The fucking stairs down to the Sanctuary felt like climbing Everest in reverse tonight, each step a lightning bolt shooting up my sciatic nerve and exploding behind my eyes. My left leg—the one with enough titanium to build a goddamn toaster—dragged behind me like dead weight, the metal pins and plates grinding against bone with every movement. The familiar bass line of Ozzy’s “Mama, I’m Coming Home” thrummed through the brick walls, vibrating through the soles of my boots as I pushed through the door marked “Family Only.”
The crimson-painted walls seemed to pulse in rhythm with the music, and the warm lighting that used to feel welcoming now felt like spotlights exposing every wince that crossed my face. Miguel looked up from behind the restored bar top, his childlike eyes immediately catching the hitch in my step, the way I favored my right side like a broken bird trying to fly.
Mom, what the hell happened to you? His voice carried that sultry undertone that always made me think of honey poured over gravel, but tonight it was laced with concern that made my chest tight.
Nothing. Don’t wanna talk about it. Shut the fuck up. The words came out sharper than I intended, each syllable a blade meant to cut off further inquiry. I limped painfully toward my usual spot at the bar, my hand gripping the edge of a chair for support as white-hot pain shot from my lower back down through my thigh. The metal in my leg felt heavy tonight, like carrying around pieces of a car wreck that never quite healed right.
Miguel’s face softened, but he didn’t push. Instead, he reached for a bottle of Lagavulin 16, the amber liquid catching the light as he poured three fingers into a rocks glass. The sound of liquid hitting glass was almost musical, a counterpoint to the Ozzy track that was giving way to Spandau Ballet’s “True,” The irony wasn’t lost on me—Truth emanating while my body screamed reminders of when time had moved too fucking fast.
Ezra bounced in their beanbag chair, blue hair catching the light like electric cotton candy, but even their usual enthusiasm dimmed when they saw my face. Hey Mom, you look like—
Like fucking shit, I know, Don’t fucking remind me, I cut them off, accepting the bourbon from Miguel and immediately taking a pull that burned down my throat like liquid fire. The warmth spread through my chest, but it did nothing to touch the ice-cold memories clawing their way up from the depths where I’d buried them.
Della emerged from the kitchen carrying a plate of something that smelled like heaven—jalapeño cornbread by the scent of it—but her femme butch swagger faltered when she saw me clinging to the bar like it was the only thing keeping me vertical. Her eyes, usually bright with kitchen pride, darkened with recognition.
Fuck, Wendy. You look like you went ten rounds with a freight train and lost.
Keira appeared beside me as if summoned by some cosmic force, her presence immediately grounding even as my nerve endings fired like live wires. She didn’t touch me—she knew better than that when I was wound this tight—but her voice wrapped around me like armor.
You know, Wendy. They need to understand. The ones that don’t know. Bubba, can you convince her?
Bubba’s massive frame filled a corner booth, his 400 pounds of south Georgia wisdom radiating calm authority even as his glacier-blue eyes—so fucking different from back then but the voice the same—rumbled across the space.
Girl, I watched you try to kill yourself once before. I ain’t watching it again.
Bubba half cocked his head, and then shook nervously, I couldn’t convince you then, how the fuck you think Ima convince you now? It was stupid. You shoulda just let it go.
Phoenix materialized at my other side, their constantly changing hair currently a deep purple that matched the shadows under my eyes. The ruby ring River had given them caught the light as they gestured, and something about their youthful concern made my defenses crack just slightly.
Mom, you’re scaring us. Please.
River appeared behind Phoenix, still in scrubs from their hospital shift, fatigue written across their features but concern trumping exhaustion. Their rotating pronouns felt fluid tonight, settling on they/them as they assessed me with clinical eyes.
Whatever happened, you don’t have to carry it alone.
The words hit me like a physical blow, and I nearly dropped the bourbon. Remy’s moss-green eyes locked onto mine from across the room, his Cajun accent thick with memory and pain.
Mais yeah, cher. We all saw you drowning in that anger. Saw you picking fights you couldn’t win ‘cause you wanted to hurt more than you already did.
Shut up Remy, Honestly. Just shut the absolute fuck up. Before I come over there and…., I quipped.
And do what cher? You gonna hobble over here and do somethin you got no the strength to do? Cher, you can barely stand up…. Remy mused. He was right though, I didn’t have it. I really didn’t.
