Chapter 27 : Escape from Self

“Some mistakes can never be forgotten; however, they must be forgiven.”

— The Morph

Trying to quit weed, alcohol, and whatever else numbed the ache—while it’s all still within reach—is like trying to outrun a fire burning inside my chest. Last night, I screamed into the darkness that I was done. My voice cracked in the greenhouse I now call home, a makeshift shelter where I sleep like an unregistered ghost. My world has shrunk to a single mattress under plants that seem to thrive while I rot, photosynthesizing my guilt into some twisted offering.

Gone. The two who meant everything in my world Anatig, Vilhelm—wiped out from its existence. And the knife twist: they never wanted me anyway, not really. Their names rip me open still. Father's guilt choking me, man's raw hurt coating my days like filthy mold. Faces half-erased, like scratched-out photos, flashing in my head: Was it right? What I did?

Hell yes, it was.

But that truth? It doesn't kill the burn.

Still aching in emptiness, Alex drifted through the days like a man searching for solid ground, trying to fill the void—until, almost by accident, he came upon something that offered the shelter he needed. Alex found something steady in the blur. A coffee house tucked into the pulse of Queen Street—NERO’s. He discovered it during his volunteer days at the Royal Blind Society. The moment he walked in, the rich aroma of roasting beans wrapped around him like a hug he didn’t know he needed. Inside, the space buzzed with quiet purpose—strangers working on laptops, chatting, sipping coffee, watching life stream past two floors of glass like a moving painting.

Cardiff was waking up. So was Alex. Every morning, the shop greeted him like a forgotten embrace, pulling him into a rhythm he could almost trust. Still reeking faintly of cannabis, his hands trembling slightly, he wrapped them around a large black Americano. It grounded him. Then came the notebook—a small green volume stamped with “Best DAD,” a birthday gift from his son Vilhelm. For months it sat empty, a shrine to promises left unfulfilled.

But here, today, something shifted.

As if the smell of pastries could overpower his past, as if the quiet clatter of cups and keys could drown out old violence and addiction, Alex opened the notebook. The dam cracked. Ink flowed. Words that had been silenced by chaos and survival finally surfaced—brittle, brave, bleeding. The café around him blurred, but he was present. The earbuds in his ears helped him slip away, and also tethered him to the now.

Then, like a punch to the gut, came the realization: he wasn’t dead yet.

But what if this was the only way to free himself—from the miserable routine, the addiction, and the pain?

Before the stolen cars, before the drugs, before the dirty money—he had been someone else.

A person who found wonder in the world’s repeating rhythms, who saw grand hints in the ordinary—things no one else around him seemed to notice.

He was the one who created stories, not alibis—who shaped ideas and new worlds with visions and living sentences, not by destroying them through crime. The writing flowed like a fever dream, words that became a small act of rebellion against what he'd become and magical stillness when thinking of what it could be. Stories emerged, raw and honest, bleeding onto the page with an urgency that no drug could match. But under such circumstances, the gap between his current situation and his true self had become unbearable; amid the daily chaos of criminal life, he saw himself and his companions drowning in a swamp of drugs—no less addicted to anything that could numb the pain. Alex increasingly doubted that there were any chances of salvation left. His mind was unsettled, he was alone no one loved him no cared and no one believed that he could change. One wrong move and there would be no him, no redemption, no stillness, no future.  As alone in his garden house below the growing operation, staring at a stain on the ceiling every night, Alex began to plan. The organization had taught him well—how to move undetected, how to disappear, how to survive. Now he would use those skills one last time, not for them, not to hide or escape, but to save himself from the gnawing misery that he himself manifested in his darkest hours. 

Then came a day when it happened—a moment that would alter everything. A young father walked past his table at NERO, talking to his teenage son like they were best friends. The boy, no older than Vilhelm, laughed at something his father said. Alex saw the alchemy between them—it was raw and real, natural understanding, compassion, and respect. The sound of laughter pierced Alex's earbuds and meticulously crafted emotional defense, slicing through them like a blade through silk.  His pen halted mid-sentence, paralyzed as a tsunami of emotions surged over him.

