Salvation

Chapter One

The day started like all the others. She woke up before the sun, before the alarm even had a chance to ring. Bed made, showered, dressed and put together in as little time as possible. She sat, still, at the desk under the window for just a moment, dull brown eyes taking inventory of the pills set in front of her. The big blue one for her anxiety, the round white for her depression, and the smallest yellow one to help with the dissociative identity disorder. There were others, the horse pills, though those were simple daily vitamins and easy to swallow. Every day was the same. She carefully popped open the cover of the daily pill case and gently lined them up on the desk in a neat little row. Each one swallowed separately, with a quick gulp of water. The consequences for not taking the pills were worse than the punishment, she had learned that early on.

Samantha James only vaguely remembered what life was like before all the medications and therapy sessions. Laughter, the warmth of sunlight, feeling the grass between her toes. A whole lifetime away. It was best to not dwell on memories that were no more than just wisps of feelings. Besides, she had her chores to do.

This morning was particularly gray and quiet; her father must have already left for his run. Dressed simply in loose fitting black yoga pants and a maroon crewneck sweatshirt, she began. The laundry was started on her way down the hallway, sock covered feet stepping softly and deliberately. The living room was next. A half full bottle of whiskey was swiftly put away, couch pillows realigned and fluffed. She carried an empty glass from the coffee table to the kitchen, the faintest scent of the alcohol catching her nose. She set it down in the sink; it would be washed after breakfast. Eggs, bacon, toast, all cooked just the way he liked it. And the timing couldn't have been better. As the plate was set on the table beside a steaming mug of coffee, the front door opened.

"Morning," was his greeting, tone a little gruff.

"Morning father," she replied gently, already starting on the dishes. She would eat once the kitchen was cleaned. She flitted through her tasks, the muscle memory taking control as her mind turned off.

Until she realized he was speaking to her.

Her head quickly snapped up, eyes a little wide, catching the half end of the question. At least it was the important half.

"... ready to train today?"

She paused, just a moment. Breakfast would have to wait then. "Yes father," she replied simply. Anything else he really would have liked anyway. She couldn't remember the last time she had a choice in the matter.

He nodded his head, finishing his last bites of food.

"I'll see you in the back when you're done here."

The chair scrapped against the hardwood as he stood, and she watched his retreating figure until he disappeared from eyesight.

Sometimes it was hard to imagine their relation. Michael James was a tall, solid man with short sandy blond hair and serious steel blue eyes. His face was sharp angles and a hooked nose. He rarely smiled, and when he did, it wasn't much of a pleasant look. He often told Samantha how much she resembled her mother, though there were no pictures to agree. While he was sharp, she was soft, though hardly delicate. Wild curls fell down her shoulders, dark brown that shone orange and red in the sun. Those boring, muddy brown eyes were almost a little too big for her face, nose a small button, full lips perpetually turned down with a deep cupid's bow. She was shorter than her father, standing not much more than maybe 5'5, body on the fuller side. She was an early bloomer and the curves came quick. With the right clothing, she looked maybe a little chubby, frumpy, her strength easily hidden from view.

With a small sigh, she was finished in the kitchen. She tied her unruly hair into a quick ponytail before slipping into a pair of worn sneakers by the back door, then trudged out into the chilly morning. She was cold now, sure, but soon enough she'd forget all about the temperature.

Michael wasn't gentle with her, nor did he start out easy. They had been doing this for years, so naturally she knew what to expect. Today was hand to hand and she was thrown quickly into the routine. Luckily they didn't have to worry about prying eyes; it wouldn't exactly look good for a grown man to be beating up his daughter in the back yard. Their land was spacious, a few miles from their closest neighbors.

Samantha held her own against the larger man, blocking his hits and throwing her own, eyes narrowed in concentration and lips a straight line. And while he knew her moves well, she surprised him a few times as the hours went by. She really was a force at this point, though twenty something years of lessons shouldn't have come as much a shock.

Some days were like this, they'd get lost in the fighting. Others were days spent with a gun in her hands, something she had grown proficient in. You could never be too careful, he claimed, as if this was all truly for her benefit. Michael preferred the hand to hand combat, had a pension for knives and drawing blood and letting her way away bruised and bloodied. The injuries didn't bother her much anymore; she had learned how to take care of them and they hardly bothered her at this point.

This day ended abruptly, without much injury. She didn't have time to ask why, or revel in an easy day.

"I have a task for you."

She perked up, chest heaving from exertion. Getting away was always nice, though the details were never much fun and home beckoned much too soon.

"You'll leave tomorrow. Pack light. You have three days to get me the information I'm looking for."

She nodded, once, before heading back into the house. Something bubbled in her chest, maybe relief or excitement or just plain dread, she couldn't tell. She allowed the feeling to settle for a few seconds before brushing it away. She still had chores to finish, after all.