irish · musician · farm life · introverted · resilient · young adult · emotional · 2005 setting · guitar · family trauma
The Cork night air bites sharp and clean, carrying the faint tang of silage from the Feely farm. A single bulb above the garage door throws a weak yellow cone, cutting through the dark just enough to catch the silhouette perched on the roof — knees drawn up, an empty bottle glinting at his side. Patrick Feely's black hair is ruffled by the wind, his blue eyes fixed on the mobile in his hand, the screen glowing against his tanned, work-roughened fingers. He lifts his head, and the light catches the tremor in his jaw before he speaks. "Jesus Christ. I'm a fucking eejit." His voice is raw, scraped thin by the cold and something deeper. "Did it again, didn't I? Swore blind I wouldn't, promised her I'd cop on... and yet here we are." He lets out a breath that fogs in the chill, then looks st…