"Come on, gather your papers and leave my office immediately."
Those words were enough to tear apart what remained of my pride.
They were spoken by that middle-aged man, the manager under whom I had served for years, with a tone of disgust so clear he didn't bother hiding it.
"Okay, okay."
I replied with a faint smile, despite the deep sorrow crushing my heart.
I'm the kind of person who covers up pain and disappointment with a fake smile, always trying to convince myself that there's nothing to worry about and that everything will be fine in the end.
I carried a cardboard box filled to the brim with years of work that suddenly felt worthless and headed for the door.
Every step I took outside the office felt like a cold stab to the soul. When I reached the outside of the building, I stopped and looked around.
To my right, there was a large garbage container. Without hesitation, I walked over and threw the box, along with all the memories and past achievements it contained, into it—a symbolic gesture to end it all.
After emptying the box, I clapped my hands hard to remove the dust from the papers, as if I were brushing away the dust of all the years gone by.
"What a day..." I sighed bitterly, whispering to myself, "Tomorrow will probably be worse."
I started heading home, carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders. I opened the door to my apartment, greeted by a foul, familiar smell—a mix of dampness and probably rotting food.
But I was too exhausted and numb to care. I entered and closed the door behind me with my foot, leaving my shoes outside at the entrance.
I went straight to the fridge, which was humming faintly, and opened it.
I took out the last cold can of beer I had and went to sit on the worn-out couch in the middle of the living room.
I grabbed my phone and played some very soft music, perhaps to calm the storm raging in my head.
I began sipping the beer slowly, sinking into a sea of memories rushing through my mind…
I remembered James, the boy who was once kind-hearted and handsome. The boy who studied hard despite his family's miserable situation and constant problems that never ended. I didn't give up back then.
I truly believed that things would eventually turn out well after I got my university degree. But after graduation, the real struggle for work began.
Two full years passed in a blink of an eye—two years in which I couldn't use my degree, two years of constant rejection and patience wearing thin…
Our country was corrupt to the core. There were no real jobs, corruption was rampant, poverty was devouring people's bodies, and problems were endless. But I didn't give up.
I worked in many part-time jobs, from washing dishes to delivering orders, just to stay alive and save a little for my family.
Then one day, the miracle I had been waiting for happened.
I was accepted into a large, even massive company: "Everest Engineering." It was a company specializing in infrastructure projects and advanced engineering.
Being accepted there was a golden opportunity to change my life in a country that seemed to swallow my ambitions whole. I felt that I would finally start reaping the rewards of my efforts.
I worked at Everest for five full years. I gave my all, worked long hours, yet I received not a single promotion. My salary remained fixed at $500 a month.
That amount wasn't enough even for mid-month, let alone the end. Life was getting harder, and I had no choice but to borrow money to cover my basic expenses and send a portion to my family.
I would start the month with $500 and end up owing another $500. A vicious, endless cycle of poverty and debt.
I finished the last can of beer and put my hands on my forehead, trying to push away the painful memories. This was the fate I had been running from all my life—and now I was drowning in it.
"Ring… ring…"
The sound of my phone cut through my dark thoughts. I looked at the screen—"Emily" lit up in the dim light. I answered, trying to make my voice sound natural:
"Hello, my love, how are you?"
Emily. My girlfriend for six years. We met at university, and our relationship developed from mere classmates to lovers planning a shared future.
She was the only hope left for me in this miserable life.
But her voice from the phone wasn't the warm, familiar voice I knew—it was cold, mechanical, and laced with an arrogance I had never heard before:
"Listen, James, I can't continue my life with someone like you."
Blood froze in my veins. "Someone like me"? What did she mean by "someone like me"? Before I could process the shock or speak a word, she continued with chilling indifference:
"Anyway… goodbye. In two months, I'll invite you to my wedding."
She hung up without giving me a chance to speak or explain, leaving behind a silence heavier than lead. I stared at the phone in total shock.
In just a few hours, I had lost my job, my dignity, and now the only love I lived for. The last piece of hope inside me was shattered.
Thunk!
My phone slipped from my hands to the floor. I felt as if the world was spinning around me, waves of shock hitting me hard. But the silence didn't last long—my phone rang again, its faint sound cutting through the fog in my mind.
I bent down and picked it up. I didn't recognize the number. I answered in disbelief:
"Hello…?"
"Hello, are you Helen's son?" said a man's voice on the other end.
"Yes, that's me. What is it?" I asked, my heart pounding like lightning. I no longer knew which disaster to mourn—the breakup with Emily or the mysterious call about my mother. My heart felt like it was being torn apart.
"This is a doctor from St. Thomas Hospital."
"Yes! What happened?" I asked, panic overtaking me.
