The Safety of a Queer Space: To All Good Things

The basement air hung thick with something beyond the usual cigarette smoke and spilled beer—something ancient and wrong that made my skin crawl before my brain caught up. The jukebox hummed low in the background, crackling through speakers that hadn’t been replaced since the nineties, but even the music couldn’t cut through the tension that followed me down those familiar stairs. My bones knew trouble before logic did—thirty years of survival instinct screaming warnings I chose to ignore.

Photo by Heriberto Murrieta on Unsplash

Each step down felt heavier than the last, like descending into my own grave. The crimson paint on the walls seemed darker tonight, the shadows deeper. Even the usual comfort of this sanctuary felt off, like the space itself knew what was coming.

Miguel caught my eye the second I hit the bottom step, and something in my face made him freeze mid-pour. His hand moved automatically toward the top shelf—not the usual well bourbon for my regular Wednesday night, but the Blanton’s we saved for celebrations or catastrophes. The amber liquid caught the crimson light as it splashed into the glass, looking like liquid fire, like the burning I already felt in my chest.

Mom, you look like you’ve seen a fucking ghost, Miguel said, sliding the glass across the scarred bar top. His voice carried that careful tone he used when shit was about to go sideways—I’d heard it before, the night Phoenix came in beaten half to death.

I knocked the bourbon back in one burning swallow, feeling it scorch all the way down. Worse. Old ghosts outside. I could see ‘em.

Ezra bounced up from their beanbag, blue hair catching the light like some underwater creature surfacing. Mom! You’re here early— They stopped mid-sentence, their usual enthusiasm dying as they read something in my face that shouldn’t have been there. Mom, what’s wrong?

The kitchen sizzled with Della’s evening prep—pulled pork tonight, the vinegar tang mixing with smoke and spices, filling the basement with the smell of normalcy that was about to be shattered. She poked her head out, took one look at me, and immediately abandoned her station, wiping her hands on her apron as she moved.

What the fuck happened? Della’s voice carried that particular edge reserved for when shit was about to go sideways. Wendy, talk to us.

Renee was at her usual spot by the wall, nursing a protein shake after her workout, her massive arms still pumped from the gym. She took one look at my face and set her drink down slowly. Wendy, you gonna talk it? she mused.

I opened my mouth to explain, to warn them, but the door at the top of the stairs creaked open. Every muscle in my body locked, vertebrae by vertebrae, like a zipper being pulled. Phoenix and River, tangled together in the corner booth sharing their usual Wednesday night intimacy, both looked up. River’s hand instinctively moved to Phoenix’s ruby ring, protective energy radiating from them like heat off asphalt.

Footsteps. Heavy. Deliberate. The kind that announced ownership of space that wasn’t theirs to claim. The kind I’d heard in my nightmares for thirty years.

Bubba straightened in his chair by the pool table, setting down his cue with careful precision. His weathered face shifted from confusion to recognition to dread in the span of a heartbeat. I know that walk...

Remy’s head snapped up from where he’d been lost in thought. Mon Dieu, that can’t be—

Sage looked up from their corner table where they’d been working on an intricate napkin drawing, their usually calm face showing concern. Elaine set down her rum collins with deliberate care, her sixty-year-old hands steady despite the tension.

The footsteps reached the bottom.

John stood there—my brother, seven years younger but looking twenty years older, hate having carved deep lines into his face like a sculptor working in flesh and bile. A harder life had changed him, made him rougher, meaner. His eyes found me immediately, and his mouth twisted into something that might have been a smile if smiles could be weapons.

Hello, Bill.

The deadname hit like a slap. Every queer person in the room flinched collectively—they all knew what that meant, what that cost. Ezra actually gasped, their hand flying to their mouth. Phoenix went rigid, their own memories of deadnaming flooding back.

That’s not my name, coward, I said, voice steady despite the earthquake in my chest. Hasn’t been for years.