Renee straightened from where she’d been adjusting weights near the pool table, her bodybuilder frame radiating the kind of strength that could break straight women’s marriages and hearts. Her voice cut through the growing tension like a scalpel.
Wendy, I kicked your ass then when you had a chance to fight me, and I can do so now. You need to calm the fuck down. People are just trying to care about you and show you who you are, if you would just fucking let them one goddamned time. Always trying to save everyone but yourself. It was true then, it’s the same bullshit now. Renee scolded. Her words were like ice, but they were true.
The Rush song faded into Pink Floyd’s “In the Flesh,” and the irony made me laugh—a bitter sound that scraped my throat raw. Of course. Of fucking course that would be playing now. I took another pull of bourbon, feeling the titanium plates in my leg shift as I adjusted my weight against the bar.
Fine. You want to know? You really want to fucking know? I was a fucked up person. I did bad fucking juju. If you had all known me then, you’d hate me then and now. I yelled at everyone in the room
I don’t hate you cher, Bubba he don either, ne’er do Renee. We know how it was, we know where it came from, cher. Don mean we don’t love you. Tell ‘em cher. Tell ‘em about Michael and Karen. They need to know cher, they do, Remy pleaded. Already he was crying.
The bar fell silent except for the Pink Floyd track, and I could feel every eye on me, waiting. Miguel refilled my glass without being asked, his movements economical and caring. Della set the cornbread down and crossed her arms, ready to listen. Keira moved closer—still not touching, but close enough that I could feel her warmth.
She was where it all started. Karen……Moran……
Even saying her name felt like swallowing broken glass, and I saw several faces around the room shift with recognition. Bubba nodded slowly, remembering. Remy’s eyes went soft with the kind of pain that comes from watching someone you care about destroy themselves. Renee did the same.
Karen was... fuck, she was everything I couldn’t let myself be. Beautiful in that sharp-edged way that could cut you just by looking. And I loved her. I didn’t know I could BE a woman, and hard part was, that was all I wanted really. Just knew that being around her made me feel like I was drowning and flying at the same time.
I paused, the bourbon burning in my empty stomach, memories flooding back like polluted water through a broken dam.
We had this crew back then. Michael—Karen’s brother and my best friend—who taught me to bury feelings so deep they’d never crawl out. John the Cop, our moral compass with permanently swollen knuckles. DJ, quiet motherfucker who’d quote philosophy while wrapping his hands. And Bubba here, teaching me shit about his neighborhood I had no business knowing.
Bubba’s rumble filled the space: You listened good though. Even when you didn’t want to hear it.
Remy brought bayou stories and his mama’s wisdom. And Renee— I looked at her directly, remembering how her eyes had seen right through my masculine armor, —kept calling me out on my bullshit. ‘You’re gay, you know, you just don’t see it. But I do,’ she’d say, and every time it felt like being flayed alive.
The Pink Floyd track was building to its climax, David Gilmour’s guitar weeping through the speakers as I continued.
But Karen... Karen was fighting demons I couldn’t see. Depression wrapped around her like a second skin most days, but toward the end it was different. It was absence. Her eyes went dull, focused on something the rest of us couldn’t see.
My voice cracked, and I had to stop, pressing the cool glass against my forehead as the memory of that last day crashed over me like a tsunami of blood and regret. Then one day she got quiet. And we didn’t know why. So like a complete dumbass, I went looking. I started to well up.
When Michael and I found her... The words came out in a whisper that somehow carried in the silent room. The smell hit us both—copper-thick and primal. The kind of stench that triggers something in your brain stem. Fight or flight. Danger. Death.
Phoenix made a small sound of distress, and River’s hand found their shoulder, grounding them both. Della’s eyes had gone soft with understanding, and Miguel’s hands stilled on the bar towel he’d been holding.
She’d done it right. Researched it. That blade pushed in below the ribs then drawn across. Slow. Deliberate as hell. The carpet around her was soaked black, her face frozen in something that wasn’t peace, wasn’t pain, but resolution. Her skin was waxy-pale, blue at the fingertips that still clutched the handle.
I took another drink, the bourbon no longer burning, just flowing like liquid fire down my throat.
The note on the floor was three words: ‘He won’t stop.’ And I knew. I fucking knew it was about her father, the piece of shit who’d been... who’d been hurting her for years.
It wasn’t you, Cher. You can’t take dat. You can’t.Remy pleaded. I wasn’t fucking listening though.
