A Queen Among Gods

Migraines and Reflection - Gabriella

The pain of my skull being ripped apart by the jaws of life is the first thing I feel as I start to open my eyes. I clutch my head as if the action will somehow dull the agony – not that it ever has. However, this is by far the worst migraine I’ve ever had. I slowly roll over, and through squinted eyes pick the small bottle of painkillers off my nightstand. I pop open the cap with my teeth and spit it across the room as I pour a couple of pills into my mouth. I grab my water bottle and skull the water, downing the pills in the process.

With languid movements, I pull myself out of bed, drag myself downstairs, and lay myself down on the couch directly under the sunlight streaming through my loft window. Almost immediately I can feel the simultaneous expanding and crushing sensations waring in my skull slowly begin to dissipate. I know it doesn’t make any sense. All forms of light are meant to be triggering and known to worsen migraines. I can’t tell you why natural light eases mine; it just does. Honestly, it works a f**k-ton more than the pills I just took. I don’t even know why I bother; they don’t do s**t for me.

I pull the rug off the back of the couch and drape it over me as I close my eyes and let the sunlight continue to slowly do its thing. As I’m lying here images from last night’s dream come barrelling their way back into my mind. It wasn’t like any other dream I’ve ever had. I dreamt of black shadowy figures and bright purple eyes that the mere memory of sends shivers down my spine. Along with those images was one of a bright blinding light. It doesn’t make a lick of sense. It felt the same as when I have a vision, but if it was one, it was the dumbest one to date not even worth the pain in my head right now.

As the pain lessens more and more with each moment, I find myself thinking clearer and the moment the fog is completely lifted from my mind my eyes snap open as last night’s events come flooding back hitting me like a tidal wave.

The club.

Those eyes.

That orgasm!

I clench my thighs together as my insides begin to throb at the memory of what that mystery man was able to do with just his fingers. The way my entire body felt more alive than it ever has a day in my life. The way my body responded to him like he was the world’s greatest conductor, and I was his symphony. He had the power to bring me to my knees and yet he held me in such a way that made me feel precious beyond measure. He was the size of a goddamn giant, with hands that could crush boulders, and yet they held me with care. I’ve never met a man that f*****g tall in my life, and once again I can’t help wondering if everything else of his is unusually large.

He said we’d meet again, but I don’t see how that’s possible. We never exchanged numbers or names, and while my mask was hardly shielding my face beyond all means of identification, we were in a dimly lit room, and he was mostly getting a bird’s eye view of the top of my head. There’s no way in hell I’ll ever see him again, and the thought of that makes my insides feel hollow.

Sweet f*****g Christ on a Ritz cracker.

I haven’t even been single for a full forty-eight hours yet and I’m already pining over the first guy to come along just because he managed to give me the first orgasm in months that wasn’t courtesy of my hand. In my defence, that was a f*****g phenomenal orgasm.

I’m pulled from what are clearly the signs of s*x deprivation when I hear my phone go off. I get up, feeling marginally better, and return upstairs. I grab my phone off the bedside table seeing a text from Derrick that says, ‘Where are you?’

“f**k!” I shout, as I rapidly reply to let him know I’m running late and will be there in a few minutes. “f**k my f*****g life,” I cuss as I race around the room quickly throwing on a boho white mid-thigh off-the-shoulder dress with pirate sleeves, slipping into my new sandals and tying my hair up in a messy bun.

I race downstairs, grab my purse and keys, double-check for my phone then dash out the door. I had promised to meet Derrick for lunch today, but between last night and the morning lobotomy, I completely lost track of time. Fortunately, the café is only three blocks from my loft. I race down the street, ducking and weaving past the people occupying the sidewalk, cursing everyone for choosing to be so social today. I arrive at the café and race to the upstairs section. I spot Derrick sitting patiently on the terrace and race over like a tornado clutching the back of the empty chair as I catch my breath.

“Sorry… I’m… late,” I pant.

“Did you run here?” he asks in surprise.

I nod as I sit in the chair, pick up the pre-poured glass of water and take several sips, “I had… totally forgotten… about our lunch,” I say apologetically between breaths.

He looks over my dishevelled appearance only for his face to turn compassionate, “Another migraine?” This is why we’re best friends.

I nod, brushing the baby hairs out of my face. “The worst one to date, but I’m feeling a bit better,” I assure him.

His brows dip into a V with obvious concern, “You really need to go back to the doctor’s.”

“Why? So they can once again tell me there’s nothing wrong with me and try to gaslight me into believing it’s all in my head?” I say with disdain.

“You just need to find the right doctor,” he says encouragingly.

I snort, “Not sure they exist. But, speaking of doctors, how did your checkup go?” I ask with deep concern and interest.

He takes a sip of his club soda and lets out a deep breath, “Well, it looks like I have to have surgery. There’s just no other way around things. The pain has really been getting to me lately and the specialist said the complications will only get worse without surgery, so I guess that’s that,” he says with a shrug.

I reach out for his hand, take a firm hold of it, and feel him squeeze my hand in return. “Whatever you need, I’m here for you. I assume Wyatt already knows,” I surmise.

