Seven Hours Before

      Cynthia Thomas trudged down the busy street, back hunched over, examining the welts from her teacher’s ruler, occasionally getting bumped by people with better places to be. She gently prodded the raised bumps, each sting reminding her not to speak out of turn in class, especially about the bar across the street from her house. Each dragging step brought her closer to her simple brownstone home in Greenwich Village. She knew her father's terrifying brown belt and her mother’s furious, shrill voice would be ready the second she got home.

       As she got closer to her home, Cynthia wondered if the rotary phone had ratted her out yet. As she climbed the steps of her home, she mentally prepared for the punishment she was about to receive. As she turned the knob on the door of her home, she sucked in a deep breath before stepping inside. 

       No sooner than the click of the door closing did she hear her mother’s ear-splitting voice roar from the kitchen, “Cynthia Lynn Thomas! Get in here!”

       “Coming!” Cynthia winced, hastily kicking off her shoes and scurrying toward the sound.

       “Would you like to explain to me why I heard from Mr. Wilson that you were talking about inappropriate topics in the middle of a lesson?” she whispered with anger, glaring at her daughter with such resentment, Cynthia could feel it on her pale skin. Her father was turned away from her, belt in his hands, silently twisting it around.

       “Well, I-”

       “No! There is no excuse as to why you were talking about such horrors! We do not mention what we live across. We never talk about it, not to anyone, do you hear me?!” The volume of her screeching increased dramatically, and it echoed in her ears even after her mother closed her mouth. “Do you understand what the ladies will say at our Sunday brunch? ‘Oh, did you hear, Mary’s daughter is a d*ke, and she goofs off with the f*gs and f**ries across the stree-’”

       “Mary! That’s enough. I’m sure a few hits will teach her a lesson, and you’re giving me a headache with your screeching. She knows it’s wrong now. We’ll just beat her and send her to bed with no food.” her dad compromised, which wasn’t very normal. Usually, he would agree with her mom, both of their voices making her ears still hear angry bells for hours afterward. 

       Her mother showed visible confusion and indignation when her husband didn’t verbally agree with her. Glaring at him, she huffed and stomped to their room, making sure her ire was clear as glass.

       Cynthia watched through tears her dad get up from the chair and raise his belt, and she gulped, her butt tingling with apprehension about what was to come.

       As the first smack echoed through the kitchen, she winced, suppressing the cry that tried to burst out of her throat, blinking her chocolate brown hair out of her eyes. Through the pain, Cynthia resolved then and there to never talk, think, or even look at the Stonewall Inn across the street for as long as she lived.

From Above

       Cynthia awoke with a start from shouts emanating from the cracked-open window. Confused, she blurrily blinked her eyes open and warily slid out of bed. She crept towards the window, gulping her trepidation down her throat. She tiptoed, glancing at her clock. What could be happening this loud at 1 AM? she thought to herself.

       As she peered past the curtain, she had to doubletake at the giant throng of people in the street below. She had heard her parents whisper about the random mobs in the middle of the night every few weeks, but she never actually believed them. Looking down at this, she knew why her parents would be disturbed and hate their across-the-street neighbors. Her stinging butt reminded her of her resolution made only hours earlier, but it was too compelling to look away, and she figured she could resume it in the morning anyway. Cynthia knelt in front of the window and took in the crowd. 

       Even through the dark, she could distinguish a woman with her hair cut short, soothing a man in a dress, two men dressed in button-down shirts comforting each other, and panicking teenagers trying to get as far away as possible from the horde like they were running from a hurricane, only to be cornered in by the police. Dozens of patrons of the Stonewall Inn formed a massive group that writhed in panic and terror.

       Cynthia watched in disbelief as the NYC police pulled three bodies from the throngs and started to arrest them. She gripped the window sill so hard her knuckles turned white as she gazed down at the policemen she had always thought were faultless, ruthlessly trying to shove and force the brightly colored trio into the back of their police van. The two men didn’t put up much of a fight, but the woman was a different story. About average height, she made up for the lack of spirit from the other men. She thrashed, kicked, screamed, and did anything she possibly could to prolong not being in the van. The woman whipped her head around violently, practically radiating panic and anger.