Wasn’t it? I turned to face the room, feeling the titanium in my leg shift and grind. I knew something was wrong. I knew she was pulling away. But I was too fucking scared of what I felt, that fucking voice in my head pleading with me to let her out, for Karen to just push harder, to be there when she needed me most. So she died believing nobody gave enough of a shit to save her. Not even me.
The room held its breath as Pink Floyd gave way to Human League’s “Human,” and I wanted to laugh at whatever cosmic DJ was fucking with my life tonight.
After that, I went full fuck it mode. Started picking fights with anyone who looked at me wrong. Got kicked out of three gyms for excessive violence. But it wasn’t enough. The pain wasn’t enough. I wanted more. Layer upon layer of hate. Layer upon layer of pain. Telling myself, over and over, I could just take more and more of it. The guilt was eating me alive from the inside out, and I needed something bigger. Something that would finally make me pay for failing her. Someone would hold ME accountable. I yelled, screaming even at the bar of still patrons who had no idea where my rage came from.
Remy’s voice was soft but carried across the space with firmness, pleading: Cher, don’t. Don’t go there.
NO, REMY. THEY WANTED TO KNOW THEY HAVE A RIGHT TO FUCKING KNOW. I’M A GODDAMNED MONSTER. I yelled, feeling every vein in my neck pulsing, my heart beating out of my chest, then pain in my leg surging. That anger start to burn behind my eyes. Found it one night. And that was it.
I held my own for a while. Got in some good shots, broke a thing here, and a thing there. Then and maybe a jaw. He had steel-toed boots. He used them. My left leg got caught between his boot and the concrete, and I heard it snap like a fucking twig. The crackle of bone grinding into pieces. The pain surged through my body as I screamed out loud. Then he did it again. And again. Forty-seven fractures, the doctors said later. From my hip to my ankle, just... shattered.
Phoenix was crying now, silent tears streaming down their face as River held them closer. Della had moved behind the bar to stand next to Miguel, both of them radiating the kind of quiet fury that comes from hearing about family being hurt.
I laid there, couldn’t breathe, and I finally though maybe this would actually be it. Maybe I would finally have peace. And maybe I would finally atone for what I had done. Maybe. But I kept breathing. Even though I was tired of living. I begged Helen to come off her long walk and come and just take me. I was done fighting. I didn’t have it anymore, I started crying. I just wanted to be done with and over.
Spent months in traction, metal pins and plates holding the pieces together while the bones tried to remember how to be a leg instead of hamburger meat. The sciatic nerve got pinched in three places, which is why I walk around feeling like someone’s holding a blowtorch to my spine most days.
Bubba’s voice rumbled with old pain: Girl, Remy is right. You can’t go trying to punish yourself for being alive when she wasn’t.
Yeah. Maybe. I hobbled over to Bubba and I hugged him. The admission felt like exhaling poison. Another months learning to walk again. Physical therapy that made the beating look like a fucking massage. Therapists who kept asking why I’d put myself in that situation, and me not having words for the guilt and the love and the rage all twisted together in my chest like barbed wire.
The juke turned over giving way to something softer, and I had to close my eyes against the appropriateness of it all.
But somewhere in all that pain, lying in that hospital bed with nothing but time and morphine and the ghost of a girl I couldn’t save, something started to shift. Started to understand that maybe the reason I loved Karen so much wasn’t just because she was beautiful or broken or beyond my reach. Maybe it was because I saw something in her that I recognized. Something I’d been running from my whole fucking life. Maybe I was just looking at myself, and trying to fix that relationship. I dunno. Took me another two and a half decades to figure out what that meant, but yeah. The titanium they put in my leg weighs enough to remind me, and some days it feels like carrying around pieces of the person I used to be. The one who thought love was weakness, who thought being soft meant being dead, who thought the only way to honor Karen’s memory was to follow her into the dark.
I finished the bourbon and set the glass down with a definitive clink. Hit me, Migs. And don’t fucking balk. I commanded. Miguel now teary himself didn’t flinch for a second.
But she didn’t die because she was weak. She died because she was strong enough to endure years of horror and finally decided she’d had enough. And me destroying myself wouldn’t bring her back or make up for not saving her. It would just be another waste, another person lost to the same darkness that took her.
Ezra’s voice was small but fierce: You survived and became who you were supposed to be.
