Moving house has never been something different for me.
I know a lot of people experience things differently, and I guess that's to be expected. People get scared, excited, annoyed, worried, angry or sad or a whole range of other stuff when they move.
Honestly, moving has become a pattern in my life. It's like geese flying south for the Winter: a set thing that always happens. It's natural to me.
My new house almost the same thing as my old house: big, luxurious, and expensive. My four-storey mansion sits on a two-acre block of land, consisting mostly of garden. It's current value is over two million dollars. And I'm listed as the sole owner.
The bottom level is creamy-white sandstone, stretching all the way around the perimeter, where it moulds into sandalwood at the double-garage doors. The top three levels are just white stucco framed with more sandalwood. The top three floors have a pattern of huge glass windows in them, framed with ashen slate tiles. The house is ultra-modern, with the top storey being an observatory-type building, complete with a glass roof that can open from the top, multiple telescopes, and an array of star charts and constellation maps.
The front door is a piece of art in itself. Completely made of glass, the doorway is shaped like leafy vines, painted gold, arching over the beautiful glass. The handle is solid gold, to my knowledge. The roof is ashen slate tile again, and where the wall meets to the roof, there is a red and gold stain-glass window. I don't know what the picture is of, but it looks very exotic and of course, expensive.
My new home is the target of burglaries.
The entire house is protected by a thick, concrete wall. Electrocuted wire runs in two lines long the top of the wall, and at night I can hear the wire humming. At the front of the house, the driveway stretches from the balcony to the front gate. At the front of the gate is the security box, although it is electronic, so I don't have guards standing inside it.
The security system is entirely voice-operated. It is programmed to respond to my voice, and my voice only. The gate is six metres long, and made entirely of black cast-iron. The top of the gate is spiked, and so any attempt at a climb-over entrance are deadly.
I suppose there is no point in stating that I am very rich?
Well I will.
I am filthy rich.
The inheritance of my wealth is not known to the public, nor anyone else for that matter, and I prefer to keep it that way.
I am probably the richest person in the world. By a long shot.
But the difference is: nobody knows about me.
I live in secret. My existence is unknown to the world.
Again, I prefer to keep it that way.
I'm a very secretive person.
My limousine pulls up at the front entrance. My driver, specially elected by me, is dressed from head to foot in black, formal wear. His tuxedo is the only thing that is visible of him, apart from his balding head.
Mr Dean Escador has been my employee for as long as I can remember. He raised me, and so was only too happy to become my personal driver, butler and just about everything else a rich person has. He is the father I never had, my brother, my best friend and confidant.
But even my darkest secrets are unknown to him.
If that doesn't prove my level of distrust to everyone, then I don't know what does.
I was adopted by Escador when I was seven. Before then was my creation, and Escador has no knowledge of that, except for the lies that I have spun around my existence.
I was a smart child, very smart, in fact. I was named a prodigy. At the age of seven I was fluent in English, Japanese, Spanish, Italian and Mandarin, plus I could speak basic German, French, Russian and Portuguese.
I was rather talented as well. I could play most of Mozart's pieces on piano. I also played the flute, trumpet, violin, and a bit of guitar. So really, rather talented is an understatement.
But I have an unfair advantage. My skills, knowledge and talents are only so because I am not like everyone else.
But I will not speak of that. Who I am - what I am - is too strange for humans to understand.