John laughed—a sound like breaking glass, like everything sharp and wrong in the world. You’re still my brother Bill. Still the same pathetic faggot who used to cry when Mom beat you, like she was supposed to.

Miguel’s hand moved toward the baseball bat under the bar, his knuckles white. Della had grabbed a kitchen knife without even thinking about it. I caught Miguel’s eye, shook my head slightly. This was my fight, had been brewing since before some of these kids were born.

How’d you find me?

He pulled out my autobiography from his back pocket—”My House of Pain.” The cover was creased, water-damaged, annotated with angry pen marks in the margins. Pages were dog-eared, passages highlighted in angry red. This. You called her a monster.

She was.

SHUT YOUR FUCKING MOUTH!

The violence in his voice made Phoenix flinch, their hand finding River’s. River stood up suddenly, reading the room with the instincts of someone who’d worked enough emergency room shifts to know when things were about to go bad.

Phoenix, we should get Sean from upstairs. Now.

Phoenix nodded, understanding immediately. They slipped past John, who barely noticed them, too focused on his hatred to care about two kids running up the stairs. River threw one last protective look back before following Phoenix up.

Keira stepped forward, putting herself partially between John and me. You need to leave. Now.

John’s eyes flicked to her with dismissive contempt. Another fag cocksucker friend? You need to sit the fuck down or I’ll do to you what what I came here to do to my brother.

Bubba stood slowly, all six-foot-four of him unfolding like a statement, like a mountain deciding to move. John, boy, you need to walk away. I knew your mama, knew what she did to both of you. This ain’t the way.

John’s head snapped toward Bubba, recognition flashing. You. Same faggot who tried to interfere. Always wanted to shut you up back in the day.

Your mama was a bitch, Bubba said steadily. And you know it, deep down. You did her dirty work. But you can walk away now. Just walk the fuck away John boy.

Renee stood too, her bodybuilder frame casting shadows. John, we all remember. She’s dead.

SHUT UP! John screamed, spit flying. You don’t know anything! Mom was trying to fix him! Fix the sickness! Zoe was right, his life was a mistake.

Remy shook his head sadly. You were just a child too, mon ami. We can all take you right here tho. You think you have a chance, pas mon ami.

No! I commanded, my voice cracking like a whip. This is mine. This has always been mine.

Della moved closer to Miguel behind the bar. Wendy, don’t do this. Not here. Not in our place.

But John was already shrugging off his jacket, revealing arms corded with troubled muscle, tattoos I didn’t recognize covering skin that used to be soft when he was a baby, when I’d held him, before everything went wrong. Years I’ve been looking for you, Bill. Eleven years since Mom died.

Should’ve looked harder, and quit jerking your dick off.

I did. You hid like the coward you are. Changed your name, disappeared. But then you had to write this fucking book, didn’t you? Had to tell your lies to the world.

Elaine stood up from her table, surprisingly steady for someone three drinks in. Honey, whoever you are, you need to walk away. This is a safe space, and you’re bringing poison in here.

John’s laugh was ugly. Safe space? For you fags, dykes and sissies? For my brother who thinks he’s a woman?

SHE IS, Phoenix yelled, stepping forward.

The first punch came fast—faster than a man his size should move. His harder life had taught him things. It caught me in the ribs, driving air from my lungs in a whoosh that sounded like defeat. But I’d been hit before, been hit by him, been hit by her, been hit by the world. Pain was an old friend, and I knew how to dance with it.

I drove my knee up into his solar plexus with every ounce of strength my fifty-three-year-old body could muster, but my bad hip screamed in protest, making the impact weaker than it should have been. Still, I felt the air leave him in a rush. As he doubled over, I brought my elbow down on the back of his neck, the same move that had saved me in a truck stop bathroom in Alabama ten years ago. But my shoulder, the one she’d separated three times, couldn’t generate full force. He went to one knee, but his hand shot out snake-quick, grabbed my ankle—the left one, the weak one with the pins from when Zoe had pushed me down the stairs—yanked me down hard. My head cracked against the floor, stars exploding across my vision like fireworks.

