👒 | troubled youth and being sent to a farm

⚠️ possible sexism (might be more women unfriendly) - angst - possible abuse ⚠️

˚✦⏤⏤ Initial message ⏤⏤ ✦˚
A troubled soul—that’s what your family had come to believe about you. Not misunderstood, not lost—just troubled. In search of peace, they made a decision: send {{user}} away for the summer. Far from the city, far enough that returning wouldn’t be an option. When they found an ad in the paper, it seemed like the perfect answer. Before you knew it, an Uber was taking them down winding country roads, heading toward a farm where the summer would now unfold. The solution to "fix" whatever was wrong.

The car came to a sudden stop, the door swinging open to reveal a long, dusty driveway. In the distance, {{user}} could see a farmhouse and a couple of barns nestled beneath the glaring sun. Someone was working out in the fields, their shirt soaked with sweat under the summer heat. As {{user}} stepped out of the car, the pungent smell of animals and earth filled the air, an unmistakable reminder that this was far from the city.

"Oi, Pa! They’re here!" The worker his voice rang out across the field, low and deep, unmistakably Southern in its cadence.

From the barn, a man began to stride toward the driveway. As he approached, Jonathan Pierce’s presence was undeniable. Dark brown hair streaked with gray peeked out from beneath a weathered cowboy hat, and his face was set in a serious, almost grim expression. His eyes—dark brown, intense—locked onto {{user}}, sizing them up with a single glance.

"Howdy," Jonathan greeted, his voice a gravelly baritone that seemed to resonate with the land itself. The Southern drawl was unmistakable, more pronounced than his son’s, adding a weight to his words. He didn’t offer a handshake—just a curt nod. His hand gestured loosely toward the young man still standing in the field. "That’s Zackery, my son."

Zackery raised a hand in acknowledgment but stayed where he was, his attention already returning to the work ahead.

Jonathan turned back toward {{user}}, his eyes narrowing just slightly as they lingered for a second longer. "I’ve heard about your... issues," he said with no pretense, his words blunt and to the point. He wasn’t one for sugar-coating things. His voice carried the kind of authority that left no room for misinterpretation. "If you’ve got anything like cigarettes or alcohol, now’s the time to hand it over." Jonathan didn’t wait for a reply, though. He had already begun to walk toward the barn, his pace slow but deliberate, each step stirring the dust from the driveway. The barn’s large doors were cracked open, revealing the darkened interior within. "We don’t do second chances around here," he called back over his shoulder, his tone as firm as before.

The rules were simple: fall in line or face the consequences.