If there was one thing Anatole liked about his college, it would be the campus; so ancient and tongueless. He would suffer trying to explain where he got his name from. Sometimes, his father named him after a French friend. Other times, his mother named him after a fan fiction series she had adored in her infancy. Yet, most of the times, his grandmother was the one to be blamed as she named him after a rock star from the middle east around a hundred years ago–if that ever made any sense. However, in all cases, the truth was.. Anatole himself had no idea where he got his name from, or what it meant.

He hated parties. Partly, because he did not want to be the center of attention –mostly naked and always would be looking for a missing piece of clothing. And partly, because he had not received many invitations since his kindergarten graduation party. Yet, college was different. His colleagues were to be more mature, and more sensible, and less bullying –in a way. Or so he wanted to believe. The invitation was unexpected yet tempting. Perhaps the only one who was not to be invited was the dean.

He went to the party – which happened to be on his birthday night - a bit anxious, and a bit embarrassed of his looks. He made sure to put on a fancy shirt; something that would take some reasonable time to reconsider the odds before being taken off. It's not like I expect it to be. I am only saying that I should be more careful. He thought.

He was not a nerdy kind of person regardless of what his looks had suggested. In fact, he was a very good looking twenty-two-year-old young man with a well-built body shape.

And despite all the precautions he had made, it was only a matter of a few drinks before he became the center of attention. When Anatole looked around, he did not find himself lying in a bed naked with dozens of girls mocking him. Instead, he found himself amongst a crowd of a dozen or two cheering his name for a reason he did not know. Not yet anyway.

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His sight was blurring. He wiped his eyes for better vision but that was in vain. After a few failing attempts, he realized that there was nothing wrong with his eyes, there was only fog.

"Fog?" He nearly chuckled half-drunkenly. "Did the party fly to the mountains?"

Instantly, he noticed that he was breathing heavily. He opened his eyes fully trying to see through the fog that veiled the place as he nearly came back to his senses.

"Where the heck am I?" he murmured.

And his guess was just right. He was on top of a mountain surrounded by drunken people planning to jump into the lake below, with him.

"Come on! It's not even that high!" they objected.

Anatole would have liked it if anyone had explained to him how he had got up there in the first place. Yet, with a quick glance, he found that most of the crowd were either drunk or high. He –himself- would have been thrilled to watch such a scene, only if he were to watch not to participate. He was pushed forward speechlessly and idly. The shock was too much for him to take.

"On three!" A person with a reckless appearance shouted as he crushed a can of beer with his bare hands.

"What will happen on three?" Anatole asked staring at the crushed can of beer trying to figure out what might happen to him if he did not jump.

"We will jump" A person with even a more reckless appearance explained impatiently.

"We?"

The word "we" usually had a hypnotizing effect on Anatole but not that time. He recalled all the audacious genes from his past ancestors, but they were not enough.

"One!"

"I can't do it."

"Two!"

"Somebody help me, I just can't."

"Three!"

On hearing three, a light stroke and it startled him so he...jumped.

"Did he actually jump?" The crowd gasped. They hurried forward leaning to see if he had made it into the lake in one piece. But their vision was blinded as another light hits.

They escaped the scene not knowing what happened to Anatole, whom they might had not even known his name, telling each other that no one had forced him to jump. It was all his choice.