Mention “fugue,” and one thinks immediately of Bach’s perfect universe of divine watchmakers and transcendent harpsichords.

But the universe is not perfect, is it?

Fuga, fugue—a theme, introduced by one part and successively taken up by others. But counterpoint is not always harmonious. Not always consensual. There are threats and arguments, empty apologies, messy excuses, blame.

Fuga, derived from fugere, to flee.

Girl clothes. Boy clothes. Money. Birth certificate. Social security card. Toothbrush. Spare glasses. Backup battery. Makeup. Estradiol. Spironolactone.

And fugare, to chase.

Risoluto, non troppo vivo. Resolutely, not too alive. As how you smile when a stranger spits at you. As how you keep breathing while a friend rapes you. As how you think calmly as a parent is kicking down your door.

Yehudi Menuhin himself claimed Bartók’s fugue was perhaps the most aggressive and brutal music he had ever performed.

But, Katrina realized, such brutality made her neither nervous nor afraid.

She was not intimidated. Instead, she was angry. How long had she lived in this fuga, with a fake smile, a fake nod? How often had she buried her voice to placate others? How often did she say her voice was too ugly, anyway?

Harmonize, complement, counterpoint … apologize. Apologize again.

But why? Why did it have to be that way? To live a lie? To save her soul? At least with the cursed bow in her hand, her damnation made sense.

Dash around the corner, lock the door.

Into the dark, she hurled arpeggios of catcalls and Internet trolls. There was a customer clawing at her hair. And here was another one biting her and drawing blood. These were people liking a post saying that she should be set on fire. This was a penis forcing itself bluntly into her mouth.

This is the song of a queer kid who escapes from a window to a sidewalk in the middle of the night. This is the song of a trans girl just wanting a fucking bathroom in the middle of the day.

So what if you don’t understand? So what if you think I’m a half-woman freak.

This is my song. My voice. My voice leads.

Katrina glared up from Aubergine at an audience she could not see.

But then, she sensed something completely unexpected. Some of them seemed to be singing too.

Fuga—a theme, introduced by one part and successively taken up by others. Somehow other voices, other musics, began to interweave with her own. The notes, the harmonies wrapped her gently, like a blanket of night in a field of stars. She wanted to reach out, tell them she didn’t know, she had no idea they were with her, tell them now they would never again be alone.

But then she remembered that their reactions were merely due to the dogwood bow.

Third Movement: Melodia (Adagio)

Adagio.