For a moment, Lark and I drifted through a space between separate nowheres. There were no sensations, no physicality; just thought.

What the fuck's going on?

Lark spoke without words, as did I.

Therapy involves confronting ourselves and our pasts, I explained.

The singer's thoughts were a maze. I could "see" it from above, watching him/her wandering through them, lost and aimless.

What are you doing? Lark asked.

Looking for a place to start.

And then I found it. Lark's pain guided me there: an island of comfort in this sea of regrets.

As we entered the memory, the first thing I noticed was the smell. It was like bleach and lavender had slid onto a pile of white sugar and laid there for a while, marinating, and then the dried residue had been sprinkled in the air, a tacky aroma, tacked on to tackle things that ought to have been better hidden. Sweat. Sex. The muffled thump of an EDM beat somewhere in the distance.

Lark stood beside me. "This is—"

"—The changing room," I said.

Lark's memories told me we were in the dressing room of one of Hot Night's star performers, Hot Nights being the name of the stripper joint that had played such a pivotal role in Lark's childhood.

The dressing room could best be described as being in the middle of a midlife crisis. I hadn't known that rooms could suffer from midlife crises, but, as they say, there's a first time for everything.

None of its four walls wanted to be there. The wall with the door in it was covered in a plaid-patterned, dark blue and green wallpaper in a failed attempt at being welcoming. If there was a limit to how many discolored splotches—smoke stains, and worse—that wallpaper could have without being off-putting, this wallpaper had passed it. Opposite it, the wall with the window in it was adorned with posters—movie ads, performers' pin-ups, the usual—that did a subpar job of covering up the peeling, pus-yellow paint underneath them. The other two walls were both solid wine-red, because one of them was covered by corrugated, velvety fabric that looked like a bunch of seat cushions stitched together, while the other merely reflected its sibling through a big mirror that spanned it nearly edge to edge, save for the cabinets and countertops across the lower half. Three swiveling seats stood a couple feet in front of the mirror-wall, like those you'd see at a hair stylist's, which was not a coincidence. After all, this was a place where identities were made.

Lark stepped forward with a distant look in his/her eyes. "I remember this…"

Three of the cushion-panels on the wine-red wall covered a door to a closet chock-full of musty, frilly garments on racks and cabinets. Exotic masks hung among them, their empty eyes staring out from within their sequins and feathery plumes.

"This was where the ladies would come to chit-chat while they got ready for the daily grind," Lark said.

"But that's not why we're here," I said.

Lark just lowered his/her head and sighed.

There were two Larks in the room: the one next to me, and the one—just a boy—standing between two of the hairdresser chairs.

The boy was heartbroken, and he was in a dress; a big, red dress, old-fashioned in style, with a prominent skirt that puddled on the floor around young Lark, completely obscuring his legs and feet.

Thankfully, he couldn't see us.

He was eleven years old, nearing twelve.

And he was singing.

"Oh Moon, I'm spellbound now. Caught between fear and love. / Longing for a world I've never known."

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Now it was my turn to be surprised

"That's…"

"The Song to the Moon," Lark said.

Though the young Lark had his back to us, we saw his face through the mirror's reflection.

Now, how's that for symbolism?

He'd been crying.

One of his teeth was missing, and his cheeks were wet, puffy, and red.

"Out there, beyond the trees, who will I b—"

—But the boy cut off before he finished the line. Instead of singing the rest, he just hummed the glorious melody, while looking down at himself in shame.

There was a knock at the door, and Young Lark turned to the sound.

"Who's in there?" a woman asked.

"G-Go away," the boy replied, "go—"

—The door flung open.

The woman that came in was beautiful and raw. Her white tank-top was stretched taut against her ample breasts, with the outline of her bra clearly visible beneath the fabric, yellowed straps flanking her chest on either side of her collarbone. She wore dark shorts and a cheap pair of flip-flops, and her long, dark hair was just crying out to be trimmed and tamed.

"Is that Luan?" I asked.

Lark turned to me. "How'd you know?"

"Your thoughts and memories are like a book to me. I'll often skim ahead, and then go back and read in greater detail."

"I thought you said you wanted me to tell you the story?"

I shrugged. "I'm sorry. What can I say, I'm curious. I mean, most people's childhood memories don't have scenes with strip clubs in them."