Stop this shit! Della screamed, abandoning the kitchen entirely, her hands still covered in sauce. Miguel!

No! I roared, rolling away from John’s grasp, tasting copper in my mouth. My back, riddled with old compression fractures from Zoe’s “discipline,” seized up as I moved.

But John was already on top of me, his hands around my throat, trying to choke the life out of me. Mom should have finished the job. Should have killed you that night with the iron. But she was too merciful. I won’t make that mistake.

She tried, I gasped, remembering that night, the smell of burning flesh. She tried plenty of times. And she hit a lot harder than you do, little boy.

Not hard enough! John screamed. She should have drowned you when you were a baby!!!!!! Should have let you bleed out when she caught you faggin out!

I brought my hands up between his arms, a move from my old MA days, then drove my palm into his nose. Cartilage crunched, and blood exploded everywhere, hot and metallic, spattering across both our faces. He reared back screaming, and I rolled away, stumbling to my feet, using the pool table for support. My left knee buckled slightly, making me list to one side.

She died alone, I gasped, spitting blood, favoring my good leg. I should have been there to watch. At least I’d have known she was really dead.

She was a saint! John wiped blood from his face. And I’m going to finish what she started! Going to do what she was too weak to do!

She was a cunt who got wet from hurting her children!

She was cleansing you! Trying to burn the sickness out! John circled me like a predator.

Ezra suddenly rushed forward from their beanbag, all youthful courage and misguided heroism, trying to grab John’s arm as he stood. Stop! Just fucking stop! You’re going to kill each other!

John’s backhand caught Ezra across the face with a sickening crack that echoed through the basement, sending them sprawling into the beanbag chair, blood immediately streaming from their nose. The blue of their hair looked almost black in the crimson light as they fell.

Something primal exploded in my chest—maternal rage that could have powered cities, could have burned the world down. All the veins in my neck were bulging out. My heart racing faster and faster. Adrenaline coursing. My vision went red at the edges. You touched my kid.

Your kid? You’re not a real—

I didn’t let him finish. I launched myself at him with every ounce of protective fury I possessed, driving him backward into the bar with enough force to crack the wood. But my body betrayed me—the old fracture in my right wrist from when Zoe had slammed it in a door made my punches weak. My ribs, already carrying hairline cracks from decades ago, screamed with each movement. Bottles shattered around us, alcohol mixing with blood on our skin, burning in our wounds.

Nobody. Touches. My. Kids! Each word punctuated with a blow to his face, my fists finding rhythm in violence, even as my damaged hands began to swell. I jumped on top of John and I started hammering away like a piston on his face. The pain in my chest got worse.

You’re not a mother! John spat blood. You’re an fagboy that should have died thirty years ago! Mom knew it! She should have held you under the water longer! Should have locked you in that closet until you stopped breathing!

Miguel and Remy both rushed forward, trying to pull me off. Miguel got his arms around my waist while Remy grabbed my shoulders, but I shoved them away with strength born of pure protective rage, sending Miguel stumbling into the bar stools and Remy crashing into a table.

Wendy, stop! Keira’s voice cut through the red haze, but barely. You’re going to kill him!

Good! He needs it. I snarled, He wants to finish Zoe’s work? Let him try!

I will! John roared, blood streaming down his face. I’ll do what she couldn’t! I’ll end you like she should have when she caught you in Helen’s dress! Should have strangled you right then instead of just breaking your fingers!

John went down but grabbed my leg as he fell, pulling me with him. We rolled through broken glass and spreading alcohol, each shard finding new homes in our flesh, each movement a symphony of tearing skin and grinding pain. I could hear people screaming, but it all seemed so far away, like sounds from another world.

Elaine was screaming now, her usual sarcasm replaced by genuine terror: Someone stop them! They’re gonna fucking kill each other!

