Yasmin sat cross-legged on the floor of her temporary room, her fingers brushing through a stack of old photo albums. Each page revealed moments she'd long buried in her mind: birthdays, holidays, her childhood home before the fracture that tore her family apart. As she turned another page, a mix of curiosity and unease gnawed at her gut. She hadn't meant to go digging through the past, but something about this town—the old house, the remnants of things once familiar—compelled her to look.
Her mother Darla's face stared back at her from the photos, youthful and radiant in a way Yasmin could barely remember. There were pictures of Darla with various men, each face more unfamiliar than the last. A few of them she could recognize, names long forgotten, but her mother's smile always stayed the same—charming, seductive, the picture of a woman who could bend people to her will.
But it was the next photo that made Yasmin pause.
A snapshot of a man in a dazzling outfit, his face painted with thick makeup, his eyes dramatic, lips exaggerated in deep red. It wasn't the person Yasmin knew from the past. This wasn't Darla's usual brand of "boyfriend material." Yasmin felt her breath catch as she recognized the distinct shape of Byron's jawline beneath the layers of drag makeup.
Her heart skipped a beat.
The image was from a performance, a woman's wig—blonde and wild—cascading down to the person's shoulders. The glittering gown shimmered under stage lights, the dramatic pose reminiscent of someone who knew exactly how to command attention. There was a name scrawled on the back of the photo in messy handwriting: Dot.
Dot.
Yasmin's mind raced. She had never heard of this part of Byron's life. Yasmin had grown up with the image of Byron—the lost boy, the one with the tortured past, the one constantly pulled between his trauma and his fleeting desire for something that resembled peace. But this? This was a side of him she had never known existed.
The album turned over, revealing more. There was another picture, more polished than the first, from a show Yasmin didn't recognize. Dot in full glamour. This time, she was holding a microphone in a glittering red dress, a crowd in the background cheering, clapping. The persona was radiant, confident, a stark contrast to the quiet, broken Byron Yasmin had come to know.
Her fingers trembled as she turned the page. Another performance. And then another.
The photos made her wonder if this was a different Byron altogether. She couldn't imagine him ever letting anyone see this side of him. The woman in the pictures didn't fit the Byron she knew. Dot was powerful, commanding. Yet, with every new photo, the layers of makeup and performance began to feel like a mask—an escape. The more Yasmin thought about it, the more she wondered: Was this who Byron wanted to be? Was Dot the real him, buried beneath years of trauma?
There was no way Byron would ever talk about this. He had never mentioned his drag career, nor had Yasmin even thought to ask. But now, seeing it laid out in front of her, she could see how important it was—how much it meant to him. But the more Yasmin studied those pictures, the more she saw the conflict in Byron's eyes beneath the makeup. The uncertainty. The pain. It made her question: How long had he been hiding this from everyone, including himself?
Her fingers slid over another photograph, a candid moment that seemed almost like a secret between her and the stranger she thought she knew. Dot was standing with another performer, a man whose face she didn't recognize. There was a quiet tenderness in their posture—a soft touch on the shoulder, a look that spoke of camaraderie, of shared experiences.
It wasn't just the drag career. It was the people who had helped shape it—the ones Byron had allowed to see him, to love him in a way he never allowed the rest of the world to do.
Yasmin let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.
The questions swirled.
Why didn't Byron ever tell anyone about this? Was it too painful to talk about? Did he feel like it wasn't part of his "real" life, something he had to leave behind? Or worse—was it something his mother had intentionally hidden? Yasmin knew Darla could be manipulative, but this? This felt like something deeper. She had no answers, only more questions—and the feeling that the more she uncovered about Byron, the more the pieces of him seemed to slip through her fingers.
The sharpness of the photo cut through Yasmin's thoughts, the image of Dot staring back at her, a woman so powerful in her own right that Yasmin almost didn't recognize Byron in her. The air in the room felt colder now. The more she stared at the photographs, the more Yasmin realized that Byron wasn't just a victim of Darla's manipulation or the world around him. He was a product of his own escape, a creation born from the need to survive.
