Blood

The sound was insignificant - a nondescript plop. Much like the sound that a warm bottle of soda makes when it is opened. And, well, honestly what followed was also not much different - a little hiss, vapor rising and then the soda overflowing on the hand - vaguely cold and occasionally sticky. The after-effects differed - if it was some cheap ripoff local concoction, then the pot was throne over the next couple of days, and if it was some decent stuff then it filled the belly with enough gas to manage a strong imitation of the wind section of an orchestra. Smelly, but with practice it could sound good.

He caressed the metal. Oddly enough, it did not feel cold like they said in the books. It felt warm - not the warmth of freshly baked bread, but more like the warmth of a fever. Fever wasn't meant to be comfortable - it was sickness and one, obviously felt, nauseated, but the warmth of the metal was strangely comforting. Maybe it wasn't the warmth, maybe it was the what lay ahead. The polished metal shone with a dully under the single naked tungsten light, reflecting the featureless and peeling green paint on the walls. He looked up at the window as the sun set in a blaze casting the dying orange glow into the room.

"Good..."

He pulled the trigger and splattered the walls with his brains. The single red rose on the floor started turning a strange shade of crimson with his blood.