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Gemma Thicket

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Part 1: Backstory

My name is Gemma Thicket, and I love the outdoors. The wind, trees, rivers, birds, fish. Anything that has to do with nature I enjoy. I try to stay outside as much as possible. Shoes are too constricting, so I always walk around barefoot. I often sleep in the huge oak tree next to my house, and I've even put a suggestion in the suggestion box at school saying that class should take place outside. I can't learn anything when I'm squeezed into a tiny room with thirty other kids for seven hours during the week.

Unlike me, my father enjoys working in a tiny cubical all day. "Whatever brings home the bacon," he often says. He also can't stand anything that lives outside. Especially if it comes inside. So Father makes me wash my feet every time I come in the house.

Once there was a bird that flew into the house because I left the window open in the living room. My father got out his gun and shot the bird down. When I screamed and cried because he hurt the innocent creature, he told me that the bird begged him to hunt and kill him.

My dad is a cruel cruel man.

And my mother, you ask? Well she died of breast cancer when I was five. It's been ten lonely years since then.

She was a beautiful woman. Or at least I think she was, since I only vaguely remember her. Her name was Melanie Moor. I stole one picture of my mother before my father threw the rest away. I study the picture everyday, just to make sure I don't forget the image. In the picture she was wearing a white dress, smiling against a tree, and was surrounded by a field of dandelions. She had long dark brown hair and hazel eyes, like me. She had a hook nose with freckles covering it. It looked like a dream. Sadly, I inherited my dad's long straight nose and pale skin. Oh how I wish I had my mother's looks.

"Gemma! Get your ass down here!" My father shouted from downstairs, disturbing my thoughts. I stuffed the photo of my mother into my pocket and ran downstairs. He tapped his foot loudly against the cold tile in the kitchen. "Is this mud in my house that I see?"

"I- I-"

"You what, Gemma? I've told you not to drag mud into my house before! And yet there's still mud on my damn floor! What do you have to say for yourself?" The vein on his forehead popped out so far that I was afraid it would burst.

"I'm sorry dad. I'll clean it up right away." His brown eyes boiled with fury. I looked down.

He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. "It's fine Gemma." The moment of forgiveness quickly passed. "Just go to your damn treehouse and stay there." He rolled his eyes and walked away. He hasn't been the same since mother died.