He gives me that ‘come on now’ look. “He was with me at the appointment. My health concerns him, I wouldn’t exclude him.”

“I figured, I just wanted to check,” I say with a smile, “So when’s the surgery?”

“Hasn’t been decided yet, they still want to run through a few more tests before they settle on a surgery plan. I’m less concerned about the when and more worried about how the f**k I’m going to pay for it. My insurance doesn’t cover this kind of stuff,” he says, the stress evident in his eyes and the creasing of his forehead.

“Insurance companies are such a f*****g scam. We fork out all this money so when we’re in a medical crisis they’ll help, but then they make every excuse in the world not to help. It’s not your fault you were born this way,” I say in indignation.

“If it weren’t for the complications and the way it’s impacting my health, I wouldn’t even bother. I accept how I am and so does Wyatt, but I know you can relate when I say I’d much rather live without pain and discomfort.”

“Preaching to the choir babe,” I say, raising my hands to the sky.

Derrick happens to be intersex, specifically suffering from persistent Müllerian duct syndrome. Looking at him he looks like a perfectly normal male with functioning male reproductive organs and the full ability to father children if he ever wishes to. However, internally he also has female reproductive organs, specifically a uterus and fallopian tubes. All his life he had one undescended teste, which doctors told his parents was nothing to be alarmed about and so he never cared. But when he was in his late teens, he began to develop an inguinal hernia.

I remember when he was nineteen, rushing into my room and freaking out because of this bulge he had found coming out of his groin. I encouraged him to go to a doctor, and eventually, it was discovered that he was intersex. Being gay was never really an issue for him and his parents have always been accepting and he loves who he is, but discovering this fact about his anatomy took some time to process. For a long time, he didn’t want to have surgery to correct it, believing that he was born this way for a reason and if it’s not impacting his quality of life, why mess with it? Doctors urged otherwise, but he put his foot down. However, over the last couple years, complications have begun to arise, and he now realises he has to put pride aside and prioritise his health, and I couldn’t be more proud of him.

“I know I have to do this, but I feel like I’m losing part of my identity,” he sighs.

“Derrick, when you found out you were intersex it didn’t change who you were as a person. You were the same Derrick I’ve always known and loved and that’s never going to change. You know who you are, and a few internal organs don’t change that. If you gave me your kidney, you’d be losing a vital organ, but you’d still be you. This is no different,” I say comfortingly.

“If only my grandfather agreed with you,” he sighs.

I immediately grit my teeth, “What did the old fucktard say this time?”

He shrugs, “Oh, you know, the usual. How I’m a mistake, God is punishing me, I’m a freak of nature blah blah blah.”

I take a breath to compose myself, because I don’t think the café would appreciate me screaming like a banshee. “Babe,” I say, squeezing his hand, “That walking nut sack you call a grandfather will be dead in like five years. Don’t waste your time or energy on him. Remember, the circle of life is nature’s cancel culture. I’m sure he won’t be polluting the air with his bullshit much longer.”

Derrick chuckles and graces me with a warm smile, “You know I love you, right?”

“Right backatcha,” I smile and wink back.

I lean back in my chair just as the waitress walks over and places what I can only describe as a plate of grass in front of Derrick who smiles and thanks her.

“What can I get you to eat or drink?” she asks me, but my eyes are focused on the monstrosity in front of Derrick.

“What is that?” I ask him.

“My lunch?”

“Yes, but what is it?” I ask in horror.

“It’s s salad,” he asks in bewilderment.

“No, no, no. That is not a salad. That is food for sheep and people who do yoga, and you are neither a sheep nor someone who does yoga.” I turn my attention to the waitress, “I will have the eggs benedict with extra bacon on the side, and he will have the same,” I instruct with a broad smile.

“Umm…” she drawls hesitantly, probably thinking I’m a controlling b***h.

“I will also give you a thirty-dollar tip.”

“Two eggs benedict with extra bacon coming right up,” she says brightly before dashing downstairs to the kitchen.

“Gabriella,” Derrick sighs.

“Don’t go saying my name with that exasperated sigh. You need real food, you’re not an animal out in the pasture living off grass. Especially if you plan on having surgery, you need real food with real nutrients to help you recover, and eggs are a great source of protein.”

“Explain the bacon then,” he challenges.

“It’s f*****g delicious,” I say with a duh tone. “Derrick, you’re healthy – for the most part – you’re fit, and you look like a million bucks. You need to stop punishing your body by putting crap into it you don’t even like.”

He gasps, “Did you just accuse me of being a bottom?”

“b***h, we both know you’re versatile,” I scoff, crossing my legs. His eyes zero in on my shoes and immediately widen in horror.

“I will admit that I hate salads and appreciate you supporting and encouraging me to eat real food if you explain what the f**k is on your feet!” he exclaims, “To quote a certain Wakandan; WHAT ARE THOSE?!” he cries, gesturing dramatically to my shoes.

I glance down at the shoes on my feet, “Don’t you go dissing my sandals,” I say defensively. I love these shoes. They’re open-toed sandals with a large white cushioned platform base, neon yellow detailing, extra padding under the heel and two translucent neon yellow buckles that strap over the top. I think they’re great.