And for the first time, Yasmin saw the full scope of it—how much of Byron was still trapped in those pictures, in that persona. Dot wasn't just an act. It was part of Byron. She was a reflection of the battle inside of him—between who he wanted to be and who he was forced to become.
With trembling hands, Yasmin closed the album. She knew one thing for sure now: she couldn't let Byron remain locked in the dark, buried by his past. She needed to find him, talk to him, help him confront this. But in the back of her mind, the creeping thought lingered: Was it even safe to let him know how much she knew? How deep the rabbit hole went?
And was he ready to face it? Or was he still trapped in the identity of Dot, unable to escape?
She didn't have answers yet. But she was going to find out… someday.
Until then, Byron would reminisce of the older days where the lights were bright, the heels were high and the 2000s were around the corner.
It was a groovy Saturday night drag night at Pinz, a big change from the usual punk and edgier shows. It was 1998, and the dimly lit back room of the bar smelled of stale beer and the remnants of spilled cocktails. Byron sat at the rickety table, his fingers tapping nervously on the cracked wood. He wasn't supposed to be here tonight—not as a drag performer, anyway. Being usually off those days, he had only come to help his friend Kon, the main queens manager, but things had taken a turn.
"Hey, Byron," Kon said, grinning as he rifled through an old set of clothes in the storage area. "We've got a problem. Queen Lacy's MIA tonight, and you're the only one who can fill in." Kon was always the one to throw Byron into the deep end—always pushing him out of his comfort zone. Byron had never been a performer. Hell, he'd never even thought about stepping on a stage before, let alone in front of a crowd, let alone in drag. But here they were.
Byron swallowed hard, the weight of the request settling in his chest. "DRAG. No. I—I can't do this, Kon. I'm not even dressed for it. I am a man, my dude."
Kon just waved it off, pulling a ridiculous pink waitress outfit out of the pile. It was a cheap diner uniform, its frills worn and faded, but it would have to do. "Nonsense," Kon said with a smirk. "I think you'll pull it off."
Byron glanced at the outfit, his stomach churning with nerves. He wasn't sure if it was the idea of performing or the idea of wearing such an outlandish getup, but either way, he had a sinking feeling this was going to be a disaster.
"What do you mean, pull it off?" Byron said, pulling at the collar of the outfit. "I don't even know how to walk in heels."
Kon laughed, slapping him on the back. "You'll be fine! Just relax. You'll look fabulous. And you've got the right attitude. Besides, you're the only XXL here. We've been waiting for Lacy for months. We need a backup. It's too last minute to cancel. I need you."
Byron wasn't so sure about that, but knew Kon knew about his desire to perform in something else than his Byron Powell get-up.
As he reluctantly slipped into the outfit—its tight waist and frilly skirt digging into his skin—he was struck by how wrong it felt, yet how strangely comfortable it was to shed his usual self. He didn't feel like Byron Powell. In fact, at that moment, he didn't feel like anyone. He was just a body, a costume waiting to be filled.
Kon disappeared momentarily and returned with a pair of glossy black heels, the type that screamed "old-school diner waitress," but Byron didn't have time to think too much about it. He slipped them on, wobbled around the back room for a few minutes, and then sat down, his heart still pounding in his chest.
"Ladies, I was able to convince the manager to back us up. Do any of you wanna beat her face?"
Just then, a couple of the other queens wandered in, dressed in their usual glamorous outfits, and immediately set to work on his face. The makeup was amateur at best, but it was enough. His eyes were lined heavily, and his lips were painted a bold red. One of the queens, who was known for her resourcefulness, appeared holding something in her hands: a large, shaggy mop head that was definitely not supposed to be used as a wig.
But in the world of drag, nothing was impossible. With some brown fabric paint and a lot of hairspray, they transformed it into a wild, messy head of hair that barely resembled anything human.
Byron looked at himself in the cracked mirror, and for a moment, he didn't even recognize the person staring back at him. The brown mop wig, the thick makeup, the frilly pink outfit—it was all a bit too much. But he didn't have a choice.
