Words are, of course, the most powerful drug used by mankind.
- Rudyard Kipling

When Blaine awoke the next morning, nothing seemed out of place. He climbed out of bed, wiping sleep from his eyes and stretching.

He looked over at his worn wardrobe to the right of his bed; he would wear the same thing he wore every day of his life. Black slacks, a button up white shirt, and a nametag. In the working world, it was widely known that names were not something to waste words on. Instead, they were written clearly on silver, government issued nametags.

He groggily got himself out of bed, and within minutes he had successfully managed to clothe himself despite his sleepy state.

Today was scheduled to go the same way as every other day. Wake up, get ready, work, come home, sleep. Every single week was identical to the one before it: as simple and easy as it could get.

However, Blaine often found himself growing bored with the rinse and repeat lifestyle. He remembered back when he was young, dreaming of having enough money to buy himself all the words he wanted. He could talk, he could tell stories, he could even be a singer.

Of course, singers were a far cry from what they used to be. Instead of performing live, singers would record their song once and then lip-sync it for the rest of their lives. This way, they used the least amount of words.

But Blaine had dreamed of being a real singer, writing songs and singing them live every time, adding his own flare into each performance.

In reality, he wasn't even sure he was any good at music. He'd never had enough money to buy himself an instrument, and he'd never sung a note in his life. Truthfully, he couldn't even read music.

With that sad memory in his mind, Blaine exited his small apartment and headed down the block to the library.

When he walked, Blaine typically found himself stuck in his head. He was used to the silence that perforated the streets. In richer districts, the air was filled with free talk full of how are you's and I love your sweater's. In the poorer districts, all that was to be heard was the quiet shuffling of feet. However, today the silence was interrupted by a sharp, mechanical cry.

A man was standing across the street with a megaphone in his hand, underneath a sign that read "Free Our Words." Blaine had heard of such activists before, but this was his first experience seeing one.

There were many activists who opposed the style of living that existed. The rich could talk freely, and the poor couldn't talk at all. This led to all different kinds of issues. The rich controlled the majority of government, and those lower class officials that did make it couldn't speak enough to make their ideas heard.

So there rose a certain group of activists who would protest the government on public squares. Blaine looked around; there were numerous scared looking citizens on the street that had an expression of fright on their faces, which he was sure he shared. They all knew what this protestor planned to do.

He was going to break the law through the direct opposition of the government, and then escape arrest by speaking past his word count.

"The government is run by the rich! The only reason the operation isn't given to every citizen is because then the poor would have a voice! Well I am the voice of the poor!" He screamed into the megaphone.

There was a look of unrest on the street, not out of disagreement with the activist but in fear of being linked to him. People hurriedly walked to their jobs, avoiding eye contact as much as possible.

Blaine suddenly found himself alone on the street, staring at the activist as he screamed about the government. He felt as if he should leave, to just get to the library where it was safe. But there was a small part of him that was curious. It took him a few seconds to realize that there in fact was another man about fifty feet to his left.

Instead of looking scared like the rest, this man looked angry. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver rectangular box. A cell phone. This man was rich. Blaine knew what the man was doing without having to ask. He was calling the police.

Within minutes, police cars swarmed the square. The protestor looked surprised and caught the eyes of the man across the street. He lifted the megaphone to his lips, offering one last cry.

"Why, Kurt?" He yelled, anger evident in his voice, "if I want to die for this cause, I will!"

The man, supposedly named Kurt, just shook his head. The police struggled as they got the man into the vehicle, placing a sort of muzzle over his mouth to prevent him from speaking. Whether they were trying to save his life or prevent his powerful words, Blaine did not know.

When the police vans finally began to roll away, Kurt began to scan the street. When he caught eyes with Blaine, Blaine found himself suddenly out of breath.

Kurt was, without a doubt, the most beautiful man he had ever seen. His face was structured, his eyes piercing. Blaine found himself unable to look away, even though Kurt's expression was a curious one.

Blaine knew where this would lead, and quickly walked in the other direction towards the library. Kurt would assume that since he had remained on the street to watch that he was also an activist, and report him. Either that, or he would attempt to start a conversation.

Either way, both were deadly.

Once Blaine arrived inside the library, he let out a sigh of relief.

In all honesty, his worry was not that the man would have started a conversation with him, because why would he? Blaine was just a simple, poor man with nothing exciting about him. His true fear was that he himself would have tried to start a conversation.

Seeing Kurt, seeing the most handsome man he had ever seen, was the first time in eight years that he had felt the urge to say wasteful words. For eight entire years, he had stopped himself from speaking what was unnecessary, and, so he thought, eradicated the desire to ever do so.

But now, there was one word that plagued his mind. One word that made him want to run out of the library and find Kurt, to scream it on the top of his lungs and whisper it in his ear at the same time. One single word to waste, one that would indubitably lead to his demise.

Hello.