Gemini's Rogue

By Layla Dorine

Growing up with a strictly religious father in a house with little joy, or love, left Grady Stoltz eager to get out. At the first opportunity that presented itself, they left home with a young man who swept them off their feet, used their preferred pronouns, and accepted that they were gender fluid and wished to shed the name Grady and all of the constraints of their former life. Dubbed Gemini, they never expected to return to that farm or the rural community they'd been raised in, but life took some unexpected turns, and they found themselves returning four years later. A little older, a little wiser, and the new owner of a house full of memories and regrets.

Cleaning the place up is only the first step towards deciding if they wish to sell it, or if they wish to stay and try and make a life for themselves in a place they've never felt as if they belonged. Haunted by the memories of the father who could never accept them, the mother they lost at a young age, and their own shortcomings and failures, they are in a very dark place when Rogue arrives.

Charismatic when performing in front of an audience, yet shy and vulnerable when faced with the prospect of being alone in a crowd, Rogue seeks shelter with Gemini on their middle of nowhere farm, hoping for a new beginning and a chance to see if the tiny spark that had flared between them once before, can be kindled into a roaring flame.

Two battered souls, one tattered farmhouse, an old dog, a cranky chicken, several misspoken words, and one crazed ex-husband combine in an explosive combination of truth, lust, dreams, and vengeance. Will the force of it tear Gemini and Rogue apart, or will it leave them closer than they ever dared to hope?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Desolate Press
• Release date: Sep 3, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223914150

Layla Dorine

LAYLA DORINE lives among the sprawling prairies of Midwestern America, in a house with more cats than people. She loves hiking, fishing, swimming, martial arts, camping out, photography, traveling, and visiting museums and haunted places.   Layla got hooked on writing as a child and she hasn’t stopped writing since. Hard times, troubled times, the lives of her characters are never easy, but then what life is? The story is in the struggle, the journey, the triumphs and the falls. She writes about artists, musicians, loners, drifters, dreamers, hippies, bikers, truckers, hunters and all the other folks that she’s met and fallen in love with over the years. Sometimes she writes urban romance and sometimes its aliens crash landing near a roadside bar. When she isn’t writing, or wandering somewhere outdoors, she can often be found curled up with a good book and a kitty on her lap.

Book preview

Published by

Desolate Press

Osage, Iowa 50461

This Book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, duplicated, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Gemini’s Rogue

Copyright © 2022 by Layla Dorine

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Cover Artist:

Layla Dorine

Edited by:

Crossfactor Editing Services

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the author.

––––––––

Chapter 1

Logo Description automatically generated

Homecoming, Old Ghosts, and Broken Fences

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 underthings 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.

They ran their finger over the surface before they stood, brushing the dirt from the knees of their black mesh jeans before heading up onto the porch, the chains that dangled from their pants jangling with every step. Fishing in their pocket they pulled out the envelope that held the key and dug it out from amongst the rest of the papers; the deed that had been such a shock to them when it had arrived, stapled to the newspaper clipping of their father’s obituary and a handwritten note expressing sorrow that they’d been unable to locate them before putting their father in the ground.

Fingers shaking, they moved to fit the key in the lock, remembering the last time they had, back in the spring of 2013, seventeen years old with a brand new engagement ring on their finger, stardust in their eyes and dreams of getting the hell out of this place before they didn’t have any dreams of their own left . They remembered the sound their boots made as they ran up the stairs, the slam of the door against their dresser as they rushed to toss their clothes in some old backpacks before their father saw the smoky gray pickup with the motorcycle in the back.

They’d tried their hardest to hurry, to tuck the things that mattered most in bags because there was no way they were wearing their drab, boring clothes after today. Randy had promised they’d have new things to replace the skirts and tops their father had burned, so they’d only grabbed two button down shirts and three pairs of gray pants, the quilt their mother had made, two knives, the iPod they kept hidden in a pair of socks, an old wooden truck their favorite aunt had given them when they were little and a dog eared copy of The Life of PT Barnum they’d found at a library sale. Heart beating wildly in their chest, they’d taken one last look around their childhood bedroom before heading down the steps. Tomorrow they’d be in Iowa, where same sex marriage was legal and it only took a three day wait after filling out the forms. They wouldn’t even have to be residents of the state, which was perfect, since Randy had explained that they’d just be passing through, putting on a few shows at small town fairgrounds before continuing their way out west.

