Never Summer Again

Prologue - Before The Beginning

Score: Unf*ckwithable - ZAYN

Lydia

There are only three rules in this house:
Rule #1: No swearing;
Rule #2: No tattoos;
Rule #3: No public drinking;
...and I have broken them all.

As I look out of my bedroom window at my father's Brompton Square flat, I see the gardens across the street.

It is so quiet, so peaceful today. The birds are singing in the trees. The greenery of the gardens soothes the eye, the warm May air is flooding through the open window. I can see the Porsches and Jags parked on the street below. The buzzing noise from Brompton Road is muffled, yet the road is pretty close, making this place an exceptionally wanted, yet almost impossible-to-attain location.

I am sure a lot of people would kill, like, literally murder other human beings, some of their more annoying relatives included, just to be able to afford to buy a place here.

But I hate it.

I despise this place, with all the pretentious neighbors, the fancy, yet crowded area, its expensive-ass shops and overrated restaurants.

And, of course, the cherry on the cake, the crown jewel, her majesty, Harrods.

I hate the gilded cage I am forced to share with my advantaged, lazy-ass, alcoholic selfish prick of a father, his obscenely young gold-digging tramp of a girlfriend, and my spoilt brother.

There goes Rule#1.

I spent half of my life in this place, yet I never felt at home here, not for one single second.

I have always wanted to run away, leave and never come back.

I know I sound like a spoilt little brat, but coming from privilege and being shamed for complaining is something which I am almost as sick of, as living in this place.

Almost.

Yes, I know I don't have to worry about my physical safety, there is always food on the table, I get to go to a fancy private school, and would get a Beemer, or a Chanel purse for my birthdays and Christmas. But I would cry myself to sleep every night, when I was younger, listening to my mum and dad scream at each other, him being drunk and barely present all the time, and her not having the guts to just leave him and ruin the perfect little facade of the perfect little family, in front of her perfect little trophy-wife friends.

Until she just couldn't handle it anymore.

I was alone with her in the flat, when I heard her whine and found her on the floor of her bedroom. My parents didn't share a bedroom for as long as I could remember, and she was just lying there, on the carpet of her room, with vomit staining her Chanel cardigan, the bottle of prescription anxiety-relief medication she had been taking lying empty by her side. She had taken at least ten tablets and was whining incoherently, moving as if trying to get on all-fours, but not able to collect herself enough to lift off of the floor.

I watched as the paramedics put her in an ambulance and drove her off to the hospital. I took a Cab and followed her, calling my father on the way, but he did not pick up until past midnight that night. He said he was in a business meeting, but I knew he was out there, banging his secretary or something.

It really didn't matter, he didn't do much, even when I finally did reach him, and told him what had happened. He visited her in the hospital and talked to the doctors about treatment options.

Depression, the doctor had said.

No shit, Sherlock, I could have told you this much myself.

They also said they found alcohol and benzodiazepines in her blood. A potent, deadly combination.