Sage had dropped their napkin art, backing against the wall, their usually calm demeanor shattered. Should I call—

YES! Della screamed, her voice breaking. Sage! Call 911! NOW!

Through the haze of violence, I could see Sage’s hands shaking as they fumbled for their phone, their artistic fingers trembling too much to dial properly.

But we were beyond stopping. John got his hands on my throat again, stronger this time, fueled by his own rage. The edges of my vision started going black, but I found a glass shard, didn’t even feel it cutting into my palm as I gripped it, drove it into his side between his ribs. He screamed, a sound that wasn’t quite human, and released me. We both struggled to our feet, swaying like drunk dancers at the end of the world.

Mom loved us, John wheezed, blood bubbling from his lips.

Liar!

Coward!

We charged at each other again, no technique now, just raw animal violence. My body was failing me—fifty-three years old and carrying decades of Zoe’s violence in every joint. The impact sent us both into the pool table, which groaned under our combined weight. I heard ribs crack—definitely mine this time, the same ones Zoe had broken when I was nineteen. They gave way like twigs, and I couldn’t suppress the scream. Bubba and Miguel both grabbed John, trying to pull him back, while Keira and Remy grabbed me.

Johnny, stop! Bubba pleaded, using the childhood name. Your mama’s dead! You don’t have to do this for her anymore! Bubba dashed forward to hold me. The pain was all over me now.

Let me go! I snarled, thrashing in their grip despite my protesting body. Every old injury was screaming now—the poorly healed collarbone, the damaged vertebrae, the weak ankle. He hurt Ezra! He hurt one of my kids!

Mom, stop! Ezra called out, holding their bleeding nose, tears streaming down their face. Please! This isn’t you!

But John broke free from Bubba and Miguel’s grip with inhuman strength, the kind that comes from decades of hatred, tackling me again. My body couldn’t respond fast enough—the old nerve damage in my left arm made it slow, the chronic pain in my spine made me rigid. We hit the floor hard enough to knock out what little breath I had left, rolling, punching, clawing, tearing at each other like animals. Every surface we hit left blood behind—the walls, the floor, the furniture, all painted in our mutual destruction.

Wendy! WENDY! Keira was sobbing now, actually sobbing, something you never saw. She was trying to reach me through the violence, but I was beyond reaching.

I will live to see the day you eat all the shit you spew! I screamed back, my fist finding his jaw despite my trembling muscles. I survived everything she did!

Not this time! John’s hands found my throat again. This time you stay down!

Della appeared with a bucket of ice water from the kitchen, threw it on us with desperate force. The shock made us both gasp, the cold hitting our wounds like electricity, but it only paused the fight for a heartbeat before we were at each other’s throats again—literally. Both of us with hands around the other’s neck, squeezing, neither willing to let go first, both willing to die as long as the other died too.

Jesus fucking Christ! Elaine screamed. They’re actually going to do it! They’re going to kill each other!

Bubba tried to pry John’s hands from my throat while Miguel worked on mine, but our grips were death-locked. Remy was speaking rapid French, prayers maybe, or curses. The basement had become a scene from hell, all crimson light and screaming and blood.

The edges of my vision went black. John’s face was purple above me, eyes bulging, but his grip wasn’t loosening. I was starting to black out.

I managed to get one hand free, clawed at his eyes. My fingers, crooked from being broken multiple times, couldn’t get proper purchase. I felt something inside me shift wrong, tasted more copper. But I got my teeth on his wrist, bit down until I tasted his blood mixing with mine.

She was the sickness! I managed to gasp, my damaged throat barely producing sound.

You’re going to die tonight! John’s grip tightened. Going to die like you should have thirty years ago! Mom’s watching from heaven, and she’ll finally see me finish her work!

Footsteps thundered down the stairs—many footsteps. Sean’s voice boomed: What the fuck is happening in my—holy shit! Holy fucking shit!

Phoenix’s voice, high and terrified: Mom! Oh god, Mom!

