Hess had long thought of death with indifference. Not because he hated life, but because existence was painful. He hadn’t sought help, nor had he gone to the few friends he’d had. He hadn’t taken the advice that had been given to him. Instead he’d fled. He’d run as fast as he could, the darkness chasing him, and sometimes it had worked. Small havens in foreign corners of Europe, where his mind gave itself over to new impressions and new challenges. But the darkness always returned. Along with the memories and the dead faces he gradually accumulated. He had no one, he was no one, and the debts
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