♡ trans-femininity is the only kind ♡

much love,

 I received a call around 1am.

"Lady Luck has blacked out again. I can't deal with this shit right now, we need to close the club. Can you come pick her up? You guys are related right?"

I sighed.

"Something like that."

I grabbed my keys and practically ran out of the house. Motherfucker. She'd said she was doing well again.

The Sirène Cabaret club was practically empty save for a couple pole dancers smoking and chattering near the entrance, pleasers making them seem eight feet tall.

"She's in the bathroom. Get a move on!"

Gary, the owner of the club growled at me. I shoved a middle finger in his face.

"Yeah real classy Eli!"

I opened the door to the restroom.Shit.

She was passed out on the grimy bathroom floor, long copper coloured wig tangled across her pale face.

I went to the sink, filling up my water bottle. I then poured it down her body.

She jolted awake, bleary red eyes scanning her surroundings.

"Huh? Oh it's you. What are YOU" she hapharzardly pointed at me. "Hic-doing here."

"I've come to get you out of here. Now get up. Come on."

I dragged her to her feet. Her legs were black and blue, and her once pristine tuck was now lopsided.

"I don't fucking need-fuck-any-help- Sam."

"It's Eli. I don't go by Sam any more."

"Well fuck me, whatever. Eliiii!"

Her accent grew intense as she became more agitated.

The moon hung low in the black sky. I shivered.

I strapped her into the front seat of my tiny red fiat and turned on the radio.

She almost immediately calmed down, and started singing along.

"I'm up, and jaws are on the floor..."

Even blackout drunk she sounded like a fucking nightingale.

The door to my flat was stuck. “Come on!” I cried out in frustration. Just as I was about to call my landlord, it clicked open.

It was almost 3 am. I lay her down on my sofa, covering her with a blanket. I had to undress her, which if sober she would have never let me do. The two lamps I had left on before going out for the night cast shadows across her pointed features.

Her corset, pads and dress were quickly tucked away in my laundry basket, and I dabbed and bandaged her wounds. She had a fair amount of them. Gashes on her legs and a large bump on her forehead. Who the fuck had she been hanging out with? Not that idiot James again I hoped. He was a real cunt, and a chaser, always coming on to the trans queens at the club and abusing his position as manager.

Finally, as the sun peeked through the curtains, she dozed off, her eyes fluttering shut. I noticed she was wearing the black tourmaline necklace I'd gotten her for her birthday. I smiled.

The next day, my alarm went off at 1pm. I stretched. Didn't need to be anywhere for at least a couple hours. I went downstairs to wake her up. I was fully expecting her to have left earlier in the day and written a note. But she was wrapped up in the robe I left out for her whenever she stayed, and was sipping green tea. She had somehow managed to find some incense, which was burning near the stove, an old trick she’d taught me so that the house wouldn't catch fire.

"Hello Eli."

"Hi." I said nervously. 

As close as we were, she intimidated me to no end. She was like the sun.

"Why did you help me last night? I was a bitch to everyone, and you were almost certainly no exception."

"You're like family to me." I shrugged. There was nothing else to it, really. She had been there for me when my dad had kicked me out of the house at age 18, she had always looked out for me at the clubs, and had given me numerous tips on how to perfect my drag. Now, she didn’t remember all of this, as she was often drunk, but I did. And I made sure to remind her every chance I got.

She placed her hand on mine.

"Thank you. I'm sorry I was such a dick last night. I wasn’t myself. If you hadn't shown up, well. We won't go there. Is this all part of your master plan to become my drag child?" She cackled.

I grinned, in spite of myself.

"Yes. Is it working?"

She laughed.

"I'm a fucking mess, but you don't seem to care. I guess that's enough for me. Ok. But you can't wear those tacky blue wigs anymore. Mama has a reputation you know!"

***

A week later, it was raining buckets outside. I sighed in frustration. How on earth were we going to make it to the club tonight?

Mother was painting her face with excessive care. Tracing liner and drawing on a glossy red lip. Her wig lay on the mannequin, curled and sprayed stiff so as to hold its shape.

"Is it supposed to storm tonight? I don't know if my car can handle any more damage."

She must have heard the anxiety in my voice, because she turned away from the mirror and shot me a smile.

"It'll be fine. Listen, Frankie Furter said I could use her car anytime I needed it."

I nodded. Steadied myself. Suddenly I was transported back to my sister's 13th birthday. My dad had burst into my room around 1pm. I was sitting at my laptop, getting ready for the day.

"Are you just going to spend the entire day watching videos or are you going to actually help with Bea's birthday?" He'd paused, looking around, noticing a box of pens I'd borrowed from him the day before for a school project.

"Where are the rest of my pens?" He'd growled at me, pure rage in his eyes.

I jumped, startled.

"There somewhere in this room. Just give me a second."

"I'm never lending you any of my things again!"

I looked around. On my desk lay the pink and orange pens I'd misplaced. I picked them up, placed them inside the box along with the others and handed it to him.

"Eli. Eli, are you ok?"

Mother was staring at me, eyes creased with concern.

"We don't have to go out tonight if you don't want to. I can call in sick for the both of us."

"No. I can't. I'll let everyone down."

"Darling. That's just not true."

She dialled the Sirène Cabaret on her glittery black phone.

"Hi. Yeah it's Lady. Eli and I can't come in tonight. We've caught the flu. Hmm? Yeah, I know I owe you one. Yeah alright Gary. Auf wiedersen!"