They’d been halfway to the kitchen when they’d heard the raised voices out in the yard, their father’s cold and stern and their soon to be husband’s arrogant and proud. By the time they’d reached the back door their father was reciting scripture and their fiancé was cussing up a storm but both men had stopped when they’d burst through the back door, scooped Fester up, raced past them and scrambled up into the cab of Randy’s pickup truck with their dog.

They won’t be coming back! their fiancé had snapped before rushing across the lawn to join them, the engine roaring to life beneath the vicious twist of his key.

Their father reached their door just as Randy started to pull away, their father’s face red with fury as he told them what a mistake they were making, what a disappointment they were, and how much of a sin they were committing in the eyes of the Lord. They remembered leaning out the window and yelling that they wished like hell God was blind. Asking their father why they should care what God thought of them when no one but Randy could see them at all.

What about your eyes, they’d yelled, why can’t you see me for me? but their only answer had been to witness their father falling on his knees in prayer.

Then they were off, mud tires ripping up the grass, spraying sod in the air as the truck lurched and bounced, smashing into the fence, punching a hole in a section of it and driving over the remains. They’d torn up that old country road, putting as much distance between them and the farmhouse as they could and they’d taken solace in Randy’s promises of the future while they let their old life slip away.

Funny how that old life had caught up to them, how Randy’s promises had only lasted long enough for him to turn another’s head.

They remembered the look of pity on Randy’s brother’s face when they’d shown up at his door, their eyes bloodshot from crying, their cheeks stained with flaking makeup and dried tears. Rogue had been high as hell with a bottle of whiskey in his hands, his odd eyes appraising them as he’d stepped back to let them in. He’d given them his bed for a few nights while he’d taken the couch, ignoring the springs poking in his back and how their sobbing had made it difficult for him to sleep, and when they’d finally left with an ounce of direction, five hundred dollars to their name and instructions to give the note of introduction Rogue had written for them to a trusted old friend, they’d vowed to someday find their ex beneath the lights he’d loved more than he’d loved them, and when they did, they fully intended to make him pay.

It drove them. That incessant need for revenge, that vicious desire to prove themselves to Randy and the ghost of the man who’d tried to keep them prisoner in this tiny house in the middle of nowhere.

***

The door creaked as they pushed it open, stepping into the tiny kitchen with its faded floral wallpaper and the chipped rose printed china in the hutch across from the stove. They let their eyes wander to the dusty wooden table, the curved and cushioned chairs and the salt and pepper shakers in the center, sitting right beside the butter dish where their mother had always left them. Their eyes misted as they thought back to all those hours in the kitchen, their mother patiently trying to home school them when all they’d wanted was to be outside frolicking in the sun or up in their room, playing dress up and trying to create the perfect act.

They’d been obsessed with the side show, trying to learn to juggle, belly dance, wishing for a huge python to rest over their shoulders so they could pretend to be the snake charmer. In the clearing by the creek, far beyond their father’s prying eyes, they’d practiced tumbling, stretching to try and do the splits. They’d used a mossy log as a balance beam, one of their mother’s old umbrellas in their hand, wishing it was a parasol.  

Sometimes they wondered if things would have been different if their mother hadn’t passed away and left them responsible for all the chores and upkeep of the house as well as the sour, domineering man who’d been their father. A man they felt had been disappointed in them all their life, angry at their very existence because they’d never been able to be the kind of son he’d really wanted.  

They chucked the key at the wall and kicked over a chair, cussing the house, their father, and the son of a bitch who’d forced them into having little choice but to come back here.

They won’t be coming back!

What a crock of shit ‘cause here they were and unless they could get a job at the circus museum or find some minimum wage drudgery in town they were screwed since they highly doubted the housing market would suddenly be flooded by an influx of people looking for a farm with no electricity. No matter how they looked at it, they were going to be here for a while.

