The Outer Banks, Paradise On Earth, It's the sort of place where you either have two jobs or two houses, two tribes, one island.
That's what they tell you anyways.
You see, they forget about the middle child. The middle class members. Not rich enough to be Kooks, not poor enough to be Pogues.
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Welcome to the Midlands.
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Nothing ever really happens in the Mids. Or The OBX in general. You've got your occasional crack heads and walking American Dreamers. Teenagers that drink too much booze and smoke too much weed, and adults that either work their asses off or have people that do that for them.
Let me explain our island. 'Figure 8' consists of folks (or Kooks, as we call them) who own big companies, work with international clientele...lawyers and doctors.
They are the top of the food chain. The sharks.
'The Cut' consists of those smaller businesses. Anyone who lives in the Cut is considered a Pogue. They're pretty much working class members who make a living off doing the dirty work... bait shop owners and cleaners.
Then you have the Midlands. Police officers, teachers, first responders etc. People who have an important role in society but would always have someone above them. Take my sister for example, I think that's where my story begins.
My name is Delilah Peterkin. And no less than 24 hours ago, I heard news through radio that my sister was killed. Murdered. Shot in cold blood. News that it was a boy by the name of John B Routledge, someone I had been well accustomed with, through my Suzy.
"Central,10-13. Kildare Executive Airstrip. Peterkin's been shot" I heard Shoupe's distressed voice through the radio. My heart sunk when I heard the last part, so much, that I had went through every stage of grief within an account of four minutes.
Questions were like symphonies in my brain, How did this happen? Why did it happen?
What were the events that lead to this?
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Being the sheriff's sister, Delilah had a sought of image to uphold. It was a list of; No trouble making, no rebellion, no violation of the law. So you'd honestly be concerned or confused as to why she was at Barry's porch every Friday night. He was no angel, being the local plug and occasional arms dealer, but he didn't mind Delilah. He'd become well acquainted with her, enough that he'd listen to her rant, and give his two cents.
Delilah rushed up to the front of Barry's house with red eyes and drippy mascara, her hair was out of place but she didn't bother to fix it. "Whatever you got Barry" She yelled out
Barry had just done a line and noticed her upset demeanour from the window, then took a blunt from underneath the couch and gave it to her.
"A small ass blunt?" She scrunched her face, looking at the roll
"Look ma, I had folks left and right coming in tryna stock up shit for the storm. I'm sorry but that's all I got"
Delilah mugged him and lit it up using the lighter on Barry's table then sat down.
"What's wrong with you?" Asked Barry
"Have you heard the sirens? Or the radio?
Or the news for God's sake?" She asked in monotone
Realisation hit Barry;
"Shit, I forgot sheriff's yo sister man.
Sorry for your loss" he rubbed his neck
