Flash Fiction: Camille

He was a monster of the ordinary sort: violent, prone to drunken excess and stupendous rage. He was king of his wretched realm, and his subjects — a wife, her beauty not yet faded but starting to brown at the edges with constant fear; two kids, old enough to know he was bad news but young enough to believe someone could save them — lived their tattered lives between his rages and his blackouts. Scott Meinke was, as he liked to remind his wife, The Man.

And he liked being The Man. Which is why this freak show his wife had befriended bothered him so much; she didn’t flinch like Sara, didn’t acknowledge his inherent superiority. Her rolling eyes and half-whispered remarks made his wife laugh out loud before clasping a hand over her mouth, eyes on his fists. Each time the laughter lasted a little longer; it was like she was transfusing steel into his wife’s brittle frame. He didn’t like it one bit.

What galled him the most was that Camille (that’s what she called herself, though anyone with eyes in his head could see she was no woman, not natural-born at least) expected him to allow her come into his house and destroy it. Well, he’d put a stop to that soon enough; as a kid, he’d watched his old man lay down the law, and he knew any bitch, even a trans-whatever like this one, would smarten right up once you gave her a few whacks. “Women are flighty, boy. You gotta knock some sense into ‘em, or they’ll go every which way when you’re not lookin’.” The old man had imparted this advice on his wedding day, and Scott never had reason to believe otherwise.

Now, standing inside the bitch’s bedroom, tire iron clutched in his fist, Scott Meinke prepared to knock some sense into the…thing…that had convinced his wife to flee, taking their kids and leaving behind only divorce papers and bills. He wanted to say something clever, like his heroes in the movies he watched as he drank one beer after another in his broken Barcolounger, but his meager wit was not up to the task. So he simply raised the tire iron above his head and brought it down with all the force and pent-up drunken rage he could muster.

Or at least he meant to. There was a hand, nails painted the dusty rose of an autumn sunset, holding the iron about a foot above eyes that were staring into his; mild brown eyes that ignited, a burning gold that spread buttery light. “Took your time, didn’t you?” Camille raised her arm, pulling the iron free from his hand. She spoke a word; the iron ran red with rust, crumbling to powder. “My wife…you…you bitch…” he stammered. “Technically, she’s no longer your wife. Also, I, as you have noted on numerous occasions, am no bitch.” Camille shrugged, green gown gleaming in the soft glow from her torchlight eyes. “As you may have also guessed, my name’s not really Camille; it’s Camael. Do you speak Hebrew, Mr. Meinke?” Scott, still trying to understand what she’d done to the tire iron, regarded her blankly. “Ah. I thought not.” The nightgown parted, not a gown at all but two verdant wings, revealing heavy red armor plate beneath. “I don’t wear the helmet anymore, it’s hell on my hair.” She smiled gently through ruby lips. “I’m afraid Divine Love has gotten rather a bad rap these days, but one does what one can. Now let’s see if we can knock some sense into you, shall we?”

Tags: camille, claire, claire jackson, claire m. jackson, creative writing, gender variant characters, latino fiction, queering short fiction, short story, trans creative writing, transgender, transgender literature

Originally published at wildgender.com on May 29, 2012.