Good thing they’d stopped in town to buy some batteries for their old radio, ‘cause no way in hell could they stay way out here with just the crickets to listen to. The echo of their father’s voice was loud enough as it was and some small perverse part of them imagined their father rolling over in his grave at the very thought of them blasting their ‘devil’s music’ through the house.

So with a pained smile they headed outside to fetch their things from the truck, bringing the radio in first and making certain to crank All Summer Long up loud enough to scare the pigeons roosting above the door.

They told themselves they’d just bring everything inside first, put their things in a corner of the kitchen before heading up to see if their room had been left unchanged, but looking around, it was hard to resist the urge to start cleaning up right away.

Their mother would have been appalled to see the layers of dust on her table and counters, her walls dingy and grimy from grease. They’d made the right decision, stopping in town for cleaning supplies. A quick check of the stove showed the gas was still on, good, that should mean the hot water heater was working too. They turned on the tap, letting it run while they hurried outside for a bucket and soap, pleased to see it steaming by the time they came back in. Maybe they could clean him away, clean away all the bad memories and start again.

It was different, it really was. As they stood there, they could see the beauty in the rich reds of the wooden baseboards and trim and in the hardwood floor gleaming in the living room. Without the shadow of their father darkening every doorway and cobweb infested corner, it actually felt, sort of homey, or at least, it would once it was clean. Laughing, they spun around, arms out, getting dizzier and dizzier until they collapsed in a heap on the kitchen floor. They lay there with that painted tin ceiling above them, staring at the ivy patterns molded into the metal, a sense of relief washing over them for the first time since they’d received the letter. It wasn’t some cosmic joke, some hoax to lure them home and trap them back beneath their father’s thumb. The old man was dead and grime streaked the windows he’d once demanded sparkle and shine. They could breathe now and lay here if they wanted to, without worrying that the old man would come stomping up the steps demanding dinner and that they do something more constructive with their time.

With a soft woof and a jangle of his tags, Fester joined them, flopping against their side and resting his fuzzy head against Gemini’s arm, the soft thump of his tail on the linoleum nearly matching the beat of the music. Gemini scratched his ears and kissed him on the snout, then closed their eyes and breathed in the scent of lavender and dust that filled the kitchen. For one wild moment they were reminded of their mother’s soup, homemade and scented with whatever flowers and herbs she’d dried and added to the mix.

Most of the plants in the kitchen were wilted and dead, the leaves brown from lack of water and scattered upon the floor. They’d noticed them as soon as they’d walked in and sighed at the waste of such beauty. Now, as they looked closer, they could see a few barely clinging to life, including the lavender plant in the south window, who still had a few fragrant blooms clinging to it.

Easing themselves free of Fester they climbed to their feet and crossed the room to the cupboards, pulling one open only to have the door come off in their hand. With a sigh, they took down a glass and pushed it back in place, shocked that their father hadn’t fixed it. The gruff man had never been one to allow disarray in his home. Making a mental note to fix it as soon as they retrieved their father’s tools, Gemini filled the glass with water and gave the thirsty plant a drink. One by one, they watered the ones they could save and carried the others out to the porch, debating whether or not to replant them or just ditch the pots in the barn for the new owners to use, if there were ever any.

Funny, but standing there, staring off over the empty fields at the woods where they’d held some of their greatest performances for the birds and squirrels, they weren’t in as big of a hurry to get the place listed as they’d thought they’d be. The deed in their pocket said it was theirs, free and clear, no loan payments to make, no rent due, no utilities save for gas and water unless they decided to have electricity put in the place, just their own solitary slice of the world. Fingers gripping the rough railing of the porch they stared off across the field, wondering where they’d go and what they’d do if they did decide to leave again. Performing hadn’t been the thrill they’d thought it would, or maybe it was because they’d been doing it for all the wrong reasons. Maybe here, they could create something that was finally theirs. Something no one else could ever take away.

Chapter 2

Logo Description automatically generated

Cotton Candy, Dust Bunnies, and Stolen Kisses

Today the chain covered jeans and baby doll top had been replaced by a pair of cut off jean shorts and a slightly damp tank top, the results of their morning’s efforts to clean the dust from the house. So far they’d managed to empty the kitchen cupboards and give each a good scrubbing, then get to work on the stove while waiting for the cupboards to dry. The room smelled of lemon oil instead of dank and dust, and everything felt brighter, lighter. Fester was sunning on the front porch, four stubby paws in the air like a cat in a sunbeam, while Lee Brice was damn near making them cry as I Drive Your Truck blared from their old radio.

