The Safety of a Queer Space: The Bell Tolls For Us All

TW/CW: Recovery Content, Panic Attacks, Fear

The four miles journey from City Regional to our house felt like crossing continents on broken glass. Each pothole in the car hit sent lightning through my reconstructed ribs, each turn made my still-healing windpipe scream in protest. Keira kept glancing in the rearview mirror, her eyes widening at the neck brace, the bandages, the way I wheezed with each breath like I was drowning in open air. When we pulled up to the house, she practically sprinted around to help me out of the backseat.

Mom, we’ve got you, Phoenix materializing sudden in front of me, River right behind them with a wheelchair I recognized from the hospital—they’d somehow procured medical equipment like they were planning a fucking field hospital in our living room.

I tried to speak, but my voice came out like gravel being ground to dust. Don’t need—

Yes, you do, Keira cut me off, her tone brooking no argument. You nearly died six times. Get into the fucking chair.

Each step up to our front door felt like climbing Everest with broken legs, Keira and River supporting me on either side. When our front door opened, I gasped—or tried to, my damaged throat turning it into a wet rattle. Home finally. We got upstairs to the master bedroom. They’d transformed it into a recovery ward. IV stand. Meds lined up. Monitors that would sing my vital signs to anyone listening. And flowers—so many fucking flowers the place looked like either a funeral home or a botanical garden, I couldn’t decide which.

Welcome home, Mom, River said softly, professional mask firmly in place as they helped transfer me from wheelchair to bed. Shift schedule’s on the fridge. Someone will always be here.

The first few days blurred together in a haze of pain medication and careful movements. My body had become a stranger—each gesture requiring negotiation with parts that no longer worked right. My left hand trembled constantly from nerve damage. My voice, when it came at all, sounded like Tom Waits had gargled with broken glass and battery acid. The feeding tube was gone, but swallowing anything more solid than soup sent me into coughing fits that brought up blood more often than not.

The first panic attack hit on day two, no warning, just my heart suddenly hammering like it was trying to escape my chest. The room tilted sideways, colors bleeding together like watercolors in rain. My vision tunneled, and all I could feel was John’s hands around my throat again, squeezing, squeezing—

Mom! Mom, look at me! River’s voice cut through the chaos, professional training kicking in. You’re having a panic attack. You’re safe. Count with me—in for four, hold for four, out for four.

But I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t count, couldn’t do anything but claw at my throat where phantom hands still squeezed. The monitors screamed their warnings—heart rate 180, 190, climbing toward territory that damaged hearts couldn’t sustain.

Clonazepam, now, River barked to Phoenix, who scrambled for the medication box. 0.5 milligrams sublingual.

The tablet dissolved under my tongue, bitter and chalky, while River pressed my hand to their chest. Feel my breathing, Mom. Match it. You’re at home. John’s not here. You’re safe.

Twenty minutes later, when the medication finally pulled me back from the edge, I was soaked in sweat, shaking like I’d been electrocuted. River checked my vitals with practiced efficiency.

We will get an updated on your beta blocker, they said firmly. Propranolol. Your heart can’t take these spikes, not while it’s still healing.

Bubba took the morning shifts, his massive presence somehow gentle as he helped me with the humiliating basics—bathroom trips that left me shaking, shower chairs and grabber tools, the indignity of needing help to put on my own fucking socks. He never made it weird, just hummed old Baptist hymns under his breath while pretending not to notice when I cried from frustration.

You survived worse than this, he’d say, adjusting my pillows with practiced ease. Body’s just catching up to what your spirit already knows.

It was during one of his shifts that the second major attack hit. I was trying to eat breakfast—just fucking oatmeal—when suddenly the spoon weighed a thousand pounds and the room started spinning. My chest went tight, like invisible hands were squeezing my ribs, and I couldn’t tell if the wheezing was from my damaged throat or the panic flooding my system.

Shit, shit, okay, Bubba’s usual calm cracked slightly as he recognized what was happening. He’d seen River handle the first one, taken notes like the good caretaker he was. Where’s your medication, Wendy? The emergency ones?

I couldn’t answer, couldn’t point, could only clutch at my chest where my heart was trying to punch through bone. The sensation of drowning in open air, of suffocating in a room full of oxygen, sent my brain into full flight mode. But my broken body couldn’t flee, could only shake and gasp and feel death creeping up my spine.

Found it! Bubba’s massive fingers were surprisingly delicate with the medication bottle. Propranolol first, right? For the heart?

He helped me swallow the beta blocker, then placed the Clonazepam under my tongue when I couldn’t stop gasping long enough to swallow properly. His weathered hands were steady on my shoulders, grounding me.

My mama used to get these, he said softly, his voice a low rumble that somehow cut through the chaos. After what happened to my brother back in ‘82. Said it felt like dying every time. But you’re not dying, Wendy. Your body just thinks you are. It’s lying to you.

