December 25, 1991
The empty Bourbon bottle shattered in the fireplace. Twenty-one year old Tony Stark stared into the flickering flames. He had flung the glass bottle into the dying fire. It was Christmas Day; 5:00 AM. Light snow was drifting outside. The world was a frozen gingerbread house.
But he was oblivious to it.
He wasn't sure when he last slept. He wasn't sure if he was awake now. He was slumped on a couch. It was surrounded by liquor bottles. He was wearing an all-black suit. He wore the same suit yesterday. The tie was missing. The fireplace was full of broken glass. The fire was suffocating slowly. He had crushed a glass of whiskey in his hand. There was a cut on this hand. It ran down the length of his thumb. It had already clotted. It would probably scar. He had run his hand through his hair. His hair was greasy and unkempt. Dried blood was on his forehead. All he could smell was death.
But he was oblivious to it.
There was one thing he was not oblivious to. It screamed at him. It deafened him. It would drown him. It drove him to find solace. He tried to find it in the broken bottles everywhere. He was failing.
Because for the first time in his youthful life, he was utterly, irrevocably, and irreparably, alone.
Two weeks ago: his godparents, murdered in their home.
The same day: the closest thing he had to a sibling, dead in an explosive act of terrorism.
A week ago: his own parents, killed in a car crash.
Somewhere in his alcohol-saturated brain, the dim notes of "O Holy Night" pealed out their solemn, religious aura from the old relic of a radio he had built when he was in middle school. He had apparently turned it on and promptly forgot about it; in an extreme hurry to dump as much alcohol into his bloodstream as he possibly could. Because maybe, just maybe, the bottles of liquor possessed the power to soothingly wash away the past month. And it would have all been just a nightmare. And the crooning notes of music would be his aging but still beautiful mother softly playing the grand piano in the other room. And a girl with a long French braid and glowing blue eyes would walk in and find him there, as far away from sober as humanly possible. With a disgusted look on her face, Bellona Drager would wrench the last bottle out of his hand and order him to get cleaned up because his mother wanted him to join them for Christmas breakfast. She would then march into his room because he would be taking too long to get ready, and find him incapable of holding a razor to his stubble-laden jaw without slicing his throat open. So she would make a snarky remark about how he should invent some device to shave for him whenever he was so inebriated he couldn't stand straight. To which he would begin to reply that he didn't need such a device because she had conveniently been born — before she snatched the razor from him and assisted him with experienced ease. He would slur something along the lines of "thanks, sis" then make a joke about the situation and Bella would deliberately slice open a small cut on his cheek with the razor. Then she would tell him to stop complaining and force him to take some painkillers so he wouldn't be a complete embarrassment to the Stark family name. He would bleatingly inform her that she sounded like his father, which he did not appreciate in the slightest. But he would re-enter the room, clean-shaved and freshened, to find the couch clear and the evidence of his debauchery having vanished — courtesy of the eighteen-year old. And she would then gripe at him for being so careless, and tell him that it was up to him to get rid of the absurd amount of glass in the fireplace. He would say he'd think of something, and then Bella would lead his staggering form across the room. They'd enter the dining room and their parents would be sitting about the table, chatting quietly. James Drager and Howard Stark would be whispering about some confidential matters, while Maria Drager would be telling Maria Stark all about her latest dig in some exotic location. They would fall silent and look towards the door when their children arrived. And despite Bella's extensive efforts at making Tony look decent, his parents would see straight through because of the deliberate cut on his cheek that she had left there for that exact reason. His father would shoot him a disapproving shake of his head that he would pretend not to see. James Drager would laugh and make a comment to his good friend about letting his son live. It would be his mother's pursed lips that would make guilt trickle through him. But she would rise from her seat anyway, wrap her arms around him in a warm hug and whisper Merry Christmas in his ear. Plant a kiss on his forehead and guide him over to-"
"-oh holy night-"
The ironic lyrics of the song shattered his illusion. The radio still warbled its melodious music. Repeatedly. Tony Stark was thrust back into his harsh reality. He was alone. The sound of exploding glass his sole company. It echoed through his head like a church hymn. It made him want to claw out his bloodshot eyes.
"-the stars are brightly shining-"
James and Maria Drager? Dead. Bellona Drager? Dead. Howard and Maria Stark? Dead. In that exact order.
"-it is the night of our dear Savior's birth-"
There was nothing holy about this night. It was just like any other this month. Cold. Hollow. Funereal. The stars weren't even shining. They were obscured by thick clouds. The clouds that cried out with icy white flakes. There was no savior. Not for the forsaken twenty-one year old. Mankind's savior wouldn't allow this much tragedy into the world. Would he? Would he?
