Trying To Endure

Chapter Fifty-Five

SONG: Ruelle - Secrets and Lies

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Derek Matthews

Aunt Marlene returned home last night. She and Uncle Thomas heard of my request to keep an eye on Rhett Wallace. They approved. Aunt Marlene is fond of April, anyway.

It is a Saturday. The Staff, embedded with poppies pinned to their attires, are awake earlier than usual to arrange the celebration — sixty chefs in the kitchens, chopping, frying, slicing, baking. Gratefully, the blessings were done as an act of dinkum, not condolence. I agreed with Aunt Marlene that a party was needed. I want to rename this day as not the death of my father, but the birth of me, as it should always be.

Aunt Marlene's gift is a stygian Bugatti Chiron Noire, and Uncle Thomas is a matte-murky Tesla Roadster. Luke: a black motorcycle, Ecosse ES1 Spirit. Sovereigns called to wish me. Priests. The Mayor. The Everstons. World leaders. Celebrities. The teachers and janitors. Surprisingly, I nattered to some adversaries.

I expected Lovel Siao to be sarcastic, rather astonished at the genuine humbleness. To think her sister is leading the Singaporeans — Fawn is the richest woman and person in the world, and yet the work ethic of my aunt is exceptional enough for bittersweet envy.

"Happy Birthday, Derek," wished Alessandro Acierno in his tongue.

Our blood boiled. Why couldn't it be anyone else?

Lin knocks on the opened door. I glance up from Atlas's paws, chipping his nails that are startlingly prolonged. Duke wandered off somewhere in the Manor. He hates a little manicure. It won't be a problem if Grandma does it.

Lin, in a beige sweater and chino pants, seals the door, something dangling in his left grasp. His smile wrinkles his eyes and he ruffles the dog's head. Atlas whines, Lin's fingers voyaging to under his chin.

He extends his present to me. "Happy birthday, musuko."

I diligently take it as if it is a brittle newborn.

His father's necklace ... His necklace. Spherical shaped, the foundation is wane, nonetheless the ouroboros is too prominent to dismiss: two scaled, ethereally-vicious dragons, one camouflaging the greyish-white tourmaline, the other merging with the obsidian-black. If I diagonally turn it to a flare, the fusion disappears: a black monster on the white, a white monster on the black. 

The back is a motto in Japanese writing:

"Tazei ni buzei." 

Few against many.

Lin proudly smiles, and in his language, "Your pronunciations are getting better."

"Slowly." My fingers graze the black and white creatures.

"Do you remember what dragons mean in Japan?"

"Dualism."

He nods. "Dragons are a mixture of both good and bad, hence why it is on the Tai Chi. In my country, they can symbolize balance — of dark and light; of mind, body and soul; the alignment of your consciousness and wellbeing. Inner balance is infinite abundance, and can lead to other gifts such as liberty and good luck."

This is one of his daily lessons, his daily reminders.

"Liberty and good luck are karmic gifts of jigou jitoku." Self-work, self-profit.

"Why?"

"Inner peace is freedom, and freedom is the greatest luck."

You can be a prisoner, but if you sustain that inner peace, you will never be imprisoned. You were and always shall be free.