-The Smoking Gun-

The room was pitch black. The foul stench of burned plastic as hanging in the air and would probably not leave for a few weeks. In the chair in front of a desk was a boy, no older than 17. He sat gazing, open-eyed towards the ceiling. His laptop lay open in front of him, but it looked more like a picture from a horror film because of the tangled mass of wire and metal that was settled in a heap where a keyboard use to lay. The monitor was black as death. It would never hum to life ever again and would be sent to the dump days later. The only sound in the room was the slight sound of breathing and the only movement was the slight rising and falling of the boy's chest cavity. As a car pulled into the driveway, the high beams briefly illuminated the room, revealing countless cans scattered across the floor. One can was slowly leaking the remains of its contents. It crawled across the floor as if trying to find a way out. Then slowly, ever so slowly, it was absorbed by the carpet on which it stood.