"trust is one of the most

important foundations in

building a successful relationship.

don't bother trying to make a

relationship bloom without trust,

for it'll be futile and worthless."

Screams of distress rang throughout the disheveled room. Everything was scattered, from the picture frames to the porcelain plates. Hazardous shards threatened to prick their feet, broken and blurred fragments of their hearts and brains adding variety to the pile.

"Where the have you been?" Jackson shouted. His tone was dirtied with anger and stained with accusation.

"I was with my friends!" A typical excuse escaped the gap between her upper and lower lip. She ran a manicured hand through the vastness of her slick brown hair.

Jackson couldn't help bt grow doubtful as his wife continued to writhe around uncomfortably, fiddling with her polished fingers and arranging her hair. His eyes grew dubious and his wife shrunk remarkably smaller under the intense gaze.

"Don't you believe me?" Feigning offence and innocence, her eyes got drenched with crocodile tears. She blinked repeatedly, letting her long eyelashes graze softly against the skin beneath her eyelids.

"Then why weren't you answering my calls or returning my texts?" As gullible as he was, Jackson fell for the trap and got convinced of her fake naivete. His voice tumbled down a few decibels as something violent thumped against his chest.

"Do I have to? Every minute and every second, do I have to inform you about what I'm doing? Oh hey babe, yeah, I'm swallowing my saliva right now, love you." Youngji, Jackson's wife, sarcastically said. Jackson saw Youngji's simple--yet so infuriating--action; a scoff and a roll of her eyes.

"I'm your ing husband! I have the right to know about your situation whenever and wherever!" Jackson released a deep sigh, wiping cold sweat on the surface of his forehead with the back of his hand. 

"Don't you ing trust me?" Her words became unfiltered as an unexpected cuss formed at the back of and exited mercilessly.

Jackson trusted her. They had been dating--married for years, 's sake. It was just that she was giving him plenty of reasons to make his strong barrier of trust form cracks on the edges.

"I do! It's just that--" Jackson explained, but was abruptly cut off.

"No, you don't." Her voice contrasted her mood. The volume was low as her madness was high. She shook her head, hair following suit, before trudging up the stairs with heavy steps.

Everything shattered. Jackson could feel his sanity slipping through the fissures distributed among his complexion. His mind went haywire as he helplessly fell onto the soft, comforting couch. With his thumb and index finger, he massaged his pounding forehead, eyes shut close and lips in a straight line.

With no exact map drawn at the chaos ongoing in his brain, his feet moved. His feet shuffled in their own accord. His calloused palm his pockets, sighing in relief when he felt the bulge formed by his keychain and wallet. 

Despite the frigidness and coldness outside, Jackson still mindlessly sauntered towards the stagnant vehicle, camouflaging with the beauty of the night as it shined under the moonlight. It took him four tries--four, for god's sake--to get the key properly inside the lock, and six more for the ignition. His hands were as shaky as it can get and anxiety coursed through his veins, he wanted to get away, as far as possible, but he didn't want to end his life just yet by a stupid and clichéd car crash.

Albeit he was a tad bit nervous, he still continued with overwhelming wanderlust taking over his hands. No precise destination was set, so Jackson just roamed about, getting lost amidst the glacial nighttime.

Five minutes into his journey, his eyes could see nothing but bright lights and skyscrapers that made him feel like an ant. Neon glows formed letterings and those letterings displayed business names, small and big businesses alike.

Somehow, a sign with bright green gleams--if Jackson's mood wasn't so dark, it would've blinded him in an instant--that juxtaposed the murkiness of the street it belonged to, caught Jackson's attention. There was a line outside, mostly teenagers with probably a fake ID, waiting to up their lives--or just their night and the following morning; Jackson's exaggerating. 

He found himself reversing back to a parking space bounded by yellow lines with stains of black destroying it's consistency. A pair of shorts probably wasn't the best attire to wear to a bar, or everywhere except the safe confinements of one's own house for that matter, but drunk and drugged people won't notice, right?

Right. 

Thirty minutes and a lot of groaning later, he was drowning under the scent of strong body odor and . Not a good mixture, but what was to be expected in a club for people over eighteen? 

The dance floor was filled to the brim with metaphorically unconscious people with alcohol burning their lungs. The tune of an unknown song played, tens and hundreds of people dancing to it under the disco ball the shot out a variety of blinding colors.

Jackson cringed at the sight, although he predicted that he would be in the scene in the matter of minutes. He huffed and pushed people to get to the bar, not hearing the pleads of his wallet to not spend any more money on unnecessary things. He sat down on the newly-shined black stool and propped up one of his elbows, raising two fingers in order to attract the bartender.

Attract it did, but he did not expect the bartender to be that attractive. 

"Bad day?" The bartender sympathized, eyebrows furrowing minutely, but Jackson still noticed it. He spoke fluent Cantonese, but his accent sounded unfamiliar, different with natives. 

Jackson nodded his head heavily, as if thousands of barbels was weighing down his head and causing the thumping against his skull.

"What would you like to order?" The bartender asked with a lopsided grin, something that shouldn't be as attractive as it was for Jackson. The way the corner of his pinkish lips twitched up to form a smirk was something similar to a masterpiece--special thanks to this work of art's painters. 

"Your cheapest." Jackson knew it was pathetic, but nothing could level to the pitifulness--at least, in Jackson's judgment--of his situation right now.

"Comin' right up." Sensually, as he walked, his hips swayed left and right, so did Jackson's eyes as he followed that hidden beneath the fabric of his tight jeans, that didn't hide much at all.

A glass was placed directly in front of his face and that got him startled, but he quickly regained his composure to get rid of the chances of getting humiliated. He took a hesitant sip, but for something very cheap, it wasn't a bother to his lips.

He frantically ordered another shot, another, then more. His fifth glass was his last straw on consciousness. The alcohol caught up with his nervous system and he was slowly getting rendered tipsy by the intoxicating beverage.

Despite feeling flushed, he continued guzzling shot glasses until all the sand on the upper half of the sandglass vanished. His consciousness vanished, too, and sooner than needed, he was seeing nothing but black and sleeping in a public bar.

And no, the bartender wasn't laughing at him, nope. Especially not when the first drop of drool fell down on the marble countertop, nope.