoving his sleeve back over his arm, and the curtains fell closed as his arm no longer supported them. He looked exhausted, and sank down to the floor. He gingerly picked up a syringe from the person next to him. He held it up next to the candle on the floor beside him, stuck fast to the floor with melted wax that had long dried and caked upon itself. The syringe was half filled with a yellowish liquid. Clenching his jaw, he rolled up his sleeve quickly, and like many times before, released the contents into his veins. He slumped over onto the body beside him. He was just like all of them now.