"And I said "what's up? What you been thinking?"
'Cause you've been staring at that roof so long,
I swear it's come alive.
And she spoke 9 words, and now we're sinking.
But I can't find it in myself to wanna lie,
Keep this thing from going down."
He sung to me, watching intently through the Skype call as I wiped the makeup from my face. He smiled as I turned back to face him, now makeup-less, and returned to his game.
"You know," he said, taking a sip from his glass of cider, "maybe the winter won't be too bad. I mean, obviously it'll be bad weather wise, but you'll have me to keep you safe, even if everything else is bad."
He looked back at the camera, and smiled again. The stupid idiot was charming; his thick hair reached just below his shoulders, his jawline was sharp, his eyebrows defined. He had greenish brown eyes, much like my own, except his were just slightly darker. His skin was darker than mine, too, just slightly tanned. I couldn't help but smile back at him.
"Jasper, I know you're here. But you have to remember, our lives depend on this farm, and it's set to be the worst winter in years, what about our livestock? What about our crops? What if they—"
"Eden, just be quiet" he said. "The farm will be fine, and even if it isn't, we still have other local suppliers. You and your dad will live. We all will. I promise."
Let me give you a bit of backstory. My name is Eden Morley-Wate. I'm 16, and I, along with my brother, Hunter and Father, Geoff, live in a countryside village, named Lower Foxden. It's your typical English countryside village – a sustaining farm, some farmhouses, some fields and a forest. It's practically falling apart. It's often referred to as "hell for introverts" by the locals, and rightly so; we all know each other, there's hardly any phone signal, we live the same way everyday. There's a local pub here, The Black Horse, where my father has taken myself and Hunter almost every day, ever since we were younger. That's the kind of fun you have around here. Swinging from willow trees in the backs of pub gardens.
But things haven't always been easy in the Morley-Wate family. Our Mother, Priscilla Wate, was diagnosed with Pancreatic Cancer a few years back; resulting in her death just 7 months later. This, understandably, caused problems for the farm, along with the death of our Grandma, just 6 months after that. So now, the farmhouse is taken up by myself, my brother, father, and Grandpa. It's okay, I guess. We're used to it.