He started humming—not a hymn this time, but Stevie Ray Vaughan’s “Riviera Paradise,” the melody slow and steady like a heartbeat I could follow back to earth. Twenty minutes of him humming, of medication spreading through my system like cool water on burns, of his massive presence making me feel protected even from my own body’s betrayal.

Phoenix handled afternoons, curled in the chair beside my bed with their law textbooks, reading aloud when my eyes couldn’t focus. Their presence was a constant warmth, their ruby ring catching sunlight as they turned pages, occasionally reaching over to squeeze my hand when the pain got too loud to ignore.

The attack during Phoenix’s shift came out of nowhere. Suddenly I wasn’t in my house anymore. I was back in the basement, glass shattering, blood everywhere, John’s face purple above mine. My whole body seized, heart rate skyrocketing, that familiar sense of impending doom flooding every nerve.

Mom? MOM! Phoenix dropped their textbook, scrambling for the medication. They’d watched River handle these enough times to know the drill, but their hands shook as they fumbled with the pill bottles.

Can’t—breathe— I gasped, clawing at my chest where my heart was trying to escape.

You’re not dying, you’re panicking, Phoenix said, their voice deliberately calm despite the tears streaming down their face. I’m putting the Clonazepam under your tongue, okay? And here’s water for the Propranolol.

They climbed carefully onto the bed beside me, not touching except for one hand on my wrist, feeling my racing pulse. Remember what River said? Your brain is trying to protect you from danger that isn’t here anymore. John’s not here. You’re home. I’ve got you.

They started talking, their voice a steady stream cutting through the chaos: River’s at work, saving lives like. Keira’s getting groceries—probably buying too much ice cream again. Miguel texted earlier, said the bar’s so clean you could perform surgery on the pool table. Della’s testing a new pulled jackfruit recipe for vegans, says it tastes like disappointment but she’s working on it...

On and on, grounding me in the mundane, the normal, the safe. The medication kicked in gradually, my heart rate dropping from hummingbird to merely terrified. Phoenix stayed pressed against my side, their presence an anchor.

I….hate…..this, I whispered when I could finally speak. Hate being... so fucking... weak.

You’re not weak, Phoenix said fiercely. Your body’s processing trauma. This is what healing looks like sometimes—messy and terrible and random. But you’re doing it. You’re surviving it.

John’s awake, they told me then, voice carefully neutral. Renee’s watching him. She told us about the history with him, and she doesn’t trust him. I think she thinks he will come back here.

My whole body tensed, monitors immediately betraying my spike in heart rate. Phoenix’s hand found mine, grounding me.

He doesn’t remember, Mom. Nothing after leaving his house that morning. Renee says he keeps asking what happened, why he’s hurt. The doctors think the head trauma... it’s like that whole day just got deleted.

I wanted to feel relief, but all I felt was a cold dread settling in my bones like winter.

River took evening shifts, checking vitals with professional precision while filling me in on bar gossip. Miguel and Della had kept the place running, but everyone felt the absence. The sanctuary felt less safe, they said, without its fiercest protector.

Bullshit, I wheezed one evening, my voice like sandpaper on silk. You’re all... stronger than... me.

No, River said simply, adjusting my IV drip. We’re strong because you showed us how. There’s a difference.

On day seven, Detective Morrison arrived with my attorney, a shark in Armani named Patricia Chang who looked like she ate prosecutors for breakfast and picked her teeth with their bones.

Morrison was old school—graying mustache, wedding ring worn thin from decades of turning it during interrogations, eyes that had seen too much but still held compassion. He set up his recorder on my bedside table with unnecessary gentleness.

Ma’am, I need to inform you that you’re being charged with Assault in the First Degree, his voice carried the weight of duty wrestling with decency. However, given the circumstances and video evidence, the DA’s office has agreed to certain accommodations.

The word “assault” triggered something primal. My chest went tight, vision blurring at the edges. That familiar sensation of drowning in open air started creeping up my spine. My heart started its familiar sprint toward disaster—160, 170, climbing.

Patricia noticed immediately, her shark instincts reading body language like blood in water. Detective, we need a moment.

I can’t— I gasped, clawing at my collar even though nothing was there.

Keira, who’d been standing by the window, moved with practiced efficiency. She’d become an expert at this dance over the past week. Propranolol first, she said calmly, helping me swallow the beta blocker. Now the Clonazepam. Under your tongue. That’s it.

Morrison looked uncomfortable, shifting his weight. Should I call for medical—

No, Patricia said firmly. PTSD. Panic attacks are common after trauma like this. We wait.

Keira’s hands were steady on my face, forcing eye contact. Count with me, Wendy. Like we practiced. Aon... dhà... trì... ceithir...

