I open the door and walk into the house. My wife looks at me with horror at the dinner table. Blood flowed from my head into the corners of the eyes. Sweat mixed with the tears.

“Oh my God, what’s the matter! There’s blood all over your head!”

I ignored her question. Walking across the hallway, I kick my shoes aside. The cooked meals are covered with plates and placed on the kitchen table, pots and pans lay in the sink filled with foam. I go around the stove, open the cabinet to the left of the refrigerator, and take a glass out of it. The glass is cylindrical and has a regular texture on it. A few years ago, my wife began to collect different kinds of cups, and even the bowls and special tea-making supplies that we brought back from our last trip to Japan.

I clutch the cup in my palm, then rummage in the cupboard behind me. The sound of the bottles crashing into each other was too crisp, irritating my sleeping eardrums. The blood beats to the top of my head along my heart, and my sanity gradually dissipates.

When I come back to my senses, the whiskey loses its hold, and the memory is like wine bottles, with fragments scattered on the floor. She huddles in the corner, her trembling hands covering her scream. I step across the floor, the sensation of pain deprived of my feet, and the alcohol numbs my nerves. The glass pierces into the flesh of the soles of my feet, and the blood keeps flowing. I slowly move my staggering legs towards her and stretch to wrap her tightly in my arms. Crys blur my words.

The night blinds the eyes of the truth. The crashed car outside the door is parked aside, emitting smoke. The red trace left on the car is not my blood, a broken soul hanged in front of the headlights.