"This is ridiculous," Byron muttered to himself, but a small part of him was starting to feel an odd sense of excitement bubbling up inside. Maybe this could be fun. Maybe it could be an escape from everything that weighed on him—if only for a few minutes.
"I don't even have a drag name."
The duo stared at the closest boxed tv. The Animaniacs were playing.
"How about-"
"NO. No, no no no no. I refuse to just use a cartoon character as my whole personality this isa child and it's absolutely and positively not happen-"
"Ladies and Gents, give it up for our blinging new cunty queen, Miss Dot is in the house!"
"Come on, Dutch boy, you're up next!" Kon called from the side, already in his sequins, all over the fake hair, and high heels, ready to run the show. The crowd was buzzing, and the DJ had already cued up the song.
Byron—now Dot—walked nervously to the small stage, the clack of his heels echoing in the hollow room. The bar was packed, the energy high, and there were enough drunk patrons to ensure that even the most disastrous performance wouldn't be met with silence.
The spotlight hit him, and for a moment, Byron froze. Dot wasn't him. Dot didn't know what was expected. Dot didn't care.
And that's when the music began.
The opening notes of Respect by Aretha Franklin blasted through the speakers, shaking the walls. The crowd cheered and hollered, and suddenly, Byron wasn't so sure he wanted to be anywhere else. He started to move, tentative at first, but with each step, he felt a little braver. He swayed his hips, throwing his shoulders back, trying to mimic the boldness that Aretha Franklin's voice demanded. No one needed to know it was America Rocks' fresh new host.
His first steps were shaky—those heels were not made for dancing, and the skirt kept getting in the way—but soon, he found his rhythm. His movements were exaggerated, sensual, and a little awkward, but that was part of the fun, right? The crowd seemed to get into it, shouting approval as Dot hit the chorus, swaying with a confidence that Byron hadn't felt in years.
He sang along in his head, lip syncing as best as he could, trying not to think too much about the absurdity of the situation. By the time the song reached its climax, he was in full swing, twirling on stage like he'd done it a thousand times.
"R-E-S-P-E-C-T!" he shouted, throwing his hands in the air, his mop of brown hair flopping with every movement. The crowd erupted into applause. Byron couldn't help but grin—his lips a perfect shade of red, the gloss still intact despite the sweat dripping down his neck.
As the song ended, the applause was deafening. Byron stood there, out of breath, his heart racing, his mind swimming in the adrenaline rush of the performance.
He hadn't been Dot for long, but for the first time, Dot felt like a whole other person—someone fierce and confident and alive. For a moment, Byron didn't feel the weight of the world pressing down on his shoulders. He didn't feel broken. He felt free.
The cheers continued as the next performer took the stage, but Byron—still Dot—lingered on stage for just a few seconds longer. The night had only just begun, but something inside of him had shifted. For a brief moment, Byron was someone else, and he didn't want to let go of that feeling just yet.
Dot had found a place in the world. And Byron? Well, maybe Byron could learn a little something from her.
"Byron, the heels. I need my heels back lol."
"Apologies, I-I was concentrated in their comfiness. I rarely-"
"Girl, kiki real, I despiiiiiise those. My mind was thinking of hitting the sack more than anything else."
"Oh… hum… are you sure?"
Latisha Lux; She is a queen with an air of confidence and power. Her catchphrase, "If I'm not your fantasy, darling, you're not living!" sums up her personality perfectly. She's sassy, but never cruel; she's a fierce competitor, but always a mentor to other queens. Latisha's got a big heart, but her walls are high—she's fought for every ounce of her success. Underneath the stunning exterior, she's always striving for excellence, learning new tricks, and embracing the hustle of the drag world. She loves to get the crowd screaming, dancing, and living for her looks and performances. They call her: Mother.
"They don't call me Mother for nothing, Brandy. You murdered the dancefloor. Therefore, you get the heels."
A smirk appeared on his usually worn off face, still covered with whatever the queens had applied on it.
"Thank you. I- I really appreciate it. I will serve for the good and… *sigh* I will slay the boots down."
"Go home now, Kon will close the club for you. I'll force him. You got more entertaining to do on TV."
This was the last time Byron saw her, she was murdered a month later.