The Safety of a Queer Space: Time Does Indeed Stand Still

The basement air was thick with the scent of jasmine and vanilla candles tonight, their flames dancing like tiny demons against the exposed brick walls that wept condensation like tears from some ancient, forgotten god. Miguel had outdone himself with the atmosphere—string lights casting rainbow fractals through the smoky haze while Lola’s “Messy” pounded through speakers that crackled with the weight of too many nights like this one. The new pool table stood like a monument to fresh starts in the corner, its pristine felt a stark contrast to the battle-scarred furniture surrounding it. Ezra had already claimed their beanbag throne, blue hair catching the colored lights like liquid sapphire.

I slumped onto the new leather couch—actual leather, not the plastic shit we'd been making do with for years—and let the weight of the day settle into my bones. The fresh furniture still smelled of possibility, but tonight felt heavy with the kind of exhaustion that seeps into your marrow and sets up permanent residence. Phoenix was resting at home with River, both of them nursing wounds—physical and psychological—from the brutal hate crime that had shattered our community's illusion of safety just days before.

"Mom looks like she's been through the fucking wringer," Miguel called from behind the bar, his voice carrying that sultry-childlike tone that could somehow make even the darkest observations sound like lullabies. His hands moved with practiced grace, reaching for the bottle of Maker's Mark—amber liquid that caught the light like liquid gold. "This'll either fix whatever's eating at you or give you the strength to burn it down."

The glass appeared in front of me, the bourbon breathing vanilla and oak into the stale basement air. I took a sip, letting the heat spread down my throat like molten copper, washing away the aftertaste of the day's bitter pill.

"Thanks, baby," I muttered, watching Della work her magic in the tiny kitchen. The sizzle and pop of bacon grease filled the spaces between conversations, cutting through the atmosphere with the sharp promise of comfort food that actually gave a damn about comforting you.

Keira settled beside me, her presence grounding me like an anchor in turbulent waters. She didn't touch—never needed to—but her voice carried the kind of strength that could hold up buildings. "How are they doing today?"

"Better," I said, meaning it. "River's got the medical training to watch for complications, and Phoenix is stubborn enough to heal out of pure spite. They're safe, they're loved, and they're home where they belong."

The familiar creak of the alley door announced another arrival. Chris descended the stairs like he was entering the gates of hell itself, which, given his evangelical background, might have been exactly how he saw our little sanctuary. His face wore that perpetual expression of internal warfare—guilt and desire battling it out across features that never seemed to find peace.

"Evening, family," he said, the word 'family' sitting awkward in his mouth like a prayer in a foreign language. He perched on one of the new barstools, his body rigid with the kind of tension that came from believing half of yourself was destined for damnation.

Brandon looked up from his notebook where he'd been scribbling what I assumed were either cooking notes or the next chapter of whatever literary masterpiece he was crafting. His success as a writer always made me slightly envious, but tonight his face carried that particular mix of humor and pain that masked deeper wounds. "Evening, Chris. You look like you've been wrestling with angels again."

"Something like that," Chris muttered, accepting the beer Miguel slid across the bar. "Actually been thinking about family obligations today. What we owe our parents, you know? The commandment about honoring thy father and mother."

The words hung in the air like incense at a funeral. I felt something cold and sharp twist in my gut, recognizing the setup even before Chris fully revealed his hand. The day had already wrung me dry, and now this sanctimonious bullshit was about to pour salt into wounds that hadn't even begun to heal.

"That's some heavy theology for a Monday night," Ezra said from their corner, voice carefully neutral. But I could see the tension building in their shoulders, the way their hands gripped the beanbag's fabric.

Erik shifted uncomfortably on his barstool, his factory worker's hands wrapped around a beer bottle like it might anchor him against whatever storm was brewing. His recent arrival to our sanctuary meant he was still figuring out the dynamics, still learning when to speak and when to let the more experienced warriors handle the battlefield theology that sometimes erupted in our sacred space.

Chris leaned forward, emboldened by what he mistook for genuine interest. "I mean, it's fundamental Christian teaching. Honor thy father and mother, that your days may be long upon the land. It doesn't say 'honor them if they're good parents' or 'honor them if they deserve it.' It's unconditional."

Della's knife work became more aggressive, each chop against the cutting board like punctuation marks in a sentence I didn't want to hear completed. The smell of bacon fat mixed with the jasmine candles, creating an olfactory discord that matched the emotional tension building in the room.

"That's interesting," Brandon said, swirling his whiskey with careful deliberation. His humor usually served as armor against life's sharper edges, but tonight his voice carried the wariness of someone who'd been weaponized with scripture before. "But what about parents who cause actual harm? Seems like there might be some nuance there."

Chris's jaw tightened, the muscle jumping beneath skin that looked pale and bloodless under the rainbow lights. "Harm is subjective. We all make mistakes. God calls us to forgive, to love unconditionally. Even—especially—the people who raised us."

The bourbon in my glass suddenly tasted like ash. I could feel Keira's eyes on me, could sense her measuring the distance between my barely contained rage and the inevitable explosion that was building pressure behind my ribs.