The Mother’s words required focus, pulled my brain away from the spiral. By the time we reached deich—ten—the medication was kicking in, my heart rate dropping back toward human levels. The room solidified, stopped trying to eat me.

We can reschedule, Morrison offered, genuine concern in his voice.

No, I wheezed, my voice like gravel. Let’s... get this... done.

Patricia’s hand touched my shoulder lightly. Don’t say anything yet. Let him finish.

Morrison continued, each word careful: The video footage from the bar shows clear provocation and self-defense escalating to mutual combat. Your brother— he paused, checking his notes, —John, has no memory of the incident. However, multiple witnesses have provided consistent statements.

My voice came out in painful fragments: He... hit... Ezra.

Yes, Morrison nodded. That’s documented. The minor’s injuries were photographed and treated. That actually helps your case considerably—protecting a minor from assault.

But, Patricia interjected, her voice sharp as winter wind, the severity of both parties’ injuries means charges have to be filed. It’s procedural.

Morrison pulled out electronic monitoring equipment with the air of a man who’d rather be anywhere else. House arrest, Ma’am. You’ll be confined to your residence except for medical appointments and legal proceedings. Given your current condition... he gestured vaguely at my broken body, ...I don’t think that’ll be much of a hardship.

I don’t…think……I will be……..running to Mexico……..any time soon, I wheezed with heavy coughing. I tried not to laugh, that makes it hurt me.

The ankle monitor felt heavier than it should, its weight both nothing and everything. Patricia stayed after Morrison left, her professional mask slipping slightly.

We’re going to beat this, she said firmly. That video is gold. Fourteen witnesses, all consistent. Your brother’s history of violence. And the fact that he came to your safe space, used a slur, assaulted a minor... honey, I’ve seen easier prosecutions than what they’re trying to build against you.

What…….about...him? I managed.

Same charges, same situation. House arrest at his residence once he’s released. The DA wants this to quietly disappear—two siblings nearly killing each other doesn’t play well in the press.

That evening, the bar came to me.

Miguel arrived first, carrying a bottle of Maker’s Mark like holy water. Behind him, Della hauled in containers of food that filled the house with smells of comfort and grease. Ezra bounced through the door, their nose still splinted but their energy undimmed. Phoenix and River made space as everyone crowded into my makeshift recovery room.

Can’t have you missing your medicine, Miguel said, pouring amber liquid into a proper glass despite my medical restrictions. Doc River says a sip won’t kill you.

Might help, actually, River admitted. Emotional medicine counts too.

Miguel handed me the glass with ceremony. The bourbon burned like redemption going down, each molecule a reminder that I was alive, I was home, I was surrounded by my chosen family. From the speaker Phoenix had set up, Pink Floyd’s “Comfortably Numb” drifted through the room—cosmic irony that made me laugh, which made me cough, which made everyone panic until I waved them off.

Mom, Ezra said suddenly, their voice thick with something I couldn’t name. Renee wanted me to tell you something. About John. About why she... why she’s so angry.

I already know,……. that is an old story, ……..not need to……. rehash it, I wheezed.

Silence settled over the room like snow, beautiful and suffocating in equal measure. On the speaker, Pink Floyd gave way to Queen’s “Under Pressure,” Freddie and Bowie trading vocals about terror and love and the weight of existence.

How is... he? I asked finally.

Della spoke up: Renee’s watching him. Says someone needs to make sure he doesn’t suddenly remember and come looking for round two. But also... she paused, choosing words carefully. He’s different. Quieter. Keeps asking Renee about what happened, like he knows something’s missing but can’t figure out what.

Brain trauma’s fucking weird, River said clinically. Sometimes it doesn’t just delete memories. Sometimes it changes personality, emotional patterns. He might never be who he was.

Good, Phoenix said flatly. Who he was tried to kill Mom.

Who he was... was broken... by the same... monster... who broke... me, I managed, each word a struggle.

Keira’s hand found mine, squeezing gently. Don’t defend him. Not after what he did.

Not... defending. Just... understanding.

The room fell quiet except for Stevie Ray Vaughan’s guitar crying through “Little Wing,” notes bending like light through water. The music wrapped around us, around my broken body and my family’s protective anger, around the truth that sometimes understanding and forgiveness were different countries with no roads between them.

Renee texted, Bubba said suddenly, checking his phone. John’s asking about you. Wants to know why you’re both hurt.

What did... she tell him?

Nothing yet. Says she’s waiting to see what you want to do.

I closed my eyes, feeling the weight of every bruise, every healing bone, every scar both fresh and ancient. In my mind, I could see John, holding my arms while Zoe brought down the belt. Could see him, repeating her words about cleansing sickness. Could see him again, the confusion in his eyes when I left and never came back. Could see him last week, his hands around my throat, finishing our mother’s work.

