PROLOGUE

　　If there is a conundrum Ridley's psyche does not want to wrap itself around, it is the insubstantial concept of trust. We feast on our suppers with our companions, oblivious that jabbed on our spines are the table knives. We walk around parading our friendships not knowing that the same, familiar palms that catch our tears are the same, unacquainted hands holding the Whetstone that sharpens the blade on our backs. That is why Ridley could not comprehend why society continues to adamantly erect its pillars on fickle affinities.

　　After all, he was there to witness it all:

　　Sweet vows metamorphosing into bitter insults.

　　Nights of longing turning into the longest of nights.

　　The eyes that watched him blossom into a preschooler turning into the palms that plucked out the petals of his childhood.

　　Those wedding rings solely serving as a vindication to justify rape.

　　Even rampant exploitation and pervading fraudulence.

　　If we possess this primal tendency to be seduced by the material, then the theory of trust will always be provisional - but why do we still kneel before this Golden Calf of a god? If we are bound to be betrayed by those we defend the most, why trust in the first place?

　　*

　　Swathed by his blanket as if inside a cocoon of uncertainty, Ridley clutched the telephone, refusing to accept that the call was about to slip into its inevitable end. All he could do was lean his head on the wall beside his mattress. Not long before, it was beads of joy he was welcoming, reminiscent of the times when his mother brought home Parle's candy after work. Now, he had to embrace and brace for reality - an Eden governed by Judas, Brutus, wolves in sheep's clothing, and those in-the-making.

　　The dichotomy of accepting the same call an hour ago and the mere thought of hanging up was painfully apparent.

　　"Ma, I know you've heard of this superstition---"

　　"Oh, which one?" Ridley's mother interjected, but he did not mind. He had grown accustomed to her marginal deafness, both in the literal and the metaphorical sense.

　　"The one about dropped utensils. Forks would signify a male visitor, and spoons would mean that it's a woman. Well, it might vary depending on the country, but you... you've heard of that?"

　　"Ah, yes."

　　An unprecedented pause was about to squeeze itself into the conversation, but Ridley swiftly amputated its appendages, allowing himself to be a deity of conception and breathe more time into this dwindling reel of a chat, granting himself more time to enjoy the veil of his mother's affection albeit auditory.

　　After all, this will be the closest they will ever be.

　　To be continued...