I ran away from home. Needed to put some space between me and my problems—my life—so I got on my bike and rode out of town. The highway stretched out, the hours passed, and my suspension, the press, the crap at work began to fall away. All that was left was the feel of the bike and the road under me. I discovered if I just focused on that, nothing was wrong with my life.
So I took the road south, as far as I could go, and ended up in Marseille.
I hadn’t been in over ten years, since after the ambush, but Marseille has always been a symbol of escape for me. It’s a raw, earthy place with endless, winding streets I can lose myself in. Just what I needed. And while I was there getting lost, I got myself a new tattoo courtesy of my old friend, Emile, who put me up for a couple of months.
Toujours Fidèle. That’s what Emile carved in black ink on the inside of my right forearm. And on the left arm: Toujours Libre. Always Faithful. Always Free. These are the two halves of my nature. I know what you're thinking: how can you be both faithful and free without tearing yourself in two? You can't. That's why as soon as Emile finished drawing the last letter on my skin, I headed back home.
I thought I could leave it all behind, ditch everyone, and be free. Discard my life like molting a shell I've outgrown. But I’m bound to myself, as I am to my tattoos. Escape is an illusion. At some point, you just have to inhabit your skin—scrawled, scarred, and imperfect as it may be.
