2-Dichotomously Queer

It’s New York. You know because it’s the only city in America where heads hang high, and limbs lay limp: a child resting in his mother’s arms and under her smile; a senior leaning on the rails of an NYC fire escape, gazing at night’s gems – none of them breathing. The night engulfs the patronizing, metronomic siren circling the city on 18 wheels: it’s inside time.

“Aye, listen to thissss: bababadalgharaghtakamminarronnnntro varrhouwntoohoohoordenenthurnuk! Ya know what that means? Means the thunder’s coming baby… aww… come on back s-s-sweetheart. N-huh? Whe—where’d… s-she go?”

Marisol stumbles down the alleyway, choking on her breath and limping away from the nearing scent of whiskey-soaked men. Marisol’s clothes are torn; tatters of her shirt catch the wind and dance from out behind the dumpster she hides aback.

“Oh, wait guys—guys. Shhh… I didn’t know she was sooo out of shape, she can’t hold her breath to s-s-save her life!” the men breakdown into tears of joy, “Onwards troopers! Left we go, the more we know. I would like to know a wee more about Miss El Español down here.”

Their brute contours leak out of their silhouettes, looming nigh feet away from asthmatic Marisol.

BANG!

An alleyway backdoor opens swiftly, enshrouding everything with a bright fluorescent light.

“For God sake—here—run!” a woman says, flipping the middle finger to the men before

Marisol dives into the light without a moment’s thought. “Shit—shit—shit!” she says, fumbling to lock the door and all of its 6-door chains.

“Clinic?” Marisol trembles, looking up at the small office filled with an examination table, physio balls, resistance training equipment, and a file-littered desk.

“Thank you. Thank you—thank you, thank you so much. Those men—"

“I know. New York… this isn’t the first time I’ve had to open my door to people like you,” she says, seeing the number those men did on Marisol’s torso, “Jesus, say, what’s your name. I can help you.”

“No—no! No service! No debt! No money… please; I’m fine,” spits Marisol. Marisol’s saviour stares – silently crying – along her every red stain, every bruise, blackened eye, and every charred nick on the heart-shaped locket around her neck.

“My name is Marisol.”

Marisol catches the scent of her saviour’s lime-like perfume, and eye of the red name tag on her chest: Fleur.

“You’re not fine--look, it’s good, it’s okay. We’re not a government-run operation. Not even affiliated with those asshole cops - or ‘New Cops”, Fleur assures, “I own this place. I can help you – free of charge; I promise.” Fleur shrugs and raises her hands in the air, smiling.

THUK! THUK!

“You witches think ya’ doin’ in there, nhuh!?” yells one of the New Cops from outside, “Stupid Spanish inbred.”

The New Cops rock the doorknob and its steel hinges. Fleur reaches into her nearby desk and pulls out a whistle.

“Cover your ears, Marisol…”

FFWWWWWWWHHHHHHHEEEEEEEEE!

“What the—ahh! Witch!” a man shrieks, kicking the door, “C’mon guys. Cheap tricks ya’alley hobo. The New NYPD won’t stand for this type of bull—”

FFWWWWWWWHHHHHHHEEEEEEEEE!

The lot of footsteps fades, leaving the office clock to play as sound’s centrepiece.

“They gone…? Yes, they’re gone, I must go now.”

“Wait, no! Look at yourself: torn clothes, bloodstains, and that leg,” Fleur gags, “It’s most definitely dislocated – or worse! Just stop being so reluctant, for I guarantee it, you’ll end up a fish about a hook by those men if you don’t let me help. You need me.”

Fleur’s eyes draw to Marisol’s heart-shaped locket.

“Fine.” Marisol agrees, crossing her arms.

“Wow, okay. Lie on the examination table, here, let me see it…”

The clock ticks time away and tocks to the occasional siren, alongside the driver’s giddy laughter. The New NYPD were always overzealous to extort any aliens they’d find roaming the streets, the alleys; hoping to make America pure-blooded again, ridding every skin colour and accent that wasn’t the classic red-white-blue. Even at 3:00 a.m., as it was when Fleur finished with Marisol’s legs, which were now cast to the brim.

“Thank you!”

“No problem. My name is Fleur. Fleur Van Der.” Fleur smiles, touching Marisol’s cast.

“Then thank you, Fleur,” Marisol touches Fleur’s hand, “Van Der.”

The night goes on and Marisol sleeps on the examination table with a spare blanket. Fleur stays overnight to keep a watch over Marisol, sleeping on her desk. The dusk of daylight finally encroaches. The day begins anew. Fleur’s eyes slowly tread the daylight bleeding from the blinds.

“Marisol. Marisol? Are you awake? Today is Monday, and the PD checks in every week to… umm… ask questions. The New America has necessitated new pre-assessment safety precautions, cleanings… d’ya mind if—"

“It’s fine, I understand,” Marisol snaps, “Don’t want to upset the pure. I won’t overstay my welcome… I thought it not that New York had any good Samaritans… I should leave now” Marisol hurries to the front door.

“Hobo…” says Fleur, cautiously.

“Hmm? ‘Twas that?” Marisol asks.

“That man – that grotesquerie for a human – he called you an alley hobo,” Fleur’s heart cringes on saying it, “You don’t have a home, do you?”

“Home?” Marisol snorts, “Why so concerned? I’m not a broken Spanish twig in an American forest. I appreciate what you did for me, but I can get by just fine on my own. Lo que sea, eso es suficiente,” she continues her under-the-breath rant before pulling on the door, “Do you mind? Keys?”

“No.” retorts Fleur. Twisting around and flipping her hair like she was on a catwalk.

“Excuse me?” said Marisol, half scoffing, half laughing.