"Mistakes," I repeated, the word dripping with venom. "That's what you call it when a parent systematically destroys their child's sense of self-worth?"

"Mom," Miguel warned softly, but his voice carried the weight of someone who'd seen this particular storm before and knew the damage it could cause.

Chris turned to face me fully, his eyes blazing with the fervor of the righteous. "I know you've had difficulties with your mother, Wendy. But the Bible is clear. We're called to honor our parents regardless of our feelings about their choices. It's not about what they've done—it's about obedience to God's word."

The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by Pink Floyd's "The Trial" bleeding through the speakers—a song that used to fill car rides with Gizmo when she was small, her voice harmonizing with Gilmour's guitar like she was born for music instead of the pain that eventually drove her away from me.

"Obedience," I said slowly, tasting the word like poison. "You want to talk about obedience to abusive fucking monsters in the name of some patriarchal god who apparently values submission over survival? YOU WANT TO TALK TO ME ABOUT THAT? DO YOU?"

Chris's face reddened, his hands gripping his beer bottle like a lifeline. "That's not—you're twisting scripture. God's love is perfect, even when human love isn't. Honoring your parents is about recognizing their role in bringing you into this world."

Erik set down his beer with the careful precision of someone who'd spent years controlling his reactions in hostile environments. "Chris," he said quietly, his voice carrying the weight of factory floors and toxic masculinity endured, "I've seen what happens when people use religion to justify abuse. It's not holy—it's just control wearing a cross."

I stood up, the bourbon making my movements fluid but dangerous. "Let me tell you about my mother, Chris. Let me paint you a picture of the woman you think I should honor."

The room went dead quiet. Even Della's cooking sounds ceased, the silence so complete I could hear the candle flames crackling like tiny campfires.

"She used to tell me I was a failed condom," I began, my voice low and steady as a serpent's hiss. "Not when she was angry—just casually, like she was discussing the fucking weather. She'd orchestrate fights between her children for entertainment, then watch us tear each other apart while she smiled like it was dinner theater."

Chris shifted uncomfortably. "Everyone has difficult childhoods—"

"SHUT UP," I roared, the words exploding from my chest with enough force to rattle the glasses behind the bar. "You asked for this conversation, now you're going to hear every goddamn word of it."

The air crackled with electricity, everyone's breath held in anticipation of the storm about to break.

"She punctured condoms to trap my father into fatherhood," I continued, pacing now like a caged animal. "Then spent my entire childhood reminding me I was an accident, a mistake, a burden she never wanted. She turned family gatherings into psychological warfare, positioned her children against each other like chess pieces in her sick game of emotional dominance."

"But she's still your mother," Chris insisted, his voice cracking with desperation. "The commandment doesn't have exceptions—"

"The commandment," I snarled, stepping closer until I could smell the fear radiating from his skin like cheap cologne, "was written by men who wanted to ensure their power stayed intact. Honor thy father and mother? What about 'fathers, provoke not your children to wrath'? You conveniently ignore that part, don't you?"

Chris's mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for water. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the basement's chill.

"She let men hurt me," I continued, my voice dropping to a whisper that somehow carried more menace than my screaming. "Men whose names I won't speak in this sacred space. And when I tried to tell her, you know what she said? 'You're lying. You're always lying.' She chose her convenience over my safety, chose her image over my life."

Brandon's pen had stopped moving across his notebook, his usual humor completely evaporated as he witnessed the raw truth of maternal betrayal laid bare. Erik's knuckles were white around his beer bottle, his own history with toxic authority clearly resonating with every word.

"God forgives—"

"FUCK YOUR GOD!" The words erupted like lava, scorching everything in their path. I grabbed Chris by his shirt collar, lifting him from the barstool with strength born of decades of buried fury. "Your god who demands I honor the woman who poisoned every relationship I've ever had? Who taught me that love comes with conditions and pain? Who made me believe I was unworthy of basic human decency?"

Chris's eyes went wide with terror, his faith crumbling in real time as he stared into the face of justified rage. "Wendy, please—"

"She orchestrated the yule fight that put the conflict between my siblings and I," I pressed on, my grip tightening on his shirt. "Manipulated my brother into attacking me while she watched onward like it was performance art. That's the woman you want me to honor? The puppet master who orchestrated her own FUCKING FAMILY'S destruction for her own entertainment?"

Around us, the sanctuary held its breath. Ezra had gone completely still in their beanbag, Brandon's notebook forgotten as he watched the confrontation unfold. Even the music seemed to fade into background static.

"Your scripture," I hissed, my face inches from Chris's, "was written by men who needed to maintain control over women and children. It's a tool of oppression disguised as divine command. And you—you pathetic, self-loathing piece of shit—you use it to justify staying shackled to systems that would see you burn in hell for loving who you love."

Chris's breath came in short, panicked gasps. "I'm trying to follow God's will—"

"God's will?" I laughed, the sound bitter as burnt coffee. "Your god apparently wills children to suffer abuse in silence. Your god demands loyalty to monsters. Your god creates queer people and then condemns them to hell for existing. What kind of fucking psychopath deity are you worshipping?"

