Trying To Endure

Chapter Thirteen

SONG: Labrinth - Mount Everest

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Derek Matthews

I hate everyone. I hate everything. I hate polo. I hate my family.

The Everstons originated in the 15th Century, initially resided in London and Canterbury. Now, most Everstons are in Buckinghamshire — where Edgewater is located. The bloodline used to be fully English. In the 1800s, a majority willingly scattered across Europe, explaining why we are fluent in various languages.

I preserve this vigorous urge to vomit in the company of the current Everstons. Obnoxious, privileged men and women, nescient and lecherous to be confined in an esoteric bubble. Aunt Marlene and Grandma are the exclusive charismas. Mother was, too. Uncle Thomas is bearable. Though, like Luke, he conforms to their expectations. Facade or no, it is disturbing. Why give a fuck?

Grant Everston, my grandfather, loathed the idea of adopting Tanner into the family. He wants the Everstons to be full of fairness. Once great-aunt Petunia heard of a black boy in the ménage, she fainted. Sadly, she did not die.

I have sheer homage for a couple of my ancestors. Righteous souls, they were. There is a hefty album containing the portraits of each Everston in the Tate Library—the original edition. I was eight years old, and Uncle Thomas hustled me inside. The scent of candle wax lurked. The chandeliers gleamed. The storm raged.

He sat down beside me on the sofa, an arm around me. 'History is tantalizing,' he frequently uttered. 'If you are ever in the need of motivation, you look at this book to remember who you are and who you have come from. It has helped me. I believe it will help you.'

There are portraits of my ancestors dispersed in the halls of the Manor. Nevertheless, this album hit different. The first page is of Lord Carlyle Flavius Everston, born in 1748, the sole child. His irises were sepia like barks of trees, skin as ivory mine, hair black as jet and incredibly remorseless, I was convinced he was aloof. 

The background was a window — still present in the library —, revealing the gardens I strolled through. He sat on an antique arm chair like a king, a man born in the heart of a lion, in a fine, dark, long-sleeved waistcoat, knee breeches, a linen shirt of pallid frills, leather shoes, and the Everston Crest of a ring.

Lord Carlyle Flavius was an unusual soul amongst his kind. You see, a man as wealthy as him desired a submissive workforce. Instead, he aspired to create a beneficent reality for the lost, to ensure that dreams are very much made to be fulfilled, no matter big or small. The key is trust and patience, as big things take a great time to be granted.

He had a diary, and because I love reading stories, I read his experiences. The more I do, the newer the insights are, and the easier it is to understand his difficult style of writing. I am the ninth generation of his blood. I wish I could meet them. How would he feel, knowing one of his grandsons is a wretch? What would he say? What would he teach me?

He inspired me to write my life. Journalling is grounding, truly, and formulates a state of peace. Somehow, time stops as I open my black-leathered journal, and proceeds the second it closes.

The Everstons are illiberal when it comes to matrimony. Marry a heterosexual, religious Protestant of the same social class. Achieve the approval of the kinsfolk to sign the papers. If a predominant object, seek assistance from the Allfather — good luck in trying. The Allfather is challenging to win. Do not ever dream of divorce—it tarnishes your pureness in the eyes of God, as marriage is for two souls to unite. If you are divorced, do not consider remarrying, as it motivates adultery.