In my day, in my country, homosexuality wasn’t just frowned upon, it was
outright illegal. I’m talking death by a thousand cuts, illegal. While the
rest of the world was coming to terms with it—and in some parts, embracing
it—mine was strictly against the so-called lifestyle. I didn’t think
much about that sort of thing while I was growing up. I just dreamed of
having a real family. I was too young to recall my parents, and the people
who ran the orphanage either didn’t know anything either, or didn’t care
enough to give me an honest answer. One thing I’ll say is that they were not
abusive. They gave us very little food, mind you, but I think that was less
their fault, and more due to a lack of funding. But they didn’t hurt us, or
execute unreasonable punishments, or any of the other things that may become
the catalyst for your favorite creepy horror film. I knew about the
homophobic thing, but I was so young that it never came up. Until it did.
One day, two twin sisters were introduced to us. One thing I remember
noticing about them is that they never wanted to be apart. They held hands
the entire time, and I’ve since wondered whether that had to do with
whatever trauma broke up their family, or if that was just the way they
were. One of them happened to be assigned the bunk under me, while the other
was right next to her. The problem was, this whole codependence thing didn’t
go away just because the lights shut off. That night, they asked me and the
girl on the other top bunk to come down, and then they dragged one of them
over, so they could sleep right, right next to each other, just like
they probably did at home. I remember finding it funny that they didn’t ask,
but it didn’t bother me. It didn’t seem to bother the other girl either. The
two of us were friendly, but we weren’t friends. Not yet anyway.
The next morning, our surrogate mother came into the room to make sure we
were awake. She immediately noticed the joined bunks, and scrunched her nose
at it, but she didn’t make the twins put them back as they were. She didn’t
even say anything. She probably wasn’t worried about it setting some kind of
precedent, and since boys and girls were obviously separated into different
rooms, it wasn’t going to cause any other problems as we grew older. I think
it didn’t quite occur to her, though, that two unrelated girls were also
part of this sleeping dynamic. But seeing her face is what made me realize
it was a little weird. But not that weird, right? Well, we made it
work. The twins were happy, and I was getting to know my new friend. It was
a lot easier to whisper to each other in the middle of the night without
disturbing anyone else, so that was a pretty special perk. As you may have
guessed, things changed over time. We were both aging, processing hormones,
and developing feelings. I honestly can’t say if she ever felt the same way
about me as I did about her, and looking back, it might have been best if I
had stuck around to find out. But I was so scared, and I was just thinking
about myself. I knew that my feelings were real, and they weren’t going
away, and the only way I was going to survive was if I left. So that’s what
I did. With no money, no connections, I fled the country. It was easier than
you would think. Other refugees were fleeing for other reasons, and as long
as I always hung around an older woman, people would just assume that we
were together. I lived like this for years, crossing borders, and spending
some time on the other side before moving on. It wasn’t until I crossed the
ocean before I felt comfortable being myself, pursuing my truth, and living
without fear.
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