I shoved him away, sending him stumbling backward into the pool table. The pristine felt caught his fall, the perfect balance that would later become a point of contention preventing him from crashing to the floor.

"Get the fuck out," I snarled, pointing toward the stairs. "Take your self-righteous bullshit and your guilt-ridden god and get the hell out of OUR sanctuary."

Chris straightened his shirt with trembling hands, his face pale as communion wafer. "You're making a mistake, Wendy. The Bible says—"

"The Bible says a lot of things," Keira interjected, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade through silk. "It also says 'by their fruits ye shall know them.' What fruits has honoring your abusive mother born in your life, Chris? Peace? Joy? Or just more self-hatred and confusion?"

Chris's mouth worked soundlessly, his evangelical armor finally cracking under the weight of simple truth.

"Here's what I know about your precious commandment," I said, my voice steady now, deadly calm. "It was never about honoring monsters. It was about respecting parents who actually parented, who protected and nurtured instead of terrorizing and manipulating. But your church perverted it into a tool to keep victims silent and abusers protected."

I picked up my bourbon, the glass steady in my hand despite the rage still flowing through my veins like molten metal. "You want to honor something? Honor the people who actually loved you enough to keep you safe. Honor the chosen family who sees your worth when your blood family sees only failure. Honor the god inside you that knows the difference between love and control."

Chris stood frozen, his entire worldview crumbling like ancient parchment exposed to flame. The silence stretched between us, thick as honey, while Truth and Delusion wrestled for control of his soul.

"I..." he started, then stopped, words dying on his lips like prayers offered to an empty sky.

"Save it," I said, but Chris wasn't done. The evangelical fervor burned too bright in his eyes, the need to convert and condemn overriding any sense of self-preservation.

"You're going to hell, Wendy," he spat, rising from his stool with righteous fury. "You and all your perverted family. God sees what you really are."

The words hit like ice water, but before I could respond, his hand moved faster than his brain—a clumsy, desperate swing that caught me across the cheek with all the force of a particularly angry butterfly. The hit was pathetic, more insult than injury, but the audacity of it sent shockwaves through the room.

Miguel vaulted over the bar like some protective guardian angel, his body sliding between Chris and me with the fluid grace of someone who'd learned to anticipate violence. "Whoa, whoa, hold up—"

"DONT GET IN MY FUCKING WAY! HE'S MY PROBLEM NOT YOURS!!!!! SIT THE FUCK DOWN!!!!" I roared, my hands shoving Miguel aside with enough force to send him stumbling backward into the new barstools. They clattered like broken promises, metal scraping against concrete in a symphony of chaos.

Miguel's eyes went wide, not with hurt but with understanding—the recognition that some fights needed to happen, some boundaries required blood to mark them. He raised his hands in surrender, stepping back to give me the space my fury demanded.

I touched my cheek, feeling the slight sting where Chris's palm had made contact, then looked at him with something approaching amusement. The silence stretched taut as piano wire while I processed what had just happened.

"You hit like a fucking girl," I said slowly, licking my lips as I tasted the copper hint of blood where his ring had caught skin. The words hung in the air like a challenge, my voice carrying the kind of dangerous calm that precedes hurricanes.

Chris's face went white, the realization of what he'd done finally penetrating his religious haze. But it was too late—he'd crossed a line that couldn't be uncrossed.

I moved faster than gravity, my hands shooting out to grip his shirt collar. With one fluid motion, I lifted him clean off the ground, his feet dangling two feet above the concrete floor like a scarecrow in a windstorm. His beer bottle clattered to the ground, amber liquid spreading across the red-painted concrete like spilled blood.

"Touch me again," I growled, my face inches from his, close enough to see the terror dilating his pupils, "and I'll teach you what real divine wrath looks like."

I held him there for a moment that felt like eternity, letting him feel the powerlessness of being suspended between earth and air, dependent entirely on my mercy for his safe return to solid ground. His breath came in short, panicked gasps, the smell of fear sharp as vinegar in the thick basement air.

Brandon stepped forward, his usual humor replaced by genuine concern. "Mom, maybe we could just—"

Erik moved beside him, his factory-trained instincts recognizing the potential for escalation. "Mom," he said quietly, his voice carrying the weight of someone who'd seen violence breed more violence, "temperance. He's scared shitless already."

I whipped around to face them both, my fury expanding to encompass their well-meaning interference. Brandon's eyes were wide with the kind of hope that still believed in redemption through gentle words, while Erik clutched his beer bottle like a talisman against violence.

Then I set Chris down—not gently, but not brutally either—and placed my hands on his shoulders. Without ceremony, I marched him across the room toward the stairs, his feet scrambling to keep pace with my determined stride.

"Look at this," I said, never taking my eyes off the two men who'd tried to intercede. "Queer family who have experienced your hate, and they rush to defend you from me and MY WRATH. What exactly does that say, Chris?"

"Mom," Miguel walked up gently, his voice carrying notes of both concern and admiration. "You want me to handle this?"

"Open the door, Migs," I replied, my grip tightening on Chris's shoulders as I guided him forward each step like a bouncer escorting a troublemaker. "Just another lost soul who confused fear with faith."