Gemini's Rogue
They say there are two sides to every story, right? Let’s stop bullshitting shall we, no one ever really listens to both sides, they listen to the first story and make up their minds if it’s right or wrong, truth or fiction and they judge everyone involved from there, even if the truth is just a little bit muddy, even if it lies somewhere deep and shadowed, mired in shades of gray.
​
The shimmering purple Chevy Silverado bounced its way along the gravel road, throwing up clouds of dirt in its wake. Sunlight twinkled off the silver lightning bolts airbrushed down its sides as Redneck Crazy blared from a half-open window. Whiskey rough, the singer’s voice was filled with pain as he sang about getting revenge on the woman who’d cheated on him. In the passenger’s seat the tan and brown bloodhound’s ears flapped each time the tires hit the ruts in the road. The old dog’s weathered face a map of wrinkles, dotted here and there by gray scar tissue well-earned in its glory days as one of the best coon sniffin’ dogs in three counties.
Behind the wheel, scowling blue eyes stared from beneath the rim of a battered baseball cap, the skull and pink rose logo showing signs of dirt and wear. Strands of blue and purple hair fluttered out the window, trailing like ribbons in the wind while the rest was neatly secured by a black and gray striped elastic. Gemini’s arms were bare, showing off the winding Celtic tattoos that wove around them, ending just before the thick green straps of their tye-dyed tank top.
The song changed and their fingers tapped along with the next one, a raucous drinking tune filling the cab of the truck, joined by the wobbling tenor of their voice as they sang along. Their nails were rounded and on the longish side, in need of a manicure. Painted a sparkling sky blue that was a little chipped in places, the skin around them was streaked with grime from the oil filter they’d changed just an hour before.
Up ahead, a small farmhouse began to grow bigger, until it was easy to make out the weathered green of the roof with its missing shingles and the way the gray screen door listed just a little bit, as if someone had once kicked it off its hinges. The closer they got, the easier it was to see that a section of fence was down. There were tire marks on the wood and grass poking up between the slats. It looked like it had been left lying there for a couple seasons. What paint was left on it was wind stripped in places, ragged flaps of white flaking and fluttering in the breeze.
The grass was more than just a little bit tall, over three feet and creeping up the sagging porch steps, like it was trying to find a way inside the house to take over. They slowed as they reached the driveway, let their eyes wander to the second set of windows on the left, framed by cracked shutters so dusty from the dirt in the fields that it was impossible to tell what color they used to be, but they knew. They didn’t need to clean them to know that their father had never painted over the dark jade paint their mother had chosen the year she’d died.
A lump formed in their throat and a cold, icy ball coiled in the pit of their stomach as they glared up at that window, watching the clouds play tricks on their eyes, making it seem like their old man’s shadow was waiting for them up there, watching as they pulled in. The thought of those cold blue eyes had their hands tightening on the steering wheel, the knuckles of their fingers turning white while their teeth nibbled away at the inside of their lip until they tasted blood. For a moment they considered turning the truck around and heading back out of town, ‘til they glanced in the rearview and was reminded that everything they owned was packed in the bed of that truck beneath a pair of bright blue tarps.
Still didn’t make it any easier to pick their foot up off the break, not while Sweet Annie, was being drowned out by the remains of one of their father’s many sermons replaying itself in their mind. It haunted them in the same way it sometimes did when the tornado sirens blared in the dead of night, jarring them from sleep with images of their father still vivid from their lingering nightmares.
“Never forget the words of Obadiah,” their father’s firm voice had railed. “The pride of your heart has deceived you, you who live in the clefts of the rocks and make your home on the heights, you who say to yourself, ‘Who can bring me down to the ground?’ will always fall! I’m here to remind you that I will bring you to the ground and kill the sin in you before it can continue to grow. Just look at you. Your mother would be ashamed of you if she were still alive to see you painted up like a harlot and running around in woman’s clothing. No self-respecting man would be caught out in public in such things. It’s shameful enough that you do it in your room. Don’t think I haven’t found those under things that can barely be called clothing. It isn’t natural what you’re doing. You need to see the preacher and confess, let him drive the devil out of you, boy before he corrupts you too far for you to ever come back from. No man in his right mind would do such things.”
“He would if he was tired of listening to narrow minded jerks like you telling folks how they should live!” they’d snapped, their patience at an end. They’d stood glaring at their father across the living room. Taking in the stern visage of him in his wide brimmed hat and dark, curling beard, tan work shirt and dark brown pants held up by suspenders, his hands stained with dirt and covered with callouses from long hours toiling in the fields beyond those dull, empty walls.
“Mind your tone with me, boy,” he’d thundered right back, “I will break down your stubborn pride until you see the error in your ways, until you get down on your knees and thank our father in heaven for the forgiveness he will grant you as soon as you are willing to repent.”
“I never asked for his forgiveness, or yours and I never WILL!” they’d screamed before turning on their heels and storming from the house, tears streaking the aqua mascara down their cheeks as they’d raced down the back stairs and out across the fields, disappearing into the corn.
The bloodhound barked, startling them from their memories and they were shocked to feel tears coursing down their cheeks much as they had that day. With a muttered curse they wiped them away with the heel of their hand, streaking purple across their skin from the eye shadow they wore. In the rearview, they took in their splotchy cheeks and raccoon eyes, cursing mascara that claimed to be waterproof but ran anyway. With a sniffle, they eased their foot off the break. “It’s all right Fester, we’re going.”
Fester huffed in annoyance, as if to remind them to hurry up, that it had been a while since he’d had food and water and a good bush to lift his leg on. They reached over and rubbed the bloodhound’s head, scratching the soft fur behind his ears as they bounced along that last five hundred feet before coming to a dusty stop in the yard.
It was odd to see it so quiet, to not be greeted by the clucking of chickens, the mooing of cows, and the bleating of goats. It wasn’t that they missed them, well, not much anyway, though the animals had always been their companions, the only ones who’d listened once their mother was gone. They still rose
before the sun bled over the horizon, even in the city, despite having no one to look after but Fester anymore. It was weird, seeing it still, silence filling every corner the doves hadn’t claimed. The place just didn’t feel the same with them gone.
With him gone.
Their eyes drifted up to the window, blank and empty, and they sighed and slid from the truck, then lifted Fester down beside them, a thin smile stretching their lips as the old hound shook himself so hard he nearly fell over.
Four years had sure changed the house and the land around it, and they couldn’t help but take the time to walk around the yard, searching for something familiar, knowing they were stalling, putting off the reunion with whatever ghosts were waiting for them inside.
The garden patch their mother had always taken such pains to keep orderly was now overrun with weeds. They knelt and pulled a few, tangling their hands around the thick stalks and yanking until the roots came up with clumps of dirt stuck to them. They cleared a small section before uncovering the broken ceramic remains of a faded garden snail, a fragment of the word Joy resting imbedded in the earth.