"Big whoop," Lark said.

In the memory, Luan entered the room flush with excitement. "Z-Zong?"

Despite what you'd think, however, it wasn't the sight of the boy in the bodacious dress that had really startled her.

"Was that you singing?" she asked. "My god, Zong, that was amazing. I didn't know you could—"

—But then the boy turned to face her. Luan's expression broke, falling into one of almost motherly concern.

Luan didn't ask why he was crying. After the initial shock, she stepped forward, got down on her knees, and wrapped her arms around him, squeezing the red dress against his sides.

Eventually, Lark returned the hug. He wept into her.

A little while later, Luan pulled away and looked him in the eyes. "What's wrong? Why are you here? Why are you crying?"

"It's Mom and Dad," Young Lark said. "They were yelling at me again. They're so mad!" He rubbed his snot along his arm.

"What did they say?"

"They said I'll never be good enough." The boy lowered his head. "Never-ever." He moaned. "Why can't I be like Shen, Luan? They want me to be like him, but… I can't."

Luan put her hands on his shoulders.

"Oh, honey…" She sighed. "Take it from me, you don't need to be anybody but yourself."

"But… I don't want to be me," he said. "I want to be strong like… like you; like Bilooshee."

"Is that why you're wearing one of my dresses?"

The boy nodded.

"Sweetie…" Luan said. She ran her long-nailed hand through Lark's hair.

I paused the memory.

"Shen?" I asked.

Lark shook his/her head. "My twin brother. Not the identical kind, the other one."

"Paternal twins."

"Yeah, that," Lark said. He/she sighed. "Between the two of us, I was the shittier rough draft."

"You shouldn't say that about yourself," I said.

"Well, it's true."

"And what's this about your parents?"

"My grades were bad," Lark said. "Worse, Shen's—my brother's—were pretty damn good, and Mom and Dad never failed to let me know it." He/she blanched, and then shook his/her head.

Lark made an X with his/her hands. "Please, for the love of God, don't make me relive that, too."

I sighed. "If you want, you can just tell me."

The musician stared at his/her younger self, and the kind woman who'd reached out to her/him in his/her time of need.

Lark looked me in the eyes. "Could you maybe let this memory play out a little longer?"

"Sure, but… why?" I asked. "I imagine this is rather… painful for you."

Lark turned back to his/her younger self. "Only because you haven't gotten to the best part."

Oh?,

Now, this, I wanted to see.

I let the memory play out.

Young Lark looked Luan in the eyes. "Did I really sound amazing?" he asked.

"Yeah!" Her eyes twinkled. "You really did."

We both felt the wave of contentment that washed over Young Lark. The emotions spoke volumes.

Pausing the memory, I looked to the spirit. "I see why you like this part," I braved a modest smile.

Grown-Up Lark cried. "I keep coming back to this moment, especially when things got bad" He/she nodded. "As painful as the lead-in is, that ending—that cherry on top… it was always worth it."

She/he cleared his/her throat, and then looked me in the eyes again. "One of the worst things you can do to a kid that won't automatically send you to hell is to make them feel like they'll never be good enough. And… fuck, I did not feel good enough."

Lark's thoughts moved elsewhere, and the memories around us shifted and dissolved accordingly. Lark him/herself vanished, melting into the scenery as sequences flashed by. There were moments of laughter and love, but, like most lives, those were punctuated by pain and fear.

The singer spoke over her/his memories in a disembodied voice-over.

"My parents weren't bad by any stretch of the imagination, but… you don't need to be a fool or a shitty person to screw. I was 'too sensitive'; That's what my folks would always tell me. 'Too sensitive', 'not tough enough', 'just grin and bear it'."

In the tumult, I saw snapshots of the boy's journey down the road to manhood. All too often, he got lost along the way.

I saw Lark's revulsion at discovering his/her bisexuality.

"Losing your virginity to a fucking man?!" her/his mother yelled.

Lark wished they'd never found out.

I saw little bags of drugs, to be smoked or snorted.

And I felt Lark's pain.

"It wasn't easy," he/she said.

"I can imagine."

"No, you can't. No, you fucking can't."

Then a memory reached out and pulled us in.

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