       “WHY DON’T YOU DO SOMETHING?!?!?” The woman’s anguished roar echoed through the street, and everyone seemed to be in shock. Even Cynthia sat up straighter at the direct accusation. After the heartbroken cry, the fight seemed to fly out of the woman, and her body buckled limply into the handcuffs. Cynthia knew if she was out in the horde, she would’ve been able to make out the betrayal and silent fury in her exhausted eyes.

       Everyone was in shock, except the police, that is. In what felt like three seconds, two of them grabbed her and violently shoved her into the back of the police van. That seemed to snap everyone else out of their stupor. Screams and bellows of outrage rang in her ears.

       A riot began.

       She gazed down at the enraged street, unaware of the passing hours. She looked back at her alarm clock when the riot died down and gawked; 5:30 AM. Hurrying back into her bed, Cynthia attempted to acquire an hour of sleep. 

       She laid on her back, quickly switching over to her stomach when her butt protested the weight. The ache reminded her of the conclusion she drew yesterday. She had told herself she wouldn't talk, think, or even look at the bar, but after seeing that woman, Cynthia realized that she could never see the Stonewall Inn the same ever again. She witnessed people fighting for love, and that inspired her beyond belief. She knew that now, if anyone ever called for help, she would fight for them, with them, because everyone should be able to live freely.

From Below

       Anxiously, I scrutinized the people nearby me, trying to find the friend that I came here with. When I couldn’t find her, I struggled through the sweaty, troubled bodies; the concrete below my socked feet radiated warmth. I was belatedly wondering where my shoes had gone when I felt a searing, massive hand grip my wrist and yanked me out of the crowd.

       Looking at the owner of the colossal, meaty hand, my face drained of color. The man in blue gleefully dragged me towards the van while he grasped the handcuff in his belt. I struggled, and I screamed, and I kicked, but it was no use. The harsh, grabbing hands of the ruthless copper were a startling contrast from the cool metal of the cuffs he was slapping on me. Screaming panic tore through my bloodstream, and I thrashed harder. I felt the piercing stares of my fellow patrons on my back, enveloping me in a quilt of pity, sewn together with the thread of relief, grateful that they weren’t the ones in my shoes. 

       “Your struggling is futile,” the pig growled into my ears, and I could feel his vile, smirking mouth exhale on my neck, down my spine, hot breath rising goosebumps on my skin.

       I looked around at the people I thought would support me, my fellow gays, all dancing together an hour ago, now trembling together in terror, trying to appear small and unthreatening so the police didn’t put them in my position. I knew that every time I was in that crowd, horrified and nervous, I did the exact same thing, hiding within the masses. But now, as I relentlessly fought, I regretted that exponentially. How could they not attempt to battle against the police with me, how could I not have done that? If someone had asked, would I have fought with them, brawling, grappling, for our rights to love whoever we want? 

       If I asked, would someone fight with me?

       “WHY DON’T YOU SOMETHING?!?!?” My voice rang loud in a question I immediately knew would not be answered. As I examined their shell-shocked faces, all my thoughts sprinted through my head at the speed of light. I realized no one would do anything. No one would take a stand here and fight for our rights with me; none of my friends would help me fight against society. No one dared to join me in what would be a growing revolution for the LGBT.

       That realization seemed to take away all my spirit. If no one fought with me, what was the point? I stared back at all the stunned, terrified faces and resigned myself to the rest of my bleak life in prison. My only crime was loving women. 

       The cops manhandled me, dragging my body in the dirt and tossing me in the back of their van. The other apprehended men acknowledged me, but I couldn’t bear to nod back to people who didn't fight with me for their lives on a battlefield surrounded by watching anxious faces. 

       I sat in the dirty, cramped, depressing van, wishing in my cluttered mind that at least one witness in the crowd would one day start our deserved revolution, and everyone would be free to love whoever they wanted, with no consequences.

       In the distance, I thought I heard a scream, but of outrage or panic, I couldn’t tell.

-Jackie E.