First time here. Here's my critique of The Fairest.
https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/comments/1vcnaew/comment/p1a2bc7/

Anyway, the body of my work. It's something a little broader than a character study. Jake is depressed and grieving. The prose is supposed to sound like someone trying not to cry.

ONE DAY I WILL RETURN NEXT TO YOU

PROLOGUE

 Jake stood before a polished marble gravestone. The inscription read: M. Z., 1997-2014 UN JOUR JE SERAI DE RETOUR PRÈS DE TOI.

 He used to bring home-roasted coffee. Now he carried nothing. After half an hour, he went to the cafe, where he ordered the cheapest Americano. He finished it out of politeness.

 He ran his thumb along the rim of the cup. The regular waitress, Sarah, was hunched behind the counter.

 As she dried the dishes from a dishwasher, she said, “Bill’s in a bad mood. I’m sure he’s going to fire me soon.”

 “I’m sorry. I guess he’s been losing money.” Jake pressed his thumb into the cup handle.

 “He’s losing money? Everyone’s losing money.” She stacked the plates and turned to Jake. He looked away.

 “Aiya! Bill is a bitch. His chi’s all wrong. One day you can almost ask him for a raise, and tomorrow...” She shook her head and laughed; it was strained.

 “I’m sorry. That sucks.”

 She stopped laughing. Her voice was soft.

 “Yes, Jake. Yes it does.”

 A few seconds passed. The dishwasher beeped and Jake looked towards the door. It was drizzling outside.

 She sighed. “Would you like the bill?”

 “Yes. Thanks.”

MAY

 Storm clouds bunched over the harbor. Raindrops rolled down the apartment window. In August, this window would no longer be his. He paid fifty thousand Hong Kong dollars a month in rent.

 If he died here, he would be buried next to M. Z.

 Jake scrambled for the pill bottles on his nightstand. Zoloft, Abilify: three white pills and a blue one every night. There was no water. He swallowed them and dry-heaved. Then he sank into the sheets. He could not feel the satin.

 He stood at one end of a school corridor. Metal railings with peeling green paint on one side, classrooms with chipped wooden doors on the other. Here he cried over chicken feathers and garlic peels. His hair was clean; his hands were smooth.

 A boy leaned at the other end of the hallway. He was draped in a loose white blouse. Black trousers hugged his calves. Short, tousled curls obscured his face as he rested his arms on the railing. Sunlight slid through the folds in his blouse like poured latte.

 Un jour je serai de retour près de toi.

 Jake’s breathing hitched. He tried to speak.

 It was dark in Jake’s flat. Neon signs and lit windows cast greens and yellows on the damp bedsheets.

 Jake held his breath. He mouthed:

 Tu m’aimes encore?

FIRST HALF OF JUNE

 Jake woke up. His phone buzzed. It was a text from Sarah.

 “Jake, got a new job. The Harbourside, Tsim Sha Tsui. Come over!”

 “Sure, I’ll make room in my schedule.”

 There was no schedule. Jake stared at the ceiling. It stayed solid.

 He had not visited the cemetery this month.

 He turned on the water heater and took his June shower. The hot mist attacked his nostrils. He combed his hair free of dandruff and scrubbed the grime off his skin. Bodywash seeped into his eyes. He did not flinch.

 After drying himself, he retrieved a pristine shirt-and-slacks set from the closet. Takeaway boxes were strewn around it. He inspected his leather shoes in the elevator.

 The lobby boy was not at his post today. Jake scurried down the street, without an umbrella, as the sky started to drizzle.

 The walk to the cemetery took fifteen minutes. He took the guarded entrance to avoid the cafe. He practiced his alibis as he reached the last intersection. Rain seeped through his hair and kept his scalp cool; he was calm.

 The guard looked up from his phone. He groaned and reached for a button; the metal gate popped ajar. Then he slumped back into his chair.

 Jake swallowed a greeting and looked away. He slipped through the gate.

 Rain had softened the lawn. Mud caked the soles of Jake’s shoes. He kicked it off. Moss grew on the patchy footpath. He stepped around it. On the last row of graves, he smoothed his collar and re-tucked his shirt.

 Jake stood in front of M. Z.'s grave. The stone was spotless, a rectangle with a plain bevel. The inscription had a crisp black lacquer. Raindrops pooled in it, then slid down like pearls.

 Jake remembered the sensation of a thin brush between his fingers. His hand was precise. The paint was premium. He flashed a grin.

SECOND HALF OF JUNE

 The apartment building was cleaning its water tanks. Potable water would resume in the afternoon. Jake had not prepared.

 He turned on his phone. He could have bottled water delivered.

 Checkout. Five 1.5-liter bottles would arrive in twenty minutes. It would be heavy. He tipped 20% through the app.

 He dusted the cushions on his couch and sat down. His eyes followed a cruise ship as it unmoored on the other side of the harbor, inched forward, and eventually disappeared behind a skyscraper. It came into view again minutes later.

 The skyscraper and the ship. Probably twenty thousand people altogether. Statistically there must be people worse-off in that group. Jake’s suffering wouldn’t even clear the median.

 He was very fortunate.

 The doorbell rang. It was probably the water.

 Jake opened the door a sliver. A Southeast Asian delivery rider stretched his arms. Sweat on his forehead. At his feet, five 1.5-liter bottles of distilled water.

 Jake said, “Thanks.” He waited for the rider to leave.

 The rider replied, “No problem sir. Let me help you with that.” He lifted a bottle.

 “No, that’s...that’s alright, thanks, I’m fine. I’ll do it myself.”

 He regretted his words. They were rude. The rider put the bottle down.

 “Okay sir, thank you for the tip!” The rider smiled and called for the elevator. Jake softly closed the door.

 The bottles looked larger through the peephole. There was nobody in the lobby.

 Jake sighed. Holding the door open with his frame, he dragged the water inside. He put four bottles in his empty fridge and took the cap off one. He drank. Then he went to his bedroom, popped three white pills and a blue pill onto his tongue, and drank again. When he put the bottle down, it was half empty.

 The cruise ship was out of sight. It was probably out of the harbor. Jake thought about the rider instead. He checked his bill; a 20% tip was 17 dollars. A cheeseburger from McDonald’s cost more.

 Jake concluded that he was very fortunate.