Gemini Rising

I glance over at my painting. It's not done even after the week I've spent working on it after working at the nursery but it's coming along. I don't know where the idea came from but for some reason, I couldn't not paint it. It felt wrong to ignore. So here I am with the creepiest painting ever.

Thick shadows surround the border around a violet night sky lit with stars. A huge old Victorian house erupts from the base and glowing eyes are everywhere. It's scary as shit but what can you do?

My alarm goes off for work and I hit the shower. I yank out the three paintbrushes that I stuffed in my hair for safekeeping and strip down to nothing before soaking in the hot water.

As usual, it’s not long enough but no rest for the wicked, I guess. I have havoc to wreak. I hop out and dry off before heading to my room and getting dressed. I find a vintage band tee and some jeans and call it good. They always go wonderfully with my steel-toe boots, soil encrusted fingernails and paint splattered hands.

Brushing tangles out of my long dark hair I can't help but sigh. Is this all there is? Painting and plants? I mean it's definitely better than where I came from but there has to be more, right? Some of the people around me always seem to be so happy. What's wrong with me that I can't be too? Am I that damaged? I stare into the mirror and see my sad mismatched eyes. One dark brown, one bright green with a scar through the eyebrow above reaching into my scalp. Probably. I slip on my aviators like always and grab my backpack. I make sure to set my traps in place before I lock up. It's been a long, hard struggle to get what little I have. Fuck if I’m going to lose it.

I stride out to my motorcycle ignoring the looks from my neighbors. Everyone in this area has it rough. I blend in more here but not completely. I don't know what it is but I seem to stick out wherever I go. Maybe it's the scar, maybe it's just me. Who knows? Either way, it's tough hiding when I stick out like a sore thumb.

The drive to work is uneventful and I get to work tending the foliage. Keeping the environment perfect for each plant. Given all my flaws and faults, I’m really good with plants. We just have an understanding. I can feel what they need and what they can do and they thrive under my care. Even my boss, Sara, says it's almost magical the way I work with them. I don't know about that but as long as she pays me she can believe what she wants.

I grab my sticker-covered water bottle and hang my bag up in my locker before heading out to the larger greenhouse. I'm immediately blasted with muggy air and the scent of soil. Bliss.

I make my way through the aisles and feel the plants. Most are happily growing in their pots but a few need some extra care. I heave out a stack of pots from the storage under the tables and get to work.

“Oh look at you, hard at work already!” Sara beams down at me. Sara is an older woman with iron-streaked red hair and a kind smile. I've worked for her for two years now and I honestly love it here. Sara is the closest thing I have to a friend well, her and Liya. I don't think Liya counts either though. She owns an art gallery downtown that shows some of my pieces occasionally. I feel like that's not really the basis of a friendship either.

Don't get me wrong, I've had friends before but they never last. I either move or I’m too weird or damaged. It's always something. Hell, sometimes it's them! One girl in high school just acted like my friend and then went around spreading rumours about me resulting in a hospital stay and me losing my apartment. I admit, I’m still a little gun-shy after that fiasco.

“How was your night?” Sara asks.

“Good. Stayed in.” I shrug as I knead the soil from the roots of a basil plant.

“You always stay in.” she snorts. She's not wrong.

“Well, I have big plans for my vacation,” I inform her.

“It's a day off, Gemma! I beg you every year to take your full vacation. It's like pulling teeth to get you to take a day off!” she rants. She makes me sound like a workaholic. I just like to visit the plants on my days off and if I’m here anyway, I might as well help out. That's Just Pragmatic.

Okay, Fine. I might be a workaholic. But only a little one. I have bills to pay.

“Whatever, what are your big plans? And they can't involve working on your bike, or your painting.” Crap.

“I have an appointment in Port Selene.” I hedge.

“It's business, isn't it?”

“No! I'm going shopping.” I reveal. I'm not telling her it's for canvases and paint.

“Oooh.” she grins. “Okay, I will accept a fun shopping day with the girlies as big plans. Who knows what can happen?” I'm not telling her that there aren't any girlies either.

Sara leaves me with that, oblivious to what she's missed. Which is probably for the best. I get to work making sure to lose myself in the leaves and roots of the nursery. It settles my frayed nerves a bit before I head home grabbing some Thai food on the way.

I park my bike in the parking lot ignoring the group of men drinking beer by their suped-up Honda Civics. They're rowdy but usually not a big problem they just make me nervous especially when I get home after dark.

I make my way to my apartment with my keys between my fingers and my helmet wrapped up in my hand with my food. If someone does decide to fuck with me I’m going down swinging and out for blood.

I make it inside my unit unscathed and dismantle my traps. I lock back up and put on some music. I spend the rest of my night tending to my plants and painting.

***

I wake up with the sun and shower quickly. The art supply store has a sale that I've been squirreling away money for. Forty percent off canvases. Can you believe that?

I dig out a soft grey tank top and some jeans and put them on. The weatherman said it was going to be hot but if I’m on my bike, I’m wearing jeans. Dress for the slide, not for the ride.

I sling my jacket and backpack on and set my traps before heading out. The ride is smooth and I love the feel of the wind flowing around me. It's just perfect. It soothes some part of me I can't explain. Like with my plants, it just… is.

I grab what I need and I’m marveling at the receipt as I exit before finding an older gentleman in a suit at my bike.

I grip my overfilled backpack and march my way over ignoring his disapproving huffs. Too bad!

“Excuse me, are you Gemini Hart?” He asks and my blood runs cold. No, it can't be.

“No, sorry.” I shake my head and slam my helmet over my head so he doesn't get a good look at my face and get the hell out of dodge.

Could they have found me after all this time? God, I hope not. They can never find me.

I've spent so long here! I've hidden so well. Right? Fuck, I'll have to take some precautions. I will never go back. I would rather die.