The truth is in the eye of the beholder. While one man’s trash is another man’s treasure, similarly one man’s truth is another man’s lie; and this is something I am all too aware of.
When my father made the drastic decision to change law firms, going from prosecuting to defending, he gave one sole reason: there is no truth. There’s two, three, four accounts, five accounts of what happened. There’s evidence and there’s counter evidence. And then there’s a verdict.
Of what mine was to be, I hadn’t a clue.
If I could have one magic power, I wouldn’t choose the ability to fly, nor the ability to become invisible. I have no desire to be ruthlessly examined in laborities all over the world; a definite outcome of such wishes being granted. I wouldn’t rub a magic lamp similar to the ones I saw in the Medina’s of Tunisia and ask the genie for a million pounds, nor to be whisked off my feet into the sunset by a modern day prince. My wish would simply be to turn back the clocks.
A month, maybe two, is all I would ask for. A wasted wish? Certainly not. Two months is all it would take for me to unravel the disarray I find myself in today. Before the mistrust came the lies, and that is where it all began to go horribly wrong.
Before enrolling on my degree, I took two gap years. The first was spent in a haze of late nights, early mornings, too much alcohol and the frequent use of recreational drugs that are so readily available in this day and age, regardless of where you live and who you know. It concluded with a round the world trip encompassing the vibrancy of India, the beach parties of Thailand, the smog of Hong Kong, the bright lights of Sydney and finally the breath taking scenery of New Zealand.
My trip ended in heartbreak with the death of a girl I had met in India and travelled with from that point forth and while my heart truly hurts to remember such joys I experienced, it seems right to reflect back on such times because it was as a result of such tragedy that the lies began.
Myself, Rachel and Becks (or ‘The Three Blondes’ as we called ourselves), were all lone travelers with a thirst for adventure binding us together. I was nineteen, on my gap year and on a bid for freedom from family life, Rachel had just graduated from university with a degree is physiology and Becks, who was thirty and the mother hen of the three of us, had just come out of a ten year relationship and wanted to see the world.
Palolem, the most southern part of Goa was to be my final stop in India. There was a sole beach, a perfect stretch of white sand lined by palm trees and beach huts. And over my entire time traveling, such a spot was by far the most beautiful of all, and indeed the nearest thing to paradise I ever expect to see. Palolem was yet untouched by the swelling tourism that engulfed nearby Baga and Calungute, though in years to come I’m sure this will change. Travelers like myself, having resided in a place of such beauty, will encourage others to visit, tour operators will discover its appeal and before long five star hotels will be shooting up left, right and centre, ripping Palolem of its overwhelming natural charm.
My days were spent awakening at whatever hour I wished, though the sweltering Indian humidity ensured it was generally before ten. There were maybe fifty travelers inhabiting Palolem, and a real sense of community engulfed me, like nowhere else in India. Breakfast would be eaten together; conversation was easy; friendships relaxed.
Towels were dotted sporadically along the beach. Unlike Falaraki, somewhere I have had the immense misfortune of holidaying since my return from traveling, where it was the English versus the Germans when it came to acquiring a decent spot by the pool, and often saw myself and my friend getting up at six a.m in order to secure a sunbed, in Palolem each one of us could have had a square kilometer, if we so wished, in which to worship the glorious Indian sun.
Books were read, Lonely Planet travel guides studied, cocktails were sipped and secrets were shared.
Of an evening, as the familiar ball of fire dipped towards the lulling waves on the horizon, those who wished, gathered together and a number of volleyball games ensued. We would then depart, enjoy an evening siesta before rendevouzing at the famous Café Del Mar, where I was lucky enough to be staying. 
Fenny is a Goan liquor taking the flavour of either coconuts or cashew nuts, depending on your preference. I always opted for coconut, never having been a big fan of the latter. An entire bottle cost about five hundred rupees, six or seven pounds, and was easily shared between a group of us. The cost of living in India, and the haggling in which I frequently participated when at local markets, is something that has haunted me since. I remember having a near argument on the beach with a local who simply couldn’t comprehend how much a packet of cigarettes cost in my native country. It was an alien idea to him that I would pay almost his week's entire earnings on something as trivial as smoking. My insistence lasted all of ten minutes before the heat of the sun and my impatience got the better of me, and I ended our conversation feeling frustrated and angry with myself. My entire time in India was very humbling, seeing how the other side live, and realizing how extraordinarily lucky I am.
The European Championship was nearing an end, mirroring my time in India drawing to a conclusion. Who was playing the night myself, Rach and Becks became friends, is but a memory I can’t quite grasp, Chelsea perhaps, though I couldn’t be sure.
My memory does however serve me correctly in that from that night forth the three of us were inseparable. Our time left in Palolem ranged between three and ten days, and fortunately for each of us the buzzing lights of Bangkok was to be the next destination. We travelled around Thailand, Laos and Cambodia, riding elephants, trekking through jungles, attending beach parties on Koh Phagnan that were to last for days on end, drinking in the sights, our senses and experiences intensified. 
It was our second day in Vietnam which I remember with such clarity it scares me. And it was from then on that what started off as the most eye opening, thrilling experience of my life to date, took a turn for the worse.
That morning, Becks complained of a migraine. They had plagued her for over a decade, so in what I can only describe as my biggest regret, nothing was done.
Returning from the beach that evening however we found Becks in a pool of her own sick. We were able to bring her round, though her consciousness was short lived. A tuk tuk took us to the hospital; there was a distinct lack of taxis available in the remote area of Vietnam we were staying in, and it soon became clear that the increased urgency of our situation bore little affect on the likelihood of finding one. We held her in our arms as her breathing deteriorated and then stopped. On arriving at hospital she was pronounced dead.
My world turned upside down, I heard the word ‘tumour’ and ran to the Vietnamese’s lousy excuse for a hospital toilet and vomited repeatedly; my tear ducts, my stomach and my heart now empty.
The remainder of my time away blurs into a grey kaleidoscope of memories. Becks’s body was collected and we continued traveling for a matter of weeks, myself and Rachel getting matching ‘have hope’ tattoos in remembrance of one of our best loves passing onto what we hoped was a better life. We parted In New Zealand, emotionally drained. While I was still filled with immense love for both Rachel and the memories we shared, we were no longer good for one another; each of our burdens weighing the other down.
I omitted the final part of my trip – LA, San Francisco and New York would have to wait for another time, another life. Oh, they were the best of times; they were the worst of times.
On returning home to the safety and comfort of the familiar, something one all too easily takes for granted until the unfamiliar has been explored, I was fragile, dependant and hurting.
It was then that I met Kerr, my knight in shining armour, who was to save me heading down a path of self destruction to while away my misery.
Have you ever loved someone so much that you feel sick when you’re apart? That you really do believe they are the half that makes you whole? That their existence makes yours possible? That was the love I had for Kerr, one so strong and overwhelming that it swallowed me up and left me breathless, helpless. I would do anything for him. Anything.