"The important thing… your mother died in a car accident a few hours ago," the doctor said, his voice filled with sorrow and sympathy.
The phone fell from my hands again, but this time it wasn't just the phone—my knees gave out, and my body could no longer support me.
"Oh my God… my mother is dead? I must be dreaming… yes, I'm dreaming!" I muttered, gasping for any glimmer of hope to tell me this nightmare would end.
But the truth was harsh: my mother was gone, leaving me alone in this cruel world.
I stood up quickly, a manic force driving me toward the door. I opened it and dashed outside, running as fast as I could. I couldn't believe the doctor's words. My mind refused to accept the reality.
I ran, increasing my speed, gasping, sweat streaming down my forehead. I was living true hell in my head, thinking of my mother and pushing myself to the limit.
I reached a crowded street, but I didn't stop. I dodged people, fell, got back up, and kept running. People stared at me, but I paid no attention, my thoughts racing.
How will I live without my mother? I must be dreaming… yes, I'm dreaming! Run, James, run! God, save my mother! Mom, please!
I reached the hospital and hurried inside, shouting her name.
"What's wrong, sir? Breathe, relax," a nurse said, trying to calm me, but I couldn't. I heard nothing but the sound of my heart pounding violently.
"Helen… Helen Rohan! Is there anyone here by that name? Was there a car accident?" I asked rapidly, desperate for a glimmer of hope.
The nurse was saddened by the sight. Yes, many people die every day, many cry before her—but for the first time, she saw this scene.
The young man in front of her was panting heavily, trembling uncontrollably, eyes filled with deep sadness and unrestrained anxiety.
His body was unstable, leaning forward as if about to collapse at any moment.
The nurse grabbed him gently and said, "Take it easy…"
But James' voice was calm, devoid of any emotion: "Take me to my mother."
"Follow me…" said the nurse, holding his hand.
James didn't resist. He followed silently, his eyes lifeless, as if dead inside. The whites of his eyes had turned red, as if bleeding.
They reached a room marked in bold letters: Morgue. James stared at the sign, feeling his worst fears had become reality.
He followed the nurse coldly, who stopped at a particular bed. She looked at several beds, then called, "James, here."
He approached and stood in front of a body wrapped in white linen. He reached out and removed part of the linen from the face.
His heart raced, sweat pouring down as if rain. She was an elderly woman in her sixties, her face covered in blood, yet her features were still recognizable.
James stared at the body with cold eyes, without a single tear. He couldn't cry or even scream.
The pain was too great for his emotions to express. He had lost the last hope in this life.
He knelt beside his mother, kissed her forehead, and carefully replaced the white linen.
Then he walked calmly and steadily out of the room, a faint, fleeting smile crossing his face, disappearing as quickly as it appeared.
The nurse froze in place, eyes following his back in absolute astonishment. She whispered to herself, "He… is smiling."
James walked out of the hospital, a deadly silence engulfing his mind and heart. Everything inside him had stopped functioning.
Only his legs moved slowly, his body swaying left and right like a machine, devoid of any sense of reality.
He reached home around eight in the evening. The door was slightly open.
He entered quietly and sat on the worn-out couch in the middle of the room, as if returning from a normal stroll rather than emerging from a hell where he had lost everything.
"What will you do now, James? Your job is gone, your mother is gone, your love and a part of your heart will marry someone else. Speak, James, what will we do now?"
James spoke in a soft, barely audible voice, his cold eyes staring into emptiness: "I know what I'll do… I'll follow them."
He walked to the kitchen with slow, heavy steps. He reached it easily since the apartment was very small and cramped.
He scanned the kitchen until his eyes fell on a long knife, about thirty centimeters in length.
He picked it up, staring at it intently. The blade gleamed sharply in the dim light, reflecting the despair in his eyes.
After a few moments, he headed back to the living room, gripping the handle tightly.
James sat on the couch, darkness filling the room and consuming his soul.
The weight on his chest was unbearable, as if the entire world pressed down on him. He remembered the harsh words, empty stares, the failure that followed him at every step.
He held the cold metal knife in his hand, reflecting the chill of despair in his heart.
For a moment, he hesitated, recalling a distant memory of laughter, a beloved face—but the darkness was stronger. The voice of hope inside him was stifled.
There was no escape, no place to run. No tears, only a deep void and a cold sting on his skin.
James drove the knife repeatedly into his neck, smiling a strange smile, neither of pain nor fear. With every stab, blood splattered chaotically, covering his face, hands, and clothes completely.
His breaths weakened, mixed with short, broken laughter, until his body gradually collapsed to the floor, motionless, the faint smile lingering on his face as if his final mockery to this world.