But beneath those images, deeper than memory, I felt The Mother’s presence—not Helen this time, but the Earth herself, ancient and patient and terrible in her justice. The Druidry had taught me about cycles, about death and rebirth, about how even forest fires serve the greater turning of the wheel.

The Mother... demands truth, I whispered, my damaged voice carrying something older than pain. In the... old ways... when someone... forgets... it’s not... mercy. It’s... rebirth. The person... who hurt me... is dead. This is... someone new... in his body.

That’s some mystical bullshit, Della protested. He’s the same person who—

No, I interrupted, feeling the certainty settle in my bones like roots finding soil. The Mother... doesn’t forgive. She... transforms. Winter... into spring. Death... into compost. Violence... into... emptiness. John... died in that... basement. Someone else... woke up.

Miguel poured another careful measure of bourbon, this one for himself. So what, we just pretend it never happened?

Not pretend, I struggled to explain what I could feel but barely articulate. The Druids... believe in... geas. Sacred... obligations. He has... no memory... but the... debt remains. The Mother... will collect. Always... does.

What does that mean? Phoenix asked, their hand protectively over their ruby ring.

Means... we tell him... truth. That we... were siblings. That we... fought. That we... both almost... died. But the... why... that died... with his... memories. Let him... build new... why. See what... grows in... empty soil.

Bubba nodded slowly, understanding something in his Southern bones about earth justice, about how the land itself keeps score. And if what grows is poison again?

Then The Mother... has Renee... as her... sword, I said simply, and everyone understood that Renee watching over John wasn’t mercy—it was The Mother’s own justice, patient and watchful, waiting to see what would bloom from this forced rebirth

I stared at the message until the letters blurred. In those books, I’d laid bare every horrible moment, every beating, every betrayal. John had read them and come to kill me for them. Now they were just objects to him, weight without meaning.

Tell her... he can... read them... if he... wants, I said finally. Maybe... without... memory... he can... see... truth... without... the poison... she put... in his... head.

You’re more forgiving than he deserves, Keira said, but her voice held pride beneath the protest.

Not... forgiveness. Just... tired... of... carrying... hate. Too... heavy... for... broken... bones.

The gathering shifted then, everyone settling into familiar patterns. Della commanded the kitchen, filling the apartment with the sizzle of comfort food. Miguel and Bubba fell into quiet conversation about bar repairs. Phoenix and River curled together on the couch, their love a quiet constant that made my chest ache with something sweeter than pain. Ezra sat beside my bed, sketching in their notebook—my hands, I realized, broken but still reaching.

Through it all, music wove around us. Rush’s “Time Stand Still” speaking to moments we wanted to preserve. Def Leppard’s “Hysteria” painting survival in power chords. Each song a thread in the tapestry of our strange family, our battered sanctuary, our refusal to let violence have the last word.

Tomorrow? Miguel asked as people began to leave.

Tomorrow... we... start... again, I managed.

Every day, Mom, Phoenix said, kissing my forehead gently. Every day we start again.

The house emptied slowly, each person checking monitors, adjusting blankets, making sure I had everything within reach. Keira stayed, of course, curling carefully beside me in the hospital bed, her warmth the best medicine I’d found.

Think he really doesn’t remember? she whispered in the darkness.

Does it... matter? I whispered back.

I guess not. We still have to heal. Both of you. All of us.

That’s... all... we can... do. Heal... and hope... the healing... holds.

Through the window, the city hummed its midnight song. Somewhere across town, John was sleeping without memories, Renee standing guard over his emptied mind. Somewhere, Ezra was probably still awake, processing trauma through art. Somewhere, the bar stood empty but clean, waiting for its wounded warriors to return.

Get some rest, Keira murmured. Tomorrow Patricia wants to prep you for the preliminary hearing.

But I was already drifting, pulled under by exhaustion and medication and the strange peace that came from surrendering to circumstances beyond control. In my dreams, Helen’s wheat field waited, golden and eternal. But I wasn’t ready for it yet. Not while my family needed me. Not while there was still healing to do, still love to give, still fights to fight—even if they were only against my own failing body and the weight of memory.

The ankle monitor blinked red in the darkness, a technological tether that felt like freedom compared to the chains memory forged. Maybe John’s amnesia was a gift. Maybe forgetting was the only way forward. Maybe some wounds could only heal by pretending they never existed.

Or maybe, I thought as sleep finally claimed me, we just kept starting again every day until starting again became its own form of prayer, its own form of resistance, its own form of love.

“The weak can never forgive. Forgiveness is the attribute of the strong.” - Mahatma Gandhi

Sometimes the strongest thing we can do is release our grip on righteous anger, not because the other person deserves forgiveness, but because our hands were meant for holding love, not hate. In the economy of healing, forgiveness isn’t about them—it’s about choosing not to let their poison become our blood.