They sniffled and told themselves it was just what was left of the dust, glad there was no one around to see them switch the radio off. Sentimental bullshit, they told themselves as they rubbed at the stove just a little bit harder, finishing it with enthusiasm before snatching up the broom. Their mama would have chastised them for sweeping too hard, bending the bristles and leaving bits of the straw on the floor to be picked up later, but until it was time to beat the rugs this was the best way to get their aggression out.

How dare he! The thought had been screaming through their mind ever since they’d woken that morning, sneezing as Fester kicked up a cloud of dust from their old comforter. That was on the line now, after receiving a vigorous scrubbing and wringing. Their hands were still kind of pink from that, and the rest of their nail polish was chipped all to hell. At this point, they were thinking about just cutting them off until they got the house in order. It would save time on filing and buffing anyway.

How dare he! How dare he! How. Dare. He!

How dare their father die! How dare their husband cheat! How dare Rogue haunt them with his mournful songs and cautious gaze. How dare Kiowa think a handsome smile and bonding over boxcar tales would be enough to get them to stay in Chattanooga! How dare they all be so unforgettable as to haunt them in their dreams. Nothing was the way they’d imagined their life would be and all they wanted to do was scream ‘til their voice was hoarse about the unfairness of it all.

They found themselves wishing for a bit of spare cash, enough to pick up a punching bag and a length of chain they could use to string it from the oak in the yard, but like everything else it was going to have to wait. The mess was overwhelming, they needed a list or a plan or something, because everywhere they looked there was something broken, something dusty, or something in need of being scrubbed. Their mama would have said to get the kitchen in order first, but what they really wanted was to bleach the hell out of the bathroom so they could soak in the deep clawfoot tub at the end of the night. If the spasms already twinging through their back were any indication, then they were going to need that tub sooner rather than later.

Food, at least for a day or two, could come out of a can, until they could determine if the gas fridge was still in good working order. The gas washer and dryer would have to be checked too and maybe then some of the cleanup would be easier.

So much to do.

Sighing, they placed their hands at the small of their back and arched backward, easing the ache that was forming there. It took them back to their childhood days when they’d see their mother do the very same thing, though usually their mother had been working far longer and far harder than Gemini had today. In the back of their head they could hear their father telling them that the outside world had made them weak, that modern conveniences had made them soft, his voice harsh with disapproval as he reminded them that idle hands were the devil’s work or something along those lines. They knew he’d rage that no God-fearing man would be caught doing woman’s work but then, he’d been the very one to insist that Gemini take care of everything around the house after their mother’s passing.

Seeing as how you see fit to run around shamefully dressed like a woman yourself.

It hadn’t been all the time, more like half, or at least, whenever the mood had suited them and they’d been able to slip out of the house from beneath their father’s far too watchful eye. He hadn’t been the only one to disapprove, plenty in town had turned their nose up at them, while others hadn’t even noticed. They’d always worn their hair long and with their trim figure they looked as much like a girl as a boy. They’d always preferred to consider themselves as both anyway, for as long as they could remember, it had just been easier that way. Even their mother hadn’t wanted to hear that sometimes they just felt more like a girl, and she’d chastised them gently for hoarding the old dresses she’d been planning to turn into rags.

They wondered, for a moment, what the neighbors would think about them if they could see them now, stripping off their shirt in the middle of the kitchen and letting their tank top fall to the floor. Sunlight glinted off the piercings in their nipples and belly button, and the red and black tattered wings tattooed on their back and wrapping around to their ribs, gray shaded bone poking between the feathers, would no doubt shock and horrify some. How many Mrs. Grundy’s would wag their tongues, quick to shame and condemn them?

It wasn’t like they actually wanted to be a girl, at least, not all the time. Not enough to want to take hormones or go about changing their body. They experimented with stuffing their bra with silicone breasts from time to time, when the desire to look more like they pictured themselves dominated their thoughts, but those times were rare. Most days they just wanted to slip between the two roles as it suited them and have the rest of the world mind its own business and stay out of their way.

