A frail boy with dark circles stumbled out of his room, drunk. His mother sat on the couch, dragging a cheap cigarette—one only slum rats would smoke.
"I'm gonna go outside mom."
Art stumbled back, awaiting his mothers response.
She didn't answer. Just laughed along with the show, her eyes glued to the screen like he didn't exist.
"Mom," he repeated, voice cracking. "Do you not hear me?"
She finally turned. Her eyes were empty. Her face unreadable. She stared at him like he was a stranger.
"Okay, go. You can die for all I care, Art."
Her words hit like a slap—but he didn't flinch. He was used to this.
Somehow, it still hurt.
Art didn't respond. He just stood there, swaying slightly, the alcohol burning in his gut.
Without another word, he turned and left.
The door slammed shut behind him. Rain slapped his face the moment he stepped outside, like the world was just as sick of him as everyone else
"I wish I wasn't like this." "Maybe if I died everything would be much better."
Art thought about it for a second.
Then scoffed at himself.
He wasn't brave enough to die.
Out of nowhere, a loud buzz cut through the rain.
Art stumbled and fell face-first onto the soaked, filthy pavement. Too drunk to stand.
He groaned and fumbled into his pocket, hands shaking, fingers numb.
His phone screen lit up.
A message.
It was from her.
"Can you come to the bridge? I really need to talk."
Art stared at the message.
Rain dripped off his hair, down his face. He couldn't tell if it was water or tears anymore.
"Why now?" he muttered, heart thudding like a slow war drum in his chest.
But he was already moving. Feet dragging. Head down. Like a ghost pulled by strings he couldn't see.
The bridge wasn't far.
Rusty railings. Cracked cement. Water below, black and endless in the dark.
He spotted her.
Leaning against the railing.
But she wasn't alone.
Some guy stood next to her, laughing. Their bodies pressed together like it meant nothing.
The buzz in his head turned into a scream.
She saw him. Smiled.
Not warmly.
Mockingly.
Art slipped. Crashed. Concrete met skull. For a moment, the rain drowned everything—his breath, his thoughts, his pain.
"I'm so fucking tired."
"Why does this always happen to me."
He screamed.
Stumbled to his feet. Swung a fist, wild and desperate.
It missed.
The guy sidestepped easily.
"Maybe if I die, they'll finally shut up."
Art's momentum carried him forward— —over the edge.
And into the river.
The water punched his lungs. Ice-cold. Like knives slicing through his ribs. He couldn't breathe—only sink.
"I'm just a fucking joke to everyone, huh?"
Time slowed.
Sound vanished.
Only the cold waited for him below.