Twenty fucking years in prison, and for what? Twenty years of Vilhelm growing up without a father and knowing how low he had fallen. Twenty years of memories never made. With no guarantee that he comes back alive. Twenty years in a cold concrete box while life moved on without him. The thought hit him so hard that he stopped breathing for a moment till he felt the lack of air. His chest constricted, vision blurring as panic clawed at his throat. The tightly guarded shell of his persona cracked open, revealing a frightened soul pulsing with a silent scream. No amount of cocaine could sharpen this away; no LSD can transcend; no crack pipe could numb this down, and no cannabis could ease this truth. Nepal."! The word surfaced in his mind like a lifejacket thrown to a drowning man.  Images flooded his consciousness—snow-capped peaks touching crystal skies, ancient monasteries holding centuries of wisdom, and a blend of deep, resonant chants with the delicate chime of temple bells wove together a timeless symphony of sound. The promise of peace so profound it made his current reality seem like a nightmare. He'd read about it, dreamed about it, but now it wasn't just an escape fantasy—it was a call for survival. His fingers began to tremble, and the tears welling up threatened to stain the page on which he had written:

"I'm not a criminal. I'm something else."

The barely legible words stared back at him—a condemnation, a salvation, both at once, like shadow and light tearing at the soul and healing the wounds. But the organization's tentacles ran deep, their grip strengthened by money, drugs and fear. Leaving wouldn't be that simple, but staying meant death of a different kind. Each stolen car, drug run, each stack of money stripped away another piece of his soul. The chemical high couldn't mask it anymore; the cannabis couldn't numb it. He was withering from within, a slow dissolution of self, while primal fears tethered him to phantoms that had long lost their shape in the darkness of his mind.  Rising from his chair, Alex looked out over Cardiff one last time. The city had witnessed his fall, but it wouldn't witness his end. The path ahead was very unclear, filled with danger and the organization's long reach, but for the first time in months, something real stirred in his chest—something was telling him that there was still hope, and the journey was a must.  It was not the false hope of quick money and chemical escape, but the genuine hope of redemption.  Storm clouds of consequence started gathering in his mind, his decision rolling like thunder through his addicted, anxious brain. Walking back to Cecil Street, Alex stopped at a sports goods shop and bought two backpacks, one bigger and one smaller.  The sunny peaks of the mountains whispered promises of salvation, washing away the filth that clung to his soul. Be patient, be careful, be methodical—the other mantra mocked him as his hands stuffed belongings into the new backpack.  The weed grinder clattered against the kitchen counter. He dropped it next to the house key—a small unwanted gift that kept him addicted. His fingers shaking across the phone screen, a three-line message to Ray:

Keys in the kitchen.

All harvest in the dry room

Don't look for me.

Money transferred to Anatig, travel cash counted. Passport checked. The door slammed with a finality that echoed through his bones and the empty sunny street.  Another message was sent to Anatig:

I sent you some money to your bank.

I don't know when I will be able to send you more…leaving Cardiff today.

The power button held down on his phone felt like cutting off a limb.  What seemed like the right thing to do soon turned into mental walking masturbation. Halfway to the bus station, reality splintered. His breath came in ragged gasps, the tears started coming out of nowhere, the world tilting sideways. The street signs and people walking by blurred, morphing into judging faces. His legs buckled, forcing him to stop and sit at a graffitied bus bench as panic clawed up his throat.  Raising thought, while sweating as he would be in a marathon: Don't stop!

Just need to get the fuck away from here as fast as I can. What seemed a million miles away, walking forward meant a battle against the good and evil screaming demons in his head. 

Don't do this, idiot! 

Go back! Angry and worried voices shouted.

Think about family, you moron. Are you just going to let all the opportunities go?

It is not about family anymore; it is saving myself. Alex talking to himself loudly, people paying attention to his insanity.

Saving yourself from what, stupid?

And what about your blind people?!

Sweat soaked through his shirt while inner debates heated, despite the cold, and somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed—or was that just the sound of his world about to collapse? 

Finally, the Megabus stop on Kingsway Street stood stark against the backdrop of Cardiff's Hilton Hotel. Alex shifted his weight from one shoulder to the other, his backpack heavy with hastily packed belongings. The usual early afternoon traffic hummed past as people stood and moved around, oblivious to the drama unfolding at this unremarkable bus stop. The familiar Welsh drizzle seemed fitting for his farewell. Voice message to his mother:

I left Vilhelm and Anatig.

I'm leaving the UK. 

Everything will be ok.

I will call when I can!

His words to his mother in Lithuania came out short and decisive, masking the tremor in his voice. They haven't spoken for years. Before she could respond, he switched off his phone again with a finality that made his stomach lurch.  As the bus rolled east through the Welsh countryside, Alex’s thoughts raced restlessly and chaotically, and his body began to tremble so violently it startled even him— as if every cell was fracturing under the weight of his decision, or perhaps from the crash of withdrawal, already weeks into his sobriety. Sudden, almost manic bursts of laughter would replace unexpected tears and self-beating thoughts. Freedom and fear danced an awkward rumba through his body and mind as he struggled to orient himself—where he was and what he was doing.

