Somewhere Between the Depths

Chapter One

Nora: Age Twenty-Two

"It's supposed to be summer." Lydia whines from the passenger seat.

Freshly eighteen and she's still a fucking crybaby. Insert eyeroll.

The thunderstorm is relentless as it rages, oblivious to Lydia's whining, or perhaps in spite of it. My sister had a knack for getting under people's skin, so it wouldn't be that big of a surprise to find out she'd managed to piss off mother nature too.

"I get the need for new scenery, Nora, but did you really have to relocate to such a Podunk ass town?" She huffs.

I clutch the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white, and don't even bother with an answer. Mostly to piss her off, and partly because I don't owe her one. She's grown and will be off to college in a few short months anyway. I didn't tell her she had to be stuck up my ass this summer. This trip was for me and only for me.

"I hope the old broad doesn't try to drag us to church." Lydia grumbles.

"She will."

Our grandmother, Annie, or Gran as I lovingly referred to her, was your typical good ole southern, god-fearing woman. She woke every morning before the sun, drank coffee blacker than my soul, and always had that pocket sized, worn bible on her person. Her driveway comes into view and my heart kicks up. I pull the jeep onto the muddy dirt path, excited to see Gran despite Lydia still pouting beside me. The next few months until she headed off to NYU were going to drag like a motherfucker. Lydia was used to getting her way, typical baby of the family syndrome. Our parents, as fucked up as they were, spoiled the living hell out of her. A sad attempt to make up for how royally they fucked me up, I suppose. We couldn't be more opposite, with her preferring stiletto heels to my combat boots, cashmere sweaters to my leather jackets and those sniveling preppy jocks she always surrounded herself with to my penchant for heavily tattooed morally questionable men.

While I was busy learning to take care of myself, how to survive, Lydia was learning damsel in distress one-oh-one. By the time she was thirteen, she had a master's in how to be saved. By the time I was thirteen, I could knock a grown ass man stone-cold.

I glance sideways at her, dragging the car down the miles long drive at a snail's pace, part of me wanting to prolong this inevitable shitshow. Gran was going to chew her up and spit her back out if she tried any of her normal spoiled brat antics here. I was almost ashamed of how happy that thought made me. Almost.

"I get wanting to visit, but couldn't we have rented a place nicer than this shit hole?" She asked, gesturing to the farmhouse up ahead.

She flung her hair over her shoulder. My sister was beautiful, in your typical rich waspy way. The long, blonde, freshly blown out hair, perfect French manicured fingernails, golden tanned skin. She was every country-club Chad's wet-dream, and just conceited enough to know she deserved the attention. A stab of jealously hits me at her flawless skin. Her body had never been marred with bruises from our father, her ears never ringing with slaps from our mother. She never had to face the brunt of our father's gambling problem, never knew that he often gambled on me, from the age of ten until eighteen, he'd throw me in a ring with grown men and bet on me to knock them out. It got easier over the years, until my father decided to bet on the other men and asked me to let them win. This meant broken noses, jaws, black eyes again after years of training to fight well enough to avoid them. It pissed me off because I could win. I worked my ass off so I couldn't lose, but I believe he got off on my torment as much as he did the money. Sick fuck.

I can honestly say that I didn't shed a tear the day those two sheriffs knocked on our door to tell us our parents were dead. I acted as though I was devastated but in reality, I was rejoicing. I was finally free, until I realized that if I didn't agree to take custody of my sister who was only fifteen at the time, she would have to go into a group home, and not even I was that sadistic. Freedom ignited in one second and completely extinguished in the next. The only good thing my father ever did was leave behind a hefty life insurance settlement, along with trust funds for both Lydia and I on our twenty-fifth birthdays. Their double funeral was already covered, along with all other minor expenses. It allowed Lydia and I to reside comfortably for her last three years of high school.