Background

Everett was a simple man, born on the 12/4/1964, in Manchester England. His childhood was pretty standard, shoddy pavements, corner shops that smelled of bacci and shit and kicking a ball down shady streets full of pot holes with his mates. School weren’t kind to him, from his first day something about him drew the wrong attention, maybe because he was quiet, or his clothes never fit. Older lads hated him for it and never let it go. They pushed, shoved, kicked and humiliated him until he just stopped laughing, stopped complaining. His high school life wasn't any different, but he stopped thinking much outside the times he was attacked, pretended he didn't know how he got bruises, must’ve done it in his sleep again. His father Adomas Carver eventually had enough. A man of harsh principles, he blamed Everett’s mother Tina for coddling their son. When she offered kindness, he saw her making him soft. Arguments got louder each night, spats turned into verbal fights, then slammed doors. The breaking point came on a winter night, when Adomas left and never came home. The divorce was final before the ground thawed. Adomas didn’t abandon his son, he brought Everett to his boxing gym, cold, smelled of leather, nearly empty, floor sticky with spit. His father’s lessons were simple “The world likes to hit you, so you hit back twice as hard.” He’d say that before knocking the wind out of Everett. The punches didn’t hurt, mostly because he held back on his son, but also because Everett could only guess how many bones he’d broken without realising. By 16 he got his first chance to fight back, a group of boys cornered him in the changing rooms, Everett broke. He swung first, connecting with a crack, breaking a rib. Another came at him, Everett’s fist found his mouth, blood splatted across the floor. The third landed a hit on him, stunning and pinning him. There were too many of them, they left him broken and shaking. When he was suspended, his mum feigned sadness but was full of pride. His father gave a nod saying everything he hadn’t said before. He felt free. He dove into boxing head first and by eighteen, he went pro, by twenty two, he had more money than he ever needed, a decent following, and many fights behind him. Then at 24… nothing. The thrill was gone, fire went cold. Winning didn’t mean anything, just earning rich people betting on him more money. On Valentine's he woke in his empty bed, got up, headed downstairs and sat on his sofa to stare at the wall, thinking about nothing at all, and when tears started to roll he didn't stop them. The sheer nothingness was a pain unlike any other. Then a knock at his door. At his doorstep was a basket with a baby, a girl of maybe a year old, dark curly hair and big blue eyes, wrapped in a yellow blanket. A note: “Carver, this is your daughter, I thought I could do this but I just can’t. Do what you want, I'm sorry.” He didn’t sleep, holding the baby, unsure, almost in tears. He had no bottles, no cot, no clue . By morning he drove through streets he hadn't walked in a long time, stopped at shops to buy what she needed. DNA test confirmed she was his, he didn’t ask about the mother, why would he? He had finally been given something to fight for, his baby girl Emilia. It wasn’t always easy, some nights she wouldn’t stop crying, mornings left him exhausted. He sought help, support groups, mommy and me classes, though he felt a little flustered going it would never stop him from trying to improve his ability to take care of his baby. Then one night, half asleep, he heard a whisper: “Dada.” The word was quiet but like thunder. Something inside him broke open, he’d found purpose. Life changed, his quiet house filled with toys, laughter, smell of poorly cooked meals. Emilia grew fast, stubborn, full of fire. Everett scolded her when she misbehaved, pride and a grin betraying his tone. He left fighting far behind by now, however he reopened his father’s gym and dedicated it to kids who, like he once did, struggle with bullying and mental health. After her 5th birthday party, he tucked her into bed, she clutched a new stuffed bear and smiled at him as he pulled out a final gift, a scrapbook of her life, something he started work on within the first week of her being brought to him. She held him tight, “Thank you dad, I love you.” His heart melted. He gave her the rest of the week off school and asked her what she wanted to do, where she wanted to go, the world was her oyster, so, in true Emilia fashion she wanted to know where her favourite food came from, and wanted to see the place where KFC started, so he booked the next flight to Kentucky. Emilia was excited and restless on the plane ride over, they rode in first class, something he refused to do even though he had the money to, but he was gonna make his little girl’s first time flying special. When they arrived it was early morning March 9th, and all hell broke loose… He and Emilia got cornered and she died.