But at what cost, Ezra? I’ve hurt more in this world than most are even aware of. Mary could tell you that. And I torture myself over Mary 1000 times more than ever I do Karen. There is just so much death and loss on my hands. I looked around the room at these faces that had become my chosen family, my sanctuary. Because sometimes the fight isn’t about winning or losing. Sometimes it’s about lasting long enough to find out who you really are underneath all the armor.
I’m not looking for forgiveness—some debts can never be repaid, some wounds never fully heal. There are nights I lie awake cataloging every pain I caused, every thing I did, every moment I chose my comfort over the real truth. Keira knows it, she sees it. I keep a mental ledger of my sins, and the balance never decreases.
Miguel refilled my glass without being asked, his movements gentle and sure. The music had shifted again—Queen’s “Under Pressure” filling the space with its driving bass line and urgent energy.
The doctors said I’d always be in some kind of pain. Said the nerve damage was permanent, that the titanium would set off metal detectors for the rest of my life. They were right about all of it. But they were wrong about one thing.
Phoenix still crying, leaned forward: What were they wrong about?
They said I’d never be whole again. But whole isn’t about having all your original parts. It’s about accepting the pieces you’ve got left and building something new with them. Something better. Something that honors the people you’ve lost by refusing to join them before your time.
Renee’s voice carried across the room, strong and sure: Wendy, you built yourself a family that loves you exactly as you are.
Yeah, well. I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand, tasting salt and bourbon and relief. Some days I get reminded that I’m carrying pieces of my old life, my old pain, my old mistakes. But other days it reminds me that I’m strong enough to bear the weight of what I’ve been through and still keep walking forward.
The bar had grown quiet except for the juke’s urgent harmonies and the soft sound of people breathing, of hearts beating, of a family holding space for pain and healing and the messy, complicated business of staying alive.
Della’s voice cut through the silence, warm and fierce: You are not alone anymore now. You know this right?
I know. I looked around at these beautiful, broken, healing people who’d become my world. And some nights, when the metal aches and the memories won’t shut up, that’s the only thing that keeps me going. Knowing I’ve got people who understand that surviving isn’t pretty, isn’t clean, isn’t some bullshit inspiration story. It’s just... stubborn. It’s just refusing to let the bastards win.
Phoenix stood up and moved toward me, their movements careful and deliberate. Can I hug you, Mom?
I opened my arms, and they fell into them, warm and solid and alive. River joined us, then Renee, then Miguel came around the bar. So did Keira. Soon I was surrounded by arms and warmth and the kind of love that doesn’t ask you to be anything other than exactly who you are—scars and all.
When we finally pulled apart, Miguel was already pouring another round, and the music had shifted to something softer—Indigo Girls singing about being closer to fine. The conversations resumed, quieter now but no less vital, and I settled back onto my stool feeling lighter despite the metal weight I carried.
The night wore on with the usual rhythms of the Sanctuary—Della’s cooking smells mixing with bourbon and honest talk, music providing the soundtrack to healing, and the kind of love that doesn’t judge, doesn’t demand, just accepts and endures and grows stronger in the accepting.
Some stories don’t have happy endings, but this one has something better: it has continuation. It has the promise that tomorrow I’ll wake up, swing my titanium-reinforced leg out of bed, wince at the sciatic fire, and keep walking forward anyway. Because that’s what you do when you survive. That’s what you do when you choose life over and over again, one painful step at a time.
I’ve been a son, a fighter, a coward, a husband, a cheater, a friend, a monster. I’ve worn so many skins that sometimes I forget which one was real and which were costumes. Each mask a stepping stone across a river of pain too deep to wade through directly. Each performance another nail in the coffin of who I might have been if I’d had the courage to face the hurricane head-on. My hands are calloused from clawing at identities that never fit right, my throat raw from forcing out words that belonged to someone else.
But sometimes, if you’re really fucking lucky, you find a place where that choice is honored, where your scars are badges of courage instead of marks of shame, where being broken doesn’t disqualify you from being whole.
“The wound is the place where the Light enters you.” - Rumi
In the alchemy of survival, our deepest injuries often become the sources of our greatest strength. The titanium that weighs down my steps also holds me upright, just as the love born from loss creates the foundation for new connections. Every scar tells a story not of defeat, but of endurance—proof that we can be shattered completely and still find ways to reform ourselves into something beautiful, something worthy of the light that finds its way through our cracks.
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