"So." She grinned at me."What do you want to watch?"

"Oh I love this part!"

I'd picked 'Death Becomes her' because I knew she loved it. She walked around the house quoting it, which had caused me to develop vocal stims from it as well.

I snuggled against her. She stroked my hair, her eyes fixing the screen, cackling every time it got to one of her favourite lines.

The rain pattered against the windows, and the fire crackled. I felt my body relax, and, closing my eyes, placed my head softly on her lap.

***

It was the 1st of May and I was alone. The clock ticked in the empty flat. Lady had gone to the supermarket, so I had decided to clean up, although that quickly left me exhausted. I poured myself a glass of juice and put on a record on her ancient looking player. 

The soundtrack to the Wizard of Oz filled the space, Judy’s voice echoing every which way.

All of a sudden I heard the landline ring.

I picked up the phone.

"Hello?"

"Is this Wilbert Collins?"

"Who?"

And then it clicked. That was Lady's dead name.

“What is it?”

“Petra Collins is in the hospital. She’s asking for her son.”

I blinked.

“She-” I cleared my throat. “He is out right now. I’ll let him-” the word felt like charcoal on my tongue. “Know you called.”

I heard the car parking on the pavement outside. 

She slipped through the door. Her russet toned updo was dotted with black ribbons and faux pearls. She clattered into the house, black stilettos tapping against the flat’s black and white tiles.

“Hello Eli!” She paused, and noticed the look on my face.

“What is it?” But I could tell she’d already worked it out.

She fell to the ground, knees bruising, her left stocking tearing a little as she did so. The shopping bags she had been holding let loose glass bottles that shattered, amber coloured liquid spilling everywhere. She started shaking uncontrollably. Her left leg began to twitch, and I could hear her breath shortening as she gasped for air. I grabbed a glass from the cabinet and filled it with water. 

I placed it by her feet. She looked up at me, and I saw that her eyes were dark and empty, not like the shimmering lagoon coloured ones I knew.

She took the glass, but didn’t drink. She just stared into it. I gently approached her. Tilted her head back. Touched her lips so she’d open them. And poured the liquid down her open throat. She swallowed. Coughed a little. Came back to me.

***

At around 4pm, I entered the hospital. She stayed outside, smoking a joint and staring into space, fidgeting with the cuffs on her purple coat. I walked up to the desk, platform docs echoing through the bright white space.

“Hi. We’re looking for Petra Collins? She asked for her child.”

“Room C120.” 

The secretary barely looked up. She seemed intent on painting her nails a lurid shade of green which clashed with her striped orange jumper.

“Ookay then.”

I stepped through the automatic doors and into the cold January air.

“Mother. She’s in room C120. You sure you want to do this?”

She cracked a smile. Her polka dotted ‘50s style sunnies glinted in the late afternoon light.

“I can do it. I don’t care anymore.”

I nodded.

***

We exited the lift. The hallway stank of piss and stale bodies. I shivered. 

We stopped in front of the door. She knocked three times with a delicate hand, her pointed black nails digging into her palm as she did so.

The hinges creaked as it swung open, revealing a white bed upon which lay an elderly looking woman. Her grey hair was matted with sweat, and her milky eyes stared at us in shock.

“Who are you? I asked for my son!”

Mother winced, but stood taller.

“It's me Mom. And it's Althea now.”

The elderly woman started crying, and didn’t stop till Mother had laid a hand on her frail one.

“You're beautiful.”

Mother choked back a sob.

“Thank you.”

The old woman began to cough, and pretty soon had coated her sheets with a patch of blood.

Her eyes glazed over, and she went stiff.

“We should go.” 

I whispered, stroking Mother's shoulder. She nodded silently in defeat.

We slipped out of the room, and floated through and out of the hospital like brightly coloured ghosts.

***

It was finally June. The early evening sun filtered through the trees. I set down the towels, taking out a flask of lavender lemonade I had made the night before. Mother wore a black bathing suit straight out of a 1950s pinup calendar, and her hair was tied back so as to create her signature updo.

On her wrist was a tattoo of a wave so as to represent her mum. 

She had gotten it at 1 am on a Tuesday, and had dragged me to the nearest tattoo parlour, begging me to sit with her because she was so anxious about the pain. I sat there, whilst she chattered with the artist, who was a close friend doing a favour for her. As you might have guessed, tattoo studios aren’t usually open in the rare hours of the morning. Just like said morning, her flesh appeared to be rather rare as well. She silently cried as the woman dug her ink filled needle into her alabaster skin. Once it was done, she smiled at me, so as to signify that she was alright really, and not to worry.

The lake winked at me, and the early summer sunshine caressed my skin, a soft breeze coating us like a blanket, not unlike the one laid out onto the pebbly ground.

Mother got to her feet, and, having snatched a pebble off of the shore, threw it diligently. It skipped across the surface of the water. In the distance, one could see three magpies swirling through the air, their wings slicing through the atmosphere, squawking like drag queens after a night of performance at the Sirène Cabaret.

Mother caught me off guard by showering me with a handful of water, causing me to squeal and shiver in shock.

“How dare you!” I said, with a glint in my eye. I legged it towards the lake, and splashed her in return. 

“You little minx!” She laughed. 

We ran into the body of murky greenish liquid, screeching in delight.

The sun dipped, and night finally fell onto the clearing we had found.

“Time to go home.”

Mother said.

I nodded, and we walked away, back to the car, towels and lust for life in hand, awaiting the new catastrophic miracles life had in store for us.