CHAPTER 1:
The chandeliers burned cold overhead, their crystal teardrops scattering light across faces that smiled without meaning it. Another wedding. Another celebration of love destined to rot into resentment and quiet hatred.
Ayronee sat at table fourteen—far enough to be forgotten, close enough to be obligated. Twenty-seven and feeling ancient. The suit didn't fit anymore. Stress had carved him hollow in some places, drinking had filled him out in others. His plate held rubber chicken he wasn't eating, vegetables he pushed around like chess pieces in a game already lost.
He'd been calculating. Not wedding thoughts of romance or joy or even acceptable cynicism about divorce rates. No—he'd been measuring the building's height. Forty feet to the parking lot. Terminal velocity of a human body. The precise angle needed to ensure it ended quickly.
Normal wedding thoughts.
"So! How are you, dear cousin?"
The voice cut through his calculations like broken glass through silk. Ayronee looked up to find them—Cousins Dmitri and Julian, their faces arranged in expressions of concern that fooled no one.
Dmitri was the older one. Thirty-two, successful, the kind of man who measured his worth in promotions and property. His smile had edges.
"I heard you passed the exam for officer in the military?" Dmitri continued, his voice dripping with something that wanted to be sympathy but came out as satisfaction. "How did the final interview go?"
They knew. They always knew. That was the fun part for them—watching the prey realize the trap had already sprung.
"I'm doing okay." The lie tasted like copper. "Thanks for asking. Yes, I passed the exam. But I failed the final interview."
Let my grieving soul retire. Let me dissolve into the fucking carpet. Let me cease. Just let me cease.
Julian laughed—that particular pitch that sounds like concern but registers as mockery to anyone actually listening.
"Aww! That's devastating, man. Better luck next time!" His pause carried weight. "If there is a next time. I mean, how many chances does one guy get before he accepts that maybe this isn't for him?"
Ayronee smiled with his mouth while his eyes stayed dead. "Yeah, right. I'll do better next time for sure."
Says the guy who bribed his way into service. Says the guy whose father made calls. Says the guy who's never earned a single fucking thing in his privileged, trust-fund life. I hope your car flips. I hope your wife's fucking your best friend. I hope your kids grow up to hate you.
"Yeah, well," Dmitri cut in, his tone shifting to something that pretended to be advice. "Maybe next time, do your best to pass a simple job interview. I mean, it's not rocket science. My nephew passed it, and he's borderline illiterate." He laughed at his own joke. "We'd better get going. You know—careers to focus on."
The gesture he made toward Ayronee encompassed everything—his cheap suit, his empty plate, his hollow eyes, his entire existence reduced to a situation that required addressing at family gatherings and nowhere else.
Julian clapped him on the shoulder—that particular kind of touch that feels like both dismissal and threat. "It's okay, Ayronee. Really. You'll be successful someday. I'm the same as you—perfectly average!" The wink had all the sincerity of a campaign promise. "Anyway, I'm always rooting for you, cousin. See ya!"
"Yeah. Thanks for the advice. Enjoy your night."
His smile was a wound that wouldn't stop bleeding.
This is why I hate attending events with my family. They're always busy with work until they need a cautionary tale. "Don't end up like Ayronee." "Study hard or you'll be like Ayronee." "At least you have ambition, unlike Ayronee." I hope they love watching their son being mocked. I hope they're proud. I hope they fucking choke on it.
The whiskey burned going down. Good. It felt like something. The second glass burned less. The third went down smooth as the lies his relatives told themselves about being good people.
The bartender didn't judge—good bartenders never do. They've seen every variety of human suffering reflected in the bottom of a glass. This was just one more.
"Still at it, huh?"
Ayronee didn't need to look to know it was Aunt Patricia. The voice alone—that particular combination of concern and condescension—was signature enough.
"You know, my son just got promoted again." She slid onto the stool beside him uninvited. "To senior management. He's only twenty-five. Twenty-five! Have you considered maybe... trying? Like, actually putting in effort?"
Like I haven't tried. Like every application, every interview, every desperate attempt to meet their impossible standards wasn't effort. Like trying and failing doesn't count as trying.
He said none of this. Just nodded. Drank. Let her words roll off him like water off stone—erosion so gradual you don't notice until the whole structure collapses.
Uncle Robert came next. "Still single at your age? Well, women like a man with ambition. And a job. And prospects. You know—standards. Have you considered lowering yours?"
Then Cousin Sarah, who'd peaked in high school and never quite recovered from the trajectory. "Saw you're not on social media anymore. Nothing to post about, right? No achievements, no girlfriend, no life. Hey, at least you're consistent!"
Then Great-Aunt Helen, who he barely knew but who somehow knew everything about him. "Your mother was crying at church last week. Praying for you. Praying you'd turn your life around. How you've failed them like this..."
Each word a bullet. Each sentence a knife. Each conversation a small death.
He endured it all. Kept drinking. Kept the façade up. Smiled when he wanted to scream. Nodded when he wanted to flip tables and set the building on fire. Laughed when he wanted to cry.
The alcohol helped. The numbness helped. The creeping, comforting certainty that this would all be over soon helped most of all.
"Mr. Bartender?" His voice came out steadier than he felt. "One more bottle. Brandy, please."
The bartender's eyes flickered—recognition passing across his face like a shadow. That look. That tone. That quiet desperation masquerading as calm. He'd seen this movie before. The ending never changed.
"Here you go, sir."
The bottle was heavy in Ayronee's hands. He opened it immediately, took a long pull while still at the bar. The burn was exquisite. A preview of what was coming.
"Ayronee!"
Joe and Riff materialized from the crowd like miracles he didn't deserve. His childhood friends. The only two people in this entire building who'd ever given a genuine shit about him.
Joe was stocky, solid, the kind of friend who'd break noses for you if you asked. Riff was taller, quieter, the one who'd help you bury the bodies after.
"We're getting you out of here," Joe said, his tone leaving no room for argument.
"The rooftop," Ayronee heard himself say. "I need air."
That word—need—hung between them. Too heavy. Too final.
But they followed anyway, because that's what friends do when they don't yet realize they're watching someone say goodbye.
The path to the elevators took them through the reception hall. Past tables of relatives whose conversations dropped to whispers as they passed, voices carrying just loud enough to be heard:
"He really doesn't have any future."
"That's why no woman wants him. Would you?"
"Look at him—almost wasted at a wedding. Classy."
"Sucks to be his friends. Why do they even bother?"
"If I were him, I'd kill myself. Just end it. Why prolong the suffering?"
"Poor guy. Darwin, you know? Natural selection."
"I give him two years before he does something stupid."
"Two months."
"Two weeks."
Laughter followed them into the elevator.
Each word a nail in a coffin. Each whisper a shovel of dirt. They were building his grave in real-time, and they didn't even know it.
Or maybe they did. Maybe that was the point.
The elevator ride up was silent. Joe and Riff flanked him like bodyguards, or pallbearers. The distinction felt academic.
Ayronee watched the floor numbers climb. Five. Six. Seven. Each ding a countdown. Each floor bringing him closer to the end.
The malice of those voices kept playing in his head on loop:
Failure. Failure. Failure.
Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself.
Nobody wants you. Nobody needs you. Nobody will miss you.
The elevator doors opened to cool night air and a rooftop that stretched wide under indifferent stars. The city sprawled below—ten thousand lights twinkling like promises that were never meant for him.
Ayronee walked to the safety rail. Leaned against it. The bottle was half-empty now.
Or half-full, depending on whether you were drowning or learning to swim.
To be continued...