Descriptive Essay About The Poison Room

“I’ll never hit you in the face where it will leave a mark...” The words rushed in, taunting. The cold emptiness in the tone, like he was there in the room, whispering in her ear. And all at once, the fear was back. The raw fear that gripped her body like a vice and left her gulping in air. In a panic, she whirled her head around the room. She was alone. Relief flooded her, but the sickening butterflies remained. She gripped the counter until her knuckles turned white; outlining the jagged scar more prominently, and she fought to steady her breathing, blink back the tears, focus on something else.

Suddenly the growling was even more intense. It was menacing. Turning around thorough the glass window and darkness of night Caroline saw a pair of icy blue illuminating eyes staring back at her. Before she could calculate what was going on a large black wolf came through the glass window shattering it and a sharp pain dug in her neck and every thing went black.

Her lips formed strange and unusual sounds, her eyes closed softly and her cheeks paled. From her side belt she withdrew a small knife, a dagger. With a quick movement she cut her left hand with the dagger. As the drops of blood hit the cold marble floor the knife also clattered to the ground. The girl remained speaking her foreign tongue and let her life's blood run down her outstretched arm.

She whipped her eyes towards him, but suddenly lurched and fell to the ground. The world slowed, she felt something warm and sticky pool around her. She had managed to turn her head in his direction, only then seeing the enemy army that had caught up with them. One knight savaged her son with his sword and then discarded his body. She tried to reach him, but a spear protruding from her back weighed her down. Then she saw us again, watched as the way the enemy avoided us . She felt cold, knowing her time had come , she looked right in my eyes as her life thread was cut. The end frayed as her body slumped to the ground, but it didn’t matter. She was one insignificant life that we had

First came the pride, an overwhelming sense of achievement, an accomplishment due to great ambition, but slowly and enduringly surged a world of guilt and confusion, the conscience which I once thought diminished, began to grow, soon defeating the title and its rewards. Slowly the unforgotten memories from that merciless night overcame me and I succumbed to the incessant and horrific images, the bloody dagger, a lifeless corpse. I wash, I scrub, I tear at the flesh on my hands, trying desperately to cleanse myself of the blood. But the filthy witness remains, stained, never to be removed.

A trickle of fear had her lying motionless with her eyes closed, straining to hear the slightest noise. A deep sigh of regret and the pressure of a body by her side made her acutely aware that she wasn’t alone.

Slowly, I awoke to see looming trees all around me, bending over me, watching. Listening. They heard the screams, they heard my screams, I was still screaming. I clamped a trembling hand down over my mouth to only realize it was closed, my lips rolled in. And then thick as velvet. The blood pooled.

The theme of The Poisoner's Handbook: Murder and the Birth of Forensic Medicine in Jazz Age New York is: there are many ethical, social, and medical issues surrounding advancements in science. The following quote supports this theme because it demonstrates to social issues in the New York political system. The coroners were hand chosen by a city’s mayor; typically the mayors chose a political friend or ally to occupy the coroner’s office, rather than a medically trained individual. Thanks to shady, ill-informed, untrained, and occasionally drunk coroners, murderers continually walked free. In the subsequent case, the Mors murder case, the coroner’s misinformation resulted in a lack of evidence

Smooth, thin, and cold, the sharp object lying in her hands trembled due to her petite quivering fingers. The unforgiving sharp blade effortlessly sliced through her skin, pain and then numbness overshadowed her thoughts. With the world weighing down on her shoulders and with the sense of oppression, the girl carved into her arm without a feeling of regret. Daring, she placed the knife parallel to her veins located under her thin pasty skin. Finally, with resolution, digging the knife into her small arm, the young tortured girl could feel the deadly weapon tearing and mutilating her long tender veins. Gasping for breath, the pain surged throughout her body. However, with agony coursing through her body, the victim would not stop her leisurely stroll to the grave.

Eyes closed, hands clasped, feet placed together, she looks almost peaceful... But there is nothing peaceful about her death. The angry red lacerations that decorate her neck, highlight her struggle. As I continue to gaze upon the victim, I can’t help shake this familiar feeling.

First came the pride, an overwhelming sense of achievement, an accomplishment due to great ambition, but slowly and enduringly surged a world of guilt and confusion, the conscience which I once thought diminished, began to grow, soon defeating the title and its rewards. Slowly the unforgotten memories from that merciless night overcame me and I succumbed to the incessant and horrific images, the bloody dagger, a lifeless corpse. I wash, I scrub, I tear at the flesh on my hands, trying desperately to cleanse myself of the blood. But the filthy witness remains, stained, never to be removed.

Purple bruises were scattered across her frail wrist like grotesque, swollen beetles. Her knee jutted out awkwardly to her side. Her bleeding, cracked lips were shrunken to a tiny buttonhole. Her tongue stuck out between her teeth like a piece of rubber. Her eyelids fluttered feebly as she lay there - defeated, defenseless, and desolate. Her chest heaved up and down, as her lungs fought for breath – she was barely alive. A caked, muddy trail of shoeprints followed him out the door. He had gotten away again. Tears prickled at the back of my eyes. My throat swelled up as my steely resolve began to dissolve. Grief shook my shoulders like an inner earthquake, the world around me crashing down. A nauseating mixture of relief and horror clenched tightly onto my loins – like when you finally stop an itch, only to realize that you’ve ripped a hole in your

‘A time comes in the life of the most wretched when they do realize their mistakes and tries penance in their own way. Once I been attacked by influenza and having a high temperature, the animal instincts of my step father forced himself on me, right before my mother. I pleaded with my folded hands to let me be spared, I requested my mother to help me in relieving from the predator as my condition doesn’t permit to be his partner. My mother asked my step father to free me, when the words of my mother didn’t move him, she brought out a sword and to intimidate him flashed in the air, but the tip of the sword cuts off the veins of his neck and he fell down on me, killing him instantly, the blood oozing out profusely, drenched me fully. Horror

I still was upset, but I wasn’t outraged like I had been. She got out of the car and trotted her way over to where I was sitting. We sat in silence for a good ten minutes. Then i asked as calmly as I could, why did you do it. She didn't reply. I asked again. And she still didn't reply. That's when i got really mad. I grabbed her by her arms and was shaking her and yelling. I couldn't control myself. I threw her to the ground and went to grab my knife out of my truck. I couldn't stop myself, even if i tried. I went back and she was sitting there crying, bawling her eyes out. I grabbed her by her hair and shaved her face into the concrete. I started stabbing her repeatedly over and over again. I couldn't stop. I had blood all over me. I remember her crying and trying to yell for help, but you could barely hear anything from her. When i finally stopped, she was dead. I couldn't believe what i had done. I don't feel any remorse from it at all. I miss her, but she had it coming. I threw her body into the river. I couldn't clean the blood off my clothes, so i just changed into something i had in the truck and

Blood dripped from my knife as I grasped the leather wrapped handle, my hand seemingly frozen. I couldn't bring myself to move my arm or look away. "Did I do this? What have I done? Who am I?" Paralyzed as the crimson liquid built up at the tip of the bright blade, then fell, as if in slow motion. I was snapped from my trance as the glimmering droplet spattered on the dry, hard, dirt. "Who are you. The girl you used to be wouldn't be so heartless." Quickly I snatched up the hem of my tattered, brown cloak. Urgently wiping away the blood, as if that could wipe away the pain, the thoughts, the memories.... "That's not who you are know! She was weak and valuable." I quickly turned and walked swiftly