It had been decided, at one point, that I had become too much of a burden, lying around the house all day like a vegetable, and got told to pack my things. I was given a credit card to a nearly bottom less bank account, a kiss on a cheek, and a bodyguard who would, and I quote: ‘follow me to the ends of the earth.’

So that’s where I went.

To the ends of the earth.

On the Island of St. Rachel, I bribed my way into an expedition studying a long-forgotten network of tunnels, left behind by a yet unknown ancient civilization. Perhaps those faint blurs of a life I had lost would be found in ancient texts, and I would discover that it had all been a past life of some kind, trying to wiggle out the back of my head? Of course, no ancient text would give me my truth. Like a bird, I spread my wings and flew out into the world once more.

In the outskirts of Inmoto, I spent my nights dancing and drinking with the locals. If I couldn’t reclaim myself, maybe I could lose all that I was and start over fresh? The numbness worked. For a little while. I got a tan. I got to know a bit of the language. I had a lover. Or two. Or three. They were interchangeable. If those lost few months were a blur, the nights in that little neighborhood were a fogged mirror. In my attempt to shake my past, I lost a sense of the present. Meaning I could never look towards the future. And that wasn’t good enough. I set off, once more.

Dyonisis was a ship I’d boarded as a crew member to shake off my relentless bodyguard, after transferring all my money to a bank account my family couldn’t trace. It worked, at the price of having to do actual manual labor for once in my life. Everyone knew I was a fraud. But nobody asked any questions; not even the captain. Everyone was running from something. As long as I didn’t break anything and made sure to at least put in the effort in my tasks, I was welcome enough. The silence was pleasant, at first. But all things run out of novelty, and this was no exception. More and more, I began to want someone ask me a question. A single one. To remind me that there’s something in my life worth talking about. The blurry months were a non-issue. Even if I had reclaimed them, they would only be a piece to fit into a largely purposeless life. I was always just a kid on the back of a limo someone else drove.

The nameless town near the Passage of Goliath was where I met him. He was a journalist on the run, constantly moving from city to city, having published a story that put him in the sights of an international smuggling ring. He offered me his hand. And I took it. I told him my story. And he didn’t judge. He never shaved. His beard grew to this extraordinary size. He had a sense of humor – of course, all good men do, right? – but he was never mean-spirited. I don’t think he had a mean bone in his body. He never asked for a single cent, let alone dared to put his finger on my credit card. After two months, we got married in a small passenger compartment, on a train heading to Buducnost, by a priest who didn’t speak English. For that brief moment, I’d completely forgotten about everything. I’d lost the past that bothered me so, and looked only towards the great blue skies.

Everywhere I am, though, it always rains, sooner or later. It happened on the night I saw news of my Grandfather’s death on the TV. It seemed his arm reached far into the world – farther than I ever could’ve imagined. Of course, I knew what it really meant: he was now retired, living under an assumed identity. Bruto Cadaverini was never a man who intended to agonize over his empire’s future to his very deathbed.

On the night of the news, however, I had realized something horrific.

I wanted to go back.