“No. No, you’re not leaving like that – New York of all places. The god damn heart of New America. I have a spare practitioner’s room you can sleep in until you’re properly recovered. The revolution has put a slow on everything, so I don’t foresee needing it anytime soon. Either that or the next time those men come chasing you down that alleyway, I won’t open my doors.”

For the first time in Marisol’s onerous life, she felt a tinkle of relief that somebody stopped her. To care is human; to neglect is normal.

“Aren’t you relentless?” she replies, smirking a tad as the television switches on, revealing the prim suit of a CNN news anchor. It’s 7:45 a.m: privilege time for the next 4 hours.

“This just in: A new crime syndicate emerges, calling themselves the Synd Dao Syndicate – “The Synd”. The Synd has claimed responsibility for the series of homophobic shootings by impersonating ICE and New NYPD government officials, including last week’s shooting of New York’s Barracuda Lounge – a gay bar in Western Manhomous. Law enforcement suspects this man is the head of The Synd, seeing that after idle dash-cam footage revealed his ordering and clear leadership over the group of 5, before going forth with the masked shooting…”

The screen cuts to the dashboard of a large truck parked aside the entrance of the Barracuda Lounge, marked unmistakably in pink neon, followed by the 6 men dressed in all black.

“Remember, a burden a day keeps the gays away,” one of the men jokes, “We stain our hands today to create a cleaner tomorrow. Okay? Onwards troopers!” Gunfire nearly deafens the audio, but not insomuch the screams of young men are not heard.

“That’s the—", Fleur stammers.

“The guy from last night. Nope, I’ve to go, now. Open the door—open the door! Do not try and convince me otherwise, just let me be. Fleur!” Marisol rushes to collect herself.

“And I flipped them off all the while.” Fleur laughs, shaking her head; hopelessly.

Marisol stomps as much as she can in a cast over to the rear door. The handle turns all the way.

“Bye, I’m gone,” she says.

Fleur blurts out, “Not again!”

“What!?” Marisol spits.

“What’s your problem? Why so concerned bout’ me?”

“I had a girlfriend of my own, Sofía. The reason… that I wanted you to stay… god, you look just like—"

“Sofía Imogene Germain?” Marisol finishes, “I can’t stay here – you—you… were the love of my life’s love of life. She adored you. And yet you…”

“I did not!” Fleur yells, unveiling a snarl that breaks her caring persona.

“You let her die,” Marisol trembles, “My sister, my guardian… she was the only soul in my corner that I could turn to; to listen to and confide—to ask and to help. In her darkest hour, newly jobless, utterly penniless, forbidden to practice medicine in the freest country in the world, some Fleur, ratted on her—left her to die in this godforsaken America you call home with nothing but a heart-shaped locket to remember you by,” as she grabbed the tattered locket around her neck, “This is yours - it always was! You left her to go about your cozy days in this clinic as a pure, opening the backdoor for more twigs to pile up in your office to feed you a false sense of decency that you…” Marisol’s face tenses, storming out of the office.

Fleur stares standing, then meanders to the examination table and sits. She brings her hands to her face; they dampened instantly.

“Sophs, It seems like you were but a fleeting moment in my valley of memories, none too fond, nor none too comparable to our time spent; listening to your eyes as they sang deafly in joy seeing the aliens fed; teaching me the skills to build a career together in fixing those broken; wondering the paths of Central Park without realizing we’ve crossed its entirety. Sofía—” tears trickle into her mouth, “You were the cornerstone, and I see it now, Marisol’s too. It’s true, that life beyond my narrow view of only its highs superseded the lows that followed you after hours. You were like a gem to me. I wanted to showcase you to whomever and whoever would listen… my err in judgement which sired your fatal flaw…”

Fleurs sits, dwelling on the picture she has repainted in her head at least a thousand times: two men emerge from behind Sofía dressed in ICE uniforms. They grab her arms as she yells and calls for Fleur. The shootings on the TV and clock drown the silence.

And with each gunshot, tick, tock, Marisol masks her steps and puts an ear to the door.

“Why was I the exception!?” Fleur whines, swiping away the picture of two women kissing under New York snow, “Why did you let me tell them, encouraged me? You let me sell you out like I let people through the backdoor, claiming heroism. I’m no hero. Not yours. Not mine. Not Marisol’s.”

Marisol slumps down the door, staring at her heart-shaped locket, and unleashes a heart-wrenching scream.

“IT’S A CRIME TO TRY TO BECOME AMERICAN! A crime to be poor; a crime to be queer; a crime to trust the bourgeois, and the ultimate taboo to love the pure. And you still broke it, of course you did,” Marisol laughs, drenched in tears, “You saw too much humanity in the monsters and played their game of hunt n’ chase. Idiot. They caught you…”

“I plagued you…” Fleur says.

“Tormented you…” Marisol retorts.

“Loved you…”

“Hated you…”

“Held you…”

“Hurt you…”

“Would’ve died for you…”

“Killed you!” Marisol screams, “Sofía, I would’ve—"

“Died for you? That what you were gonna say?”

The blood in Marisol’s heart nearly clogged. It wasn’t Marisol who said that.

“Thunder’s back for seconds, baby! And it doesn’t look like you have any saving grace doors this time!” shouted an oafish-looking man as he lunges towards Marisol.

Fleur bolts towards the backdoor, grabbing a pencil …

BANG!

Fleur bursts through. “You ass… hole?” The wind caresses her face, looking down the empty alley. A golden glint on the ground catches her eye – right beside the dumpster she found Marisol…

Her golden heart-shaped locked – nicked – crushed – bloodied.

“I’m sorry.”