Trying To Endure

Chapter One

"What you think, you become," I answer.

He nods. "Be aware of your thoughts."

He's not my guardian. During crises like this, he consults with Grandma or Aunt Marlene about the consequences. Aunt Marlene only takes Lin's advice. His conferring wisdom is so soothing, so comprehensible and rational. I feel bad for him, feel bad for causing another drastic situation that nobody knows how to handle. Lin isn't used to troublesome kids, isn't used to kids that need professional and medical care. It's mind-blowing that he has several, continuous chances to permanently leave, yet chooses to stay.

My home is secreted in the mysterious outskirts of Edgewater. We swerve into a vacant road lost amongst another round of fields, fields and fields, guarded by the first set of heavy gates, sandwiched between colossal, limestone fences that are half the height of pine trees and branded with the sign: 

PRIVATE PROPERTY 

£200,000 PENALTY FOR TRESPASSING

These fields can hold a town. It is empty and standardised for a reason, for confusion. You see, twenty minutes from the first wing, this road divides into seven other lanes, all equal in width and length. The third route to the right is the correct path, which takes thirty minutes to reach my home, and that section is also guarded by the second wing of gates. The house is indistinguishable on the horizon — partially because it is distant, partially because the thick trees of the lawns are useful concealments.

We rarely have intruders — our fine is adequate enough to turn heads. If we do, the Azrael are brutal problem-solvers. My parents were a powerful couple. They were on too many radars, hence Mother created the Azrael as our private security force. Dad was of a new name. Mother was of an old name — she knew how to straightforwardly handle tensions. She was the Allmother of the Matthews Family, our first voice, and passed her prestigious title to Dad after she died.

Alongside the Matthews Industry's Tower, the Tate Manor is one of the most impenetrable and expensive edifices in the world, including the land — worth over twenty billion in every currency. It is an Everston estate, owned by one of my ancestors, Tate Hugo Everston who died in 1974. It is a replica of Wilfred Septimus Everston's mansion in America, the Wilfred Estate.

It is an extravagant, four-storey, white-walled, architectural structure. High and mighty, the elegant spires are blue-grey with a domed rotunda in the centre and have symmetrical, curvature windows on each floor — hundreds of them, large enough to absorb a heavy load of sunlight to smoulder the inside. The front yard consists of ludicrous beds of gardens encasing opulent bushes, naked proud trees and petite fountains.

Lin half-circles the largest fountain in the centre. My butler opens the car door, smiling. "Mr Matthews," he greets as I step out of the car. Slender. Warm, loving ambers. Frenzied white hair. "A pleasure to have you back."

"Gareth." I surprise him with a tender hug. 

Despite my offer to carry the luggage, Gareth insisted not to. The Staff — huddling the grand, mahogany doors — applaud and cheer, congratulating and welcoming me home. 

Suddenly, barks pierce my ears. I grin. Enthusiastically bounding down the stairs, full of excitement and gratification, are my Dobermans. Atlas and Duke. Dad gifted them to me. Atlas's collar is pure gold, Duke's is pure silver, both engraved with the letter M at the front.

I crouch. "Boys—!"

They tackle me to the floor, whining, licking my face, brushing their heads against me, encircling me as if they don't know whether to show affection or run around in exhilaration. Dad's home! Dad's home! They visited me in rehab, although I miss hearing them sneaking into my room at night and waking up to them beneath my covers. A dog's only job is to be the best companion, to provide comfort. And if I die after them, I hope heaven exists so I can see these two sprinting to me from afar.