Running From Faith Hill

Silence Broken

The sky hangs over the sunny village of Faith Hill, a most perfect azure blue. Few clouds can be seen, light and fluffy-appearing, through which rays of golden light slice. Countryside here is extremely picturesque. The scent of recently-cut grass is in the air, almost tangible. From above, all that can be seen of the village in the grand maze of England is the great patches of yellow, the roiling hills, the interlocking grey roads.

Faith Hill is just another one of many tiny villages hidden away amongst the countryside, peaceful enough that the only likely residents are those on death’s doorstep. Every home is different. There is no standard house to speak of; every single one has been designed individually, with the owners in mind.

The first one on Blueberry Drive is very traditional and has been built from rectangular, red brick; the roof is triangle-shaped and the garden is a square, with flower beds inhabited by the most lovely plants, the petals of which are spotted with round pearls of dew.

The end house, however, is large and is made entirely of glass, a tower of transparency. The evening sun bounces off its walls and beams of light are cast in every direction, like a prism. The garden is nonexistent; in its place is a gigantic garage, also made from glass. A sleek, black, jaguar of a car can be seen inside.

All is quiet, save for the innocent trilling of birds, high up in the treetops. The sweet almost-silence lingers, just waiting to be broken.

And then it is.

“Lily-Rose, we’re here!”

The man’s voice is followed by the rumbling of a Land Rover’s engine, which is followed by the actual and physical Land Rover. It grinds to a halt by a house with a ‘For Sale’ sign stuck upright in the garden. It is the only house that has ever really been sold in Faith Hill. It is such a lovely, happy place – who in the right mind would ever want to move away?

A blonde-haired woman, wearing a beige dress-suit, hops out of the car and pushes on the sign, trying – and failing – to rip it from the ground, where it is embedded. “Might as well throw this out,” she says happily, though her breathing is laboured, as she pushes at the sign.

“Here, let me help.” A man who looks to be in his late thirties also gets out of the car but, before joining the woman, he raps on one of the back windows. “Come on, Lil. Out you get.”

Huffing with defiance, the couple’s teenage daughter steps outside. In her ears are purple earphones, and she stares up at her new home with a calculating frown. Seemingly, she is the only brunette of her family and she sticks out like a sore thumb. Her skin is pale – almost spectral-like – compared to the ebony waterfall cascading down her back in soft waves. Half of her face is veiled behind it as she stands before the garden, one hand resting on her hip.

The blonde couple are forcing the ‘For Sale’ sign from the ground and, within seconds, they have succeeded. With a satisfied smile, the man locks his Land Rover and turns to face the girl. “Get those earphones out and explore with us.”