“Just how bad was your head hurting to make you leave the house wearing those?” he says, shaking his head in disappointment.

“I love these shoes,” I retort.

“But with that dress?” he asks, wrinkling his nose.

I allow myself to take in the dress and shoes together and realise he has a point. The shoes are great but would go much better with a skinny jean or leggings. Maybe even a denim skirt. Definitely not this dress.

“Okay, you have a point,” I concede, “I admit I just threw on whatever was closest to me.”

“I will excuse it since you were obviously just that eager to see me, which is understandable,” he says with feigned arrogance while fluffing his hair and making me snort with laughter.

“Thank you for the pardon,” I say sarcastically.

“You are welcome,” he grins back.

Our lunch is filled with good food and a good gab until it’s time for us to part ways. We split the bill and say our goodbyes and I begin the short walk back to my loft. As I walk down the street, I feel this strange tingle all over my body, that feels surprisingly pleasant. It reminds me of that time I went to Vegas and everywhere I went I could feel the electricity in the air. I couldn’t get my hair to lay flat for a week!

The feeling is very similar, only more enjoyable. I’m aware of significantly fewer powerlines around me this time, so I know it can’t be that. I suddenly start to have this overwhelming feeling that someone is watching me. I briefly glance behind me but don’t note anyone following me or anyone looking suspicious. I continue to walk but pull my phone out of my purse ready to dial just to be on the safe side. As I reach my loft that feeling gets stronger and stronger and I can swear I feel someone standing behind me. I rapidly turn around, only to find myself looking around in confusion at no one there, not even a passerby.

Feeling unsettled, and unsure if my brain is just all weird from this morning’s events or if maybe someone really was following me, I let myself into my loft being sure to close and lock the doors behind me. The entire building has a two-door entrance, the first door needs a code, second needs a key. I start to feel more relaxed as I make my way up to the fifth floor, only to have that relaxation disappear when I see who is standing outside my front door.

“What the f**k do you want?” I say in irritation, folding my arms over my chest as I stare down my now ex-boyfriend.

“Two years together and that’s how you greet me?” he says with a tick in his jaw.

“Two years together didn’t stop you from cheating on me, so why should I give you a warm greeting?” I ask incredulously. I walk over and shove him out of the way as I put the key in my door and open it. As I attempt to close the door, he sticks his foot in the doorway to stop me from closing it. I look up at him with a bored expression, “If you think that will stop me from slamming the door on your foot, then I’d be delighted to prove you wrong,” I say bluntly.

“You’re just going to throw away two years over something that didn’t mean anything? You’d cut the only man you ever loved out of your life over something so petty?” he says in disgust.

“You know what Mitchell, if you were any smarter you’d qualify as a moron,” I say, keeping my composure.

“What the f**k did you just say to me?” he spits, slamming his palm against the door.

I raise my eyebrow in challenge. Yes, give me a reason to call the cops. The only man I ever loved? How in love with yourself can you be? I can’t believe he’s acting like I’M the immature one. Did he forget everything he said to me? Did he forget the part where I caught him in my home, in my bed with his shrivelled d**k in another woman?! What the f**k did I ever see in this guy?!

I look him over wrinkling my nose in revulsion as I take in his appearance with new eyes. Mitchell is 5’9” with skin so white it’s like the printer ran out of ink. It’s like his flesh is begging for sunlight. He has mousey brown hair with that early 2000s emo style to it, compared to the slicked-back hair he used to sport. He used to be physically fit, not muscular, but lean. But a year of playing video games and scarfing down pizza and beer has done him no favours. He’s got a tiny gut now, which doesn’t bother me. He has lost some weight in recent months, which I can assume was to impress Julie. I used to love this guy, I really did, but now the very thought of him repulses me. I see him for what he is: a lazy, self-obsessed, unmotivated cheating douchebag who just used me as a meal ticket.

For a brief moment, the mystery man from the club flits into my mind, and while he was sexy as all hell and puts Mitchell in the shade, that’s not what I remember most. It was the way he held me and touched me. He even called me Starlight with so much reverence. My brief interaction with a stranger in a club had more passion and tenderness than Mitchell ever showed me in the two years we were together and realising that stings. It stings because I realise I wasted two years on this guy. Two years I can’t get back.

“There’s your s**t,” I say, looking down at the box of his stuff out in the hall by the door, “Take it and go move in with your w***e where you two will be very happy together, and if you ever shadow my doorstep again, I will call the cops.” I kick his foot out of the doorway and slam it shut, sliding the deadbolt across as Mitchell resumes pounding his fists on my door.

“You’re going to f*****g regret this! I was the best thing you ever f*****g had, Gabbie!” he continues to scream. I f*****g hate it when people call me Gabbie.

I make my way to the couch, flopping down and turning on the TV. I turn up the volume to drown out the sounds of a manchild throwing a temper tantrum and settle onto the couch, feeling lighter with the knowledge that this asshole is no longer my problem.

However, if he keeps coming around here trying to break down my door, he just might become a whole new problem.