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luck - farkle minkus

"Dad you have to understand-"

"No, no I don't. Why are you just going to up and leave, son? You have a fortune, an empire, lying in wait, just for you! You're less than twelve hours away from having it be all yours! Why are you running now?"

He knew this was good, his mother would've been worse, much, much worse. But he couldn't bring himself to be happy about the fact that he had little to no free will. He was trapped in his own mansion, his own home. Every second he stood on the expensive carpet surrounded by objects that cost more than some people's entire life net-worth, it was sickening. He was honestly surprised he'd even lasted this long.

He wanted to tell his father that the obsession he and his mother had with money was scary to him, seeing what it can do to people, how it corrupts even the best of us. He didn't honor material things like them, he honored experiences. Memories that he can carry with him until the day he dies, not things you can physically hold; things that will some day disintegrate into nothingness. Instead he shrugged. He was nearly eighteen years old, long past the age of having to explain every little thing he did to his father. "Some birds aren't meant to be caged."

"Yes but that cage is made of gold and covered in velvet-"

"I can't stay here," he said, grounding his teeth together. Cage made of gold, he internally scoffed, slightly disgusted at his father's analogy. It was like he was trying to glorify a lack of freedom. "I'm going to leave whether or not I have your blessing, I just wanted a goodbye."

He watched his shoulders fall in defeat. He was his mother's son, after all, he couldn't be controlled by anyone. No one could sway him once he had his mind made up. And he was leaving. Leaving New York, leaving his offer to Yale, leaving his family, leaving his friends, leaving his fortune.

"Goodbye, Farkle," Stuart Minkus said, sticking out his hand. Farkle eventually took it hesitantly and they shook firmly once. Like the were acquaintances, men, simple business partners. Not family, never family. His father never did emotion well anyway.

He readjusted his backpack once before stepping into the elevator. Everything he would need was in there, nothing more, nothing less. Just like he liked it, he would be living simple. Away from the stress and the butlers and the constant boredom and the stupid  red train.

"Which floor, Dictator Minkus?" Farkle gave a small smile at the monotone talking through the speakers, nostalgia filling him to the brim. He'd programmed her to say that when he was five years old and ruling over everything was still a very real possibility to him, eyes wide and brain desperate to learn more.

"Floor one, Lucy. I'm leaving home," he said with a confidence that he was barely holding on to. Lucy obliged and as the doors began to shut, slowly cutting off his picture of the twentieth floor, Stuart Minkus, one of the richest men in the continent of the United States, still stood there. And Farkle swore, right before the silver doors closed, he saw the glint of a tear in his father's eye.

---

Five years later and he was still on the move. Hopping from one train to the next. Visiting new continents, countries, cities, towns, any place he's never been to. Yet he'd never gone back to New York City, little Greenwich Village still occasionally haunting his dreams. He liked to tell himself he had justification, he'd explored every inch of that place that he could. Every tall brick building, every hole in the wall thrift shop, every broken traffic light, every bright green plant, every person that walked those streets. There was nothing left there for him to see even if he did go back. Some nights he tricked himself into that way of thinking, others he didn't.

He was a photographer now too, earning a fortune that wasn't inherited. Collages of dark polaroids, clear photographs from the tops of mountains and the setting sunsets, simple things like his pair of beaten up converse sitting on clean tile, they all sold as quick as he could snap the photo. Magazines, millionaires, it didn't matter to him who bought. Because he loved it. The way you can capture any moment in a photograph, like a small, frozen little piece of time. He would daresay it was an obsession, he had his camera bouncing against his hip at all time and when he wasn't taking pictures he was desperately searching to find somewhere he could. It was like a drug and he loved knowing he was making people happy.