Gay, Illegal and Stir Crazy: A Memoir

Date: 9/21/2019

This started off as being in a gay rights museum, learning about its founding. At some point, behind a wall, I became the man it was heavily founded in memory of. I think this place might have been previously been a holding cell. That, or the holding place of a secret gay club. Against the partition wall, I felt trapped. The police had been there, and my wife was now beside me, asking for the truth. I told her, drawing it out in one last attempt at maintaining my safe, stable, straight life. I loved her, though, and I could not lie to her. The wall we were leaning on grew to shake- slow and gentle at first, then heavy and hard, as if there were people on the other side trying to break in. I bolted, running through town trying to escape certain torture and death at the hands of the police. Watching my closest friend/would be lover being caught by police waiting just inside the house we had been running to, I turned around and ran back away. Two men to my right, on what appeared to be a dirt bike/quad spotted me. A they 360'd their vehicle, I ran fast down the road veering off to the left, "Run Boy Run" playing in my head. I ran down the streets, my chest and throat burning. I came to my street, and my heart lept to my sore throat as I spotted by modest square home. I was so close to safety! My wife opened the door, and I ran faster than I'd thought possible at this point. My wife hid me there for the rest of my life, in one of the bedooms in the attic. The maid knew I was there too. The evil policeman suspected my wife was hiding me. She denied it to the point of tears, declaring my homosexuality an evil sin; but without letting him search the whole house, she could not shake him. We considered it, but where would I hide while he looked? All my friends were dead, and my neighbours would possibly/probably give me away. My wife and our maid cared for me, but I was powerless. Once trapped behind a heavy secret, I was now trapped in the attic floor of my own home. My paranoia grew. As it did, the maid stopped coming. She was sweet and loyal to the end, but her presence would set me off. I was certain she'd give me away, whether on purpose or by accident, it mattered not. My wife became my sole caretaker. She came to visit at meal times, or to play games, read, or chat. Sometimes, she would come to my safe haven and simply knit as I read. In this simple quiet, I almost felt normal again. Of course, this was not to last. Eventually she departed. She could not be seen spending too much time in the attic; and she had her own life to live. The lights in my area were never allowed to be on, and the door to the attic bedrooms was locked at all times. Of course, this was the door the first guests all tried first. Children and toddlers have a strange fascination with what they cannot have, do they not? They would not accept that what lay behind that door was inaccessible. They seemed to view the door as another plaything. I was safe in this area, alone with the two bedrooms and a bathroom, but it didn't feel that way. One time a young cousin came over, very ill, to be taken care of. He tried to open that door morning, noon, and night. I grew sick with worry, nearly needing care myself. My wife couldn't visit during his extended stay, so I was alone in my thoughts, going stir crazy. She'd fake this area as a linen room, and snuck in days worth of food when she did manage to come. I mostly hid in the nook between my bed and bedside table, listening to his calls of play and suspect.