The evening London traffic crawled past the bus windows like a column of lazy elephants, while the city lights flickered across his sleeping face, painting dreams of light on his closed eyes. At London Victoria bus station the connection to Paris was quick—too quick, barely giving him time to process the reality of what he was doing. Just before the French border crossing, curiosity and anxiety overwhelming his resolve. His fingers moved almost independently, powering up his smartphone. The device erupted with notifications; messages, voicemails and emails flooded the phone.

Messages from friends, family, and even his new boss flooded his phone like blows of accusation—each shock dismantling the fortress of his will. The bus carried his body toward France, but an unexplainable guilt chained his conscience to the ghosts of Cardiff. Each new message pulled him deeper into doubt, screaming: Turn around, come back!

Charles de Gaulle Airport rose before him—a glass and steel monument to possibilities that now felt more like threats than promises.  The night unfolded in fluorescent-lit purgatory. 1,245 euros for tomorrow’s flight to Kathmandu—nearly everything he’d been hiding in his wallet as his last cash reserve. He turned the bench in the waiting lounge into a booth of reflection and confession, where the departure calls echoed like sirens of temptation, luring him toward unknown horizons.

"Bangkok... Singapore... Delhi..."

A cleaning lady's mop drew wet circles on the floor at 3 AM, its rhythm accompanying his sleepless spiral:

What am I running from?

What am I running to?

Can distance cure what lives inside?

Dawn crawled across the glass walls like a cold, glowing shroud, while his mind—exhausted by endless storms of thought—wavered on the edge of an abyss. After twenty-four brutal hours of battling himself, he was left hollow, like an infinite vacuum where no life existed—only the merciless echoes of lost battles sunk deep into oblivion. Through bleary eyes, he watched a family check in—their easy laughter and sure movements like a mirror reflecting his own chaos. In his exhaustion, truth crystallized with brutal simplicity: he'd packed his bags to escape a prison built of his own thoughts of fear to face himself.

          His entire body trembled—caffeine, exhaustion, and the absence of drugs colliding in his veins. At 8 a.m., he bought the ticket. The journey back to Cardiff wasn’t a surrender—it was a reckoning. His burning eyes and aching body deserved that acknowledgment. His backpack lay beside him, still packed, but transformed: no longer an escape kit, but a testament.

One day, those same straps would carry him forward—not as a man fleeing shadows, but as someone moving toward the light, armed with at least one clear thing: a plan.

Even though he had only been gone for 58 hours, it seemed like weeks when he returned to Cardiff and saw his house unaltered. Gazing at the rucksack he had purchased for his grand escape, Alex slumped onto his worn-out couch Like in a fever dream, his mind relived the past 58 hours—embodying both revelation and failure, the latter feeling like a betrayal of himself. Guilt crawled through his veins like poison ink, staining every memory. Self-doubt hung in the air like thick fog, making it hard to breathe, while worry circled like a hungry hyena, testing his conviction with each passing hour. A deeply rooted fear had never left his side—a silent co-pilot, ancient and animalistic. It crawled through his thoughts like cockroaches through cracks, murmuring in a voice that sounded like his own: “But what if?”

Each murmur was like a splinter; each answer, a poison-scented hallucination of everything that could go wrong.

And most likely, would.

These emotions had orchestrated their dark symphony during his attempt to escape: guilt conducted with a heavy baton, while self-reproach quivered the strings, anxiety beat an unrelenting drum, and fear chased everything like a haunting melody that dwelled in the stream of his thoughts and ultimately reached his heart. This symphony transformed into the voice of silence in his empty room, and its echo turned from demons into guides determining his choice. “This is not the life I envisioned,” he whispered to the empty room. For the first time, these words weren't just another note in that desperate symphony; now they were the first clear notes of a different song altogether. One that spoke not of escape, but of transformation; not of flight, but of fight; not of endings, but of beginnings. At least for now.

            The backpack would remain packed—not as a reminder of weakness, but as proof of resolve—the strength Alex needed so that each time he looked back, he would face a stark reminder of shame and guilt. The snowy Himalayan peaks could wait their turn; their ancient summits had seen countless pilgrims seeking truth, and they would still be there when he was ready. For now, his mountain—the majestic one with the daunting peak—waited here: in conversations that demanded the rhythm of courage, in situations that needed tending like a storm-ravaged garden, in a life that had to be rebuilt brick by brick, until every step upward promised a sunrise, if only he believed in himself.

NEXT WEEK! Chapter 28 : ZEN 

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