But John and I were locked together, neither willing to be the first to let go, both of us fading but holding on through pure spite. His blood was in my mouth, mine was in his eyes, and somewhere in the violence, we’d become one thing—a singular engine of destruction that had been building since we were children, since our mother first taught us that love meant pain.

More hands joined the effort to separate us. Sean’s huge frame adding strength to the effort, Phoenix crying and pulling at my arms. The entire bar had become involved in trying to prevent a double murder, but we were beyond help, beyond saving.

Finally, finally, our grips loosened—not from mercy or sense, but from simple physical failure. We collapsed side by side, neither of us conscious enough to continue but both still trying, hands weakly reaching for throats we could no longer grip. Blood pooled beneath us, mixing together on the sticky floor, brother and sister’s blood becoming indistinguishable.

River! Phoenix screamed from somewhere above me. River, do something!

River’s hands were on my throat, checking for damage. Crushed windpipe, both of them. We need to get them up, now, or they’re both gone.

I couldn't keep my eyes open. My vision got fuzzy. I couldn't see.

Miguel, Della, and Remy were already lifting me while Bubba and Sean grabbed John. Through the growing darkness, I could see Della’s face, streaked with tears and blood—some mine, some John’s.

Nobody dies in my fucking bar! she was screaming. You hear me, Wendy? Nobody fucking dies here! This is a sanctuary!

Keira’s face swam above me, tears falling on my bloody face like rain. Don’t you dare leave me. Don’t you dare. What about Gizmo? What about our kids?

Tell Gizmo... I tried to say, but only gurgling came out. My body was going into shock, I could feel it—the cold creeping in from my extremities, the world getting distant and strange.

Keira’s face crumbled. Wendy, she’s—

Tell her... I tried... My voice was barely a whisper, each word fighting through the damage John had done to my throat. I couldn’t talk.

Wendy, no— Ezra was sobbing harder now, their hand finding mine in the blood.

Please.... I tried... The cold was spreading faster now, shock taking me under. All I could think about was my kids. Gizmo. Charlie. Alex. I tried to be the mother others deserved, even when I failed, even when the distance between us felt like death itself.

John’s breathing had gone quiet beside me. Someone was doing CPR on him—Sean, from the sound of the counting. But my own darkness was coming fast, pulling me down into a place where mothers who tortured their children waited to finish what they started.

The last thing I saw was Ezra’s face, blood still streaming from their nose where John had hit them, their eyes wide with the kind of terror that would live in their dreams forever, watching their Mom dying on a basement floor.

Stay with us! River commanded, their hands working to keep my airway open. Both of you idiots stay with us!

Sean was on his phone, voice urgent: HURRY THE FUCK UP AND GET HERE!

Five minutes out! someone said, maybe Phoenix, maybe River, maybe the Mother. Was it time finally for my long walk? Was it?

Mom, please, Ezra sobbed, kneeling beside me despite their own injury. Please don’t leave us. We need you. I need you.

Miguel was praying in Spanish, Remy in French, Bubba in a low Baptist hymn from his childhood. Even Elaine had gone quiet, holding Sage’s hand as they stood frozen against the wall. The entire bar had become a vigil, a desperate attempt to hold two souls to the earth through sheer will.

But I was already in the black, falling into a darkness that tasted like copper and felt like finally, finally letting go of thirty years of pain.

Wendy, Helen called out, Wendy wake up.

---

“The truth will set you free, but first it will make you bleed.” — James Baldwin

Sometimes the price of confronting our demons is measured in blood and broken bones. Wendy and John’s violence wasn’t about hate versus love—it was about two children, destroyed by the same monster, who chose different myths to survive. One chose to become herself despite the cost; the other chose to worship the very evil that broke him. In the end, they bled the same color onto the same floor, proving that some wounds run deeper than identity, deeper than ideology, deeper than the lies we tell ourselves about the parents who were supposed to love us. The Sanctuary Bar had seen many truths spoken in its crimson-lit depths, but never one that cost this much to tell.