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Cis

Bill Tope

“It’s magic,” she squealed, delighted;
the sunrise was amazing. It was the
first one she’d seen this year, or even
the year before, she said. Meghan
had been sequestered away from her
friends and family for what seemed
like years but which in reality had
been only four weeks.

Her friend Darla stood near the window
with Meghan and watched the sun
peep over the horizon, the pinks and
magentas giving way to the oranges
and yellows of the fiery ball of unspent
hydrogen. An azure sky provided a
perfect backdrop to the palette of
vivid rainbow hues.

While Meghan looked enraptured,
there were tears of sorrow in Darla’s
eyes. She couldn’t fathom what her
friend, younger than her by one year,
had gone through over the past
month.

Meghan had been abducted and
kept hidden away at some horrible
“camp,” the unwilling target of a
conversion therapy designed to make
the fifteen year old cisgender.

This Darla blamed on Meghan’s
parents, on her best friend’s pastor
and on the viperous nest of
“teachers” of this so-called therapy.
Most of all, however, Darla blamed
herself. She had been indiscreet.

“Dar’, look at the sky,” said Meghan,
marveling at the rising sun. “It’s God’s
work,” she insisted. “All good things
come from the Almighty One.” She
turned to regard her friend. “That’s
right, Baby, it’s beautiful,” replied the
older girl.

“What is it, Dar’, what’s wrong? You’re
crying.”
“Tears of happiness,” answered Darla.
At this Meghan smiled widely. “I’ve
got a date tonight with Timmy. Don’t
you think he’s cute?” Then an awkward
pause. “Oh, I’m sorry, Honey, for a
moment I forget that, well....” Tim Fisher
was a member of the congregation to
which Meghan and her family belonged.

Darla held her breath. She was afraid
she would receive the lecture about how
“broken” and “dysfunctional” and
“abnormal” non-binaries were. She’d
already heard it twice this morning. For
whatever reason, Meggie didn’t go on
about it this time. Darla took this as a
positive sign.

Several days after Meghan had returned
from the conversion camp, when she
was finally allowed visitors, she had
confided in her friend about what had
occurred during her 30-day hiatus.

She’d told Darla about the deprivation
and the depravation she had experienced.
They made me stand for hours in a room
with no chairs or windows or anything,
she’d said, and every time I sat on the
floor they would scream at me through a
PA system. They must have had cameras
in the room.

And if I kept sitting anyway, they would
send in a “nurse” who would beat me
senseless with a broomstick till l was
black and blue. They said they were
teaching me a lesson on how to resist
temptation. Then for three days the
didn’t feed me and when they finally
did, it was some kind of oatmeal gruel,
that tasted like paste. They said, if I’m
hungry enough then I’ll take what’s
served me. That they were only doing
this to get my mind right.

Now Darla touched Meghan tenderly
on the arm, but the other girl recoiled
as if stung. Darla let her hand fall to
her side. “Thank you,” said Meghan
stiffly, “for understanding,” and then
turned away, stared at her reflection
in her dresser mirror. “What are you
thinking, Meggie,” asked Darla,
concern and love for her friend in her
voice.

Megan smiled shyly, replied, “Whether
or not I’ll let Timmy kiss me tonight,” and
she giggled. Darla forced a smile. The
difference between Meggie when she
first came home and this morning was
more than night from day.

They gave me shots, she’d told Darla. I
don’t know what they were but they
made me dopey, like I’d drunk a six-pack
or smoked a joint. Darla also remembered
how her friend told her that she had been
subjected to perpetual indoctrination,
endless talk, both one on one and in a
kind of group setting.

Other kids came in and told us how they
were so much happier now that they were
binary, and how they were closer to God.
If they thought we weren’t paying
attention, the nurses would beat us again
with the broomstick. The stories had made
Darla’s blood boil but even now she didn’t
know what to do about it. She was only 16.

The worst tale that she had told Darla was
about when Meghan had been handcuffed
and left naked on her bed. One of the
other “students,” a boy, had come into her
room and raped her “for her own good” on
several occasions. And he’d pulled her
hair until she said yes, I love it.

But now, Meggie didn’t seem to recall any
of the abuse, torment and torture she had
suffered at the hands of her inquisitors at
the camp. That had bewildered Darla
when she first stepped into the bedroom
today. By observing Meggie closely she
could reach only one conclusion: her closest
friend was heavily medicated.

After their first meeting following the camp,
Darla hadn’t been allowed back for several
days. She wondered if there was a camera
or a mic hidden in Meggie’s bedroom. Her
eyes scanned the walls and ceiling
inquisitively. Meggie was speaking. Darla
looked back to her friend.

“Oh!” said Meggie, “I’ve got to get dressed,
I’ve got a meeting with my pastor in just 30
minutes.” She looked a little harried. So
that was it, thought Darla. She was attending
“refresher courses” of supplemental brain-
washing. Meggie, Darla decided, was in
their eyes, still but a work in progress.

“You’d better go, Dar’.” murmured Meggie
softly. “Mom said you shouldn’t stay too
long today....” Darla turned and opened
the door. “I love you, Darla,” said Meghan
warmly. Darla turned and stared at her
friend wistfully, hopefully, for a moment.
Then Meggie blushed and added, “I mean,
like a cousin, of course.” On her way out,
Darla closed the door silently behind her.

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