EPILOGUE
It's always quite beautiful around this time of year, especially in places with lots of trees. Yieldfarm has an entire portion of Raymond forest sectioned off during the spring – you have to pay to enter that area, which never works in the town's favour because no one's going to pay £5.60 to look at a bunch of pretty trees, unless you're my mother. Besides, and only very few of us are in on the secret, there's a shortcut you can take to get right in, free of charge.
There are more than a hundred reasons for why I hate Yieldfarm, but this only makes it to 87 on the list. Only just.
I was struck by how ignorant people were of this town, even after Adam's case, after the huge amount of coverage it got, when I went off to Uni. I'd dreaded it – the introductory side of things, that is – because I didn't want people to recognize me, make a fuss of it. Worse, I didn't want people to think I was one of them. That I was some religious nut who'd only just discovered the world outside of my bubble of a town.
"Yieldfarm," I recall telling one girl wearily when she asked me where I was from. Her eyes widened, her mouth forming into an O shape. I waited.
"I've been there!" she said, instead. "Gorgeous place. I'm hoping to live there one day, when I'm much older."
"Don't," I told her. "It isn't worth it."
I'll complete my first year at Exeter in a few months and so far, only 3 out of the dozens of people I've met knew who I was, where I came from. And why it mattered so much to me that they never mention it again. The grand thing about Uni is that people seem to understand you on some, dare I say it, spiritual level. Like they know, but at the same time, don't pretend to understand the weight of it all.
I'm driving my car, windows rolled down, letting the April wind blow into my hair as Vancouver Sleep Clinic plays on the radio. I'm coming back to Yieldfarm today, for the two weeks I have off. I suppose there's no point putting it off any longer.
Easter celebrations, mum says, but she really just wants to see me properly. Mum and dad visited during Christmas, and for a brief period of time in October before that, but the visits were short and rushed. Dad could sense I didn't really feel like talking to them and I was grateful for all the times he talked mum out of 'popping up for a surprise visit'. It is my first year at university, after all. Perhaps I'm just a git. But I've never been a family person. And as long as my parents remain connected to Yieldfarm, I don't think I'll be able to stand being around them for more than two weeks at a time.
"You're angry with them," Daisy explained to me in an e-mail. I can't believe I'm still in touch with my school guidance counsellor, but life has its funny ways of surprising you. "The town has hurt you beyond words and you're angry that your parents won't leave immediately. You see that as a betrayal, like they're siding with all those people that hurt you and your friends. It's okay to be angry but please remind yourself it isn't your parents' fault."
Isn't it though? I'd wanted to ask. It's their fault for moving here, this town full of shitty people, it's their fault I went to that shitty school and met Adam, who died because these shitty people all tortured him, like the brutes that they are, it's their fault, all their fault...
There are times when I still blame my parents. The anger surges out of nowhere, inexplicably, in the most random of moments. I once walked out of a test, back when I was going my A-Levels, because I couldn't stop picturing myself yelling at mum and dad. Screaming. Swearing. Smashing things up.
It's stopped being as bad as that. I count sheep in my head when it starts to come back. That helps distract me. The simplest of therapeutic techniques seem to help the most. Thanks, Google.
