EVANESCENT
Have you ever tried to hold a soap bubble in your hand? It's impossible, isn't it? Shimmering iridescence cannot be held. It's a temporary beauty.
Tarquin as a boy was gentle, delicate, charming and blessed with a generosity of spirit that made him loved by many and bullied by an envious few. He was radiant with kindness. His eyes were hazel, his hair a glorious shade of gold, his skin was clear and glowing. He was the epitome of grace.
As he matured, he realized that his duty was to entertain and amuse others while helping them to come to terms with the fact that they were differently perceived by those who led more prosaic lives. He cultivated loving friendships in a small community in his medium-sized town and all was well in his world. Until...
A party was to be held to celebrate one of the group who had been honoured with a prestigious award in the Arts for his lifelong body of work. It would take place on a Friday in June. Pride Month.
Tarquin would be the Master of Ceremonies, because of his wit and the fact that everyone loved to gaze upon his beauty, in both the physical form and that which radiated from within.
On the night, there was dancing and good food and bonhomie and announcements and a talent show and laughter and a general mood of loving kindness and festivity.
In this town lived also a group of European immigrants who were driven by machismo. They felt resentment toward Tarquin's group for living a different lifestyle than that to which they were compelled to conform from birth. Their religion taught them that it was an abomination for men to love other men. Driven by devotion to a false god of hate, ignorance, and destruction, these men were determined to wipe out the scourge of what they considered to be freaks of nature.
At midnight, the riled up gang of macho men arrived at the nightclub where Tarquin and his community were partying. As one, they bashed in the entrance door and forced their way in through the crowd. Shouting like mad warriors, they made their way onto the dance floor where the music was still playing and men were dancing together. This enraged the group. Shouting and punching ensued. Shock and horror.
The music stopped abruptly. A fracas erupted. Ruination was done to bodies. Knives came out.
A man ran to his car to retrieve his Glock.
Tarquin raced onstage to the microphone and blew a series of piercing whistles. The fighting paused.
“I don't know what we've done to you men to make you want to hurt us. We mean you no harm. Please stop this battle right now. Let's talk things through before anyone else gets hurt. Let's be reasonable and, if you can't be reasonable, then leave my friends alone and take out your hate on me.”
There was a rush to the stage and the
madmen surrounded Tarquin and damaged him. They broke his limbs and
smashed his face into a pulpy mass. His friends tried to save him.
The man with the Glock shot at the ceiling. Police arrived, summoned by someone who had maintained their presence
of mind when the attack had begun. First responders began collecting the injured.
Tarquin was taken to hospital. Still alive, but barely.
Now, Tarquin sits in his wheelchair
watching birds in the oak tree and kittens on the lawn through the
large window of the care home in which he is forced to live. His
gracefulness destroyed, his spirit broken. His voice with its
dulcet tones stifled by the damage to his throat. One eye blinded.
Permanent dents in his skull. He mourns the friends who no longer exist.
His youth and beauty were as evanescent
as a soap bubble. Impossible to hold in your hand.
©Ellen Pepper 2024
