mars gaultier . d8 . cb

The moment came when my mother and father asked me to take down my photographs of Venus. That is when I knew I had to leave. I take Polaroid shots of every meaningful moment— happy family photos in scenic spots where the sky melts into tropical pinks and oranges. Each piece holds a special place. My mother unclipped each picture with my sister on it and ripped her out. They hate her. They gave her no choice but to run away.

I feel complicit in the hurt they caused her. Over and over, I asked Venus not to bring it up in front of them. Her identity, her existence. If they don't want to hear it, why don't you save yourself the trouble and not speak about it? I'm rather forgetful sometimes. Shredded-up photos butcher memories. Dates and comments written in permanent marker float away. Why did the guilt come when inconsequential happened to me and not Venus? Is she going to forgive me when I see her again?

Will I see her again?

Voices clash as I'm packing my bag. I promise Dad that I'm only leaving for a couple of days and that I'll be back soon once I figure things out. He doesn't believe what I say, and to be honest, neither do I. He grabs the back of my neck, the fangs of a dog trying to keep its pup in line. In return, I slap him and push him against the pillows of his couch. "MARS!"

I grab the last spare film for my camera and walk out the front door. "MARCHELLO!"

Sorry, pops. I've got wrongs I need to right.

"Do you know where I can find a girl named Ven-"

Before I get the second syllable in, the person already points me in the direction of where to go. Gaultier. A club. I show up, feeling out of place. Nervous, I hand out a photo to the bouncer in the entry way.