Trying To Endure

Chapter One

SONG: Arctic Monkeys - Do I Wanna Know?

Warning: racism

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D E R E K   M A T T H E W S

15th September, sky blushing with bewitched warm colours, the Head of my aunt's Seraphim steps out of a regal, black Range Rover, two dark Cadillac Escalades behind. He bestows a warm-hearted smile, unwinding his arms, irresistibly elated.

I couldn't help embracing him. "I can't believe I did it," I mumble into his shoulder, indulging in amazing incredulity, waiting to wake up.

He pats my back. "I can. Well done, musuko."

I swallow a forming lump, my brows furrowing. I'm not used to acknowledgements and praises. I never felt I deserved it, thanks to dear old Dad. Truth be told, I'm proud of myself too. Three months of perseverance finished. Rehab was so swift, flashed by within a split second. No calls to get out. No excuses for not trying. Merely worked on the goal to be better. Promise fulfilled.

"Ready to go home?"

"God, yes." He laughs. "I miss the chefs' cooking."

Soon, Saint Maximilian Kolbe — an illustrious opal-white — evanesced. A distant smudge subsequent a series of streets.

"Tell me everything," Lin inquires, the Cadillac Escalades following after us.

Surprisingly, rehab significantly helped. Therapy and group sessions. Voluntarily changed my diet. Required clinical check-ups in terms of my kidney. Daily exercise of cardio and callisthenics — resulted in an improved physique. I became a whole new person. A better version of myself. Fragments of the old subconscious me are there, lurking in the back of my mind, sealed and unsealed in a box, yet that essence is like a different universe, a different reality.

We enter a hustling motorway. Our faces are bedazzled by sunrise, shining through the grey breeches. I gaze at the flashing-by cars and premises. "I'm just ... worried if I'll relapse. I can avoid it and still fuck up."

The first week in rehab: I grabbed a hold of a few unprescribed tablets on the receptionist's counter, gobbled it like a starving man. Instead of fulfilment, it left me falling in guilt. It's pathetic — finding bliss in toxicity, a trait merely for the weak. I realised how awfully exhausted I was of this endless, despondent abyss. The nurses found out and imposed stricter guidelines. My therapist encouraged the nurses to ease the restrictions a month after she realised I was getting better — the routine I established was evident enough.

Lin opens the flap, veiling his eyes. "You succeeded three months alone in Saint Maximilian Kolbe. Took matters into your own hands and worked hard. I'm glad. But if you think you can still ruin things, it's clear you have more work to do. And remember — when you avoid something, you commit it, and you do it faster when fear is tied. The mind is made that way. Fear is an illusion, son. You are under no obligation to be the same person you were a day ago. You got nothing to be afraid of. All you have to do is focus on what you want, never on what you don't want, and you'll be alright. Take responsibility for your actions. Don't blame your decisions or 'mistakes' on anyone or anything but yourself."

Lin doesn't believe in mistakes. To him, mistakes are decisions that we choose to make — often bad. We rephrase them as 'mistakes' for composure. The weak do that. Ignorance is bliss, after all.

"Doubts, limiting beliefs, are weaknesses." He peers at me. "Weaknesses are not optional for you. You and Tanner must always be strong. You know how to pick yourself up when you fall?"