Maybe that was why they’d run off with someone who’s views and personality had been as opposite from their father’s as they could get. The man they’d fallen for had not believed in the Christian God, nor had he believed that any spiritual or supernatural entity should dictate the way one lived their lives. They’d loved that about him and the way Randy had been so spontaneous, always so ready to jump into anything that looked like it might be fun. He’d been gruff and more than just a little rough around the edges, a pyro whose entire act had involved playing with fire, from juggling it, to swallowing it, to watching it dance along his skin.  

Reckless and wild, he’d represented everything that had ever been forbidden to them, from sexual freedom to the wide open roads, and for their first two years together, Gemini had forgotten what worry and restraint felt like and just lived. By the time they realized that it was crumbling around the edges, they’d been too shocked to face the truth, and even once it became impossible to ignore, they’d tried to cling to the illusion that everything was just as perfect as it had been the day Randy had whisked them out of their father’s yard.

And maybe that’s why it hadn’t lasted, because the only things they’d cared to learn about him was all the things they’d known their father would hate. Randy had been sixteen when they’d first met, two years older than them, hair long and unkempt, as he’d leaned up against his older brother’s motorcycle, boasting that he could sneak them in to see the sideshow acts if they’d just follow him. They’d been feeling wild and rebellious that day, angry that their father had found the mini-skirt they’d smuggled into the house after a trip to the mall. He’d burned it, furious and preaching up a storm with his bible clutched to his chest while they had yelled back, angry and determined to be heard.

Their father had been beyond livid, face turning purple as the sermon shifted from him being an abomination in the eyes of the lord to the sin of breaking the commandments and not honoring their father’s wishes as they were being told. With work roughened hands, their father had grabbed them by the arm and dragged them to their room, praying and beating them around the face and arms with the bible the entire way. They’d wanted to lash out, kick, bite, punch, anything to make their father let them go, but in the end, thought never converted to deeds as that was simply a line they couldn’t cross. When their father had shoved them to the floor of their room, they’d sat there, glaring into the eyes of the man who seemed to almost be daring them to do something.

You will stay in here until you are willing to accept yourself as God made you! their father ordered.

To hell with you and to hell with your God!

Their heart began a wild dance in their chest as their father’s belt came off, the hiss of it cutting through the air before it struck their flesh. They gritted their teeth, refused to cry out, refused to give the old man the satisfaction of knowing it hurt. All the while, with spittle and froth flying from his lips, their father had recited scripture. How many times the belt rose and fell they didn’t know, but they’d refused to look away, refused to cower, and when their father stopped, uttered one last prayer and slammed the door hard enough to bring something crashing to the floor, they’d flipped him off, wishing they’d dared do it where he could see.

After that, everything was slow. Picking themselves up, hearing the door lock from the outside, pulling off their shirt as footsteps stomped down the stairs. He might have gotten the skirt but he didn’t get the distressed skinny jeans and form fitting RIP My Dignity t-shirt. They’d quickly pulled them on and ran a comb through their hair with a shaking hand, knowing their father would take the scissors to it again soon. They’d waited for the sound of the front door slamming, and longer, to insure their father had returned to the field, then they’d shoved the window open and climbed out and down using the trestle that had once held their mother’s roses. The beautiful blooms had died off years ago, killed by neglect and the heat, the dried thorns scratching at their arms and tangling in their hair as they made their way to the bottom.

It was two and three quarter miles into town, walking on gravel and hoping all the while that no one came along and noticed them. It was rare that anyone came out there anymore, visitors having grown more infrequent since their mother died. Sometimes they wished it had been their father, and with every aching step, the sting left by the belt reminded him that those occasions were becoming more and more frequent the older they got.

They were almost as tall at the old man now, though narrower in waist and shoulders. Still, they worked the fields and knew they were strong, their whole body toned from their daily toils. One day it was going to be too much, the beatings, the yelling, the preaching, they wanted so badly to fight back, itched to do it, though they’d never struck a living thing in their life. A part of them was scared too, that if they ever hit the old man they’d never stop until