Bloodsport

Last night was another nightmare, 
except this time, they attacked my brother
who somehow also worked there. And while 
I was sitting with my brother, right in front 
of our boss, my brother would not—could not—say 
a word, and neither could I because we were all sitting 
far too close, there, in person, face to face in a circle.
And so, I was silent too. Except it did not stop

when we went home. I got a random phone call,
and the boss went on and on jeering, not to my brother,
but to me instead, saying my brother had lied 
on a timecard and did not log the hours right,
and this time, this time at a safe distance, I interrupted 
his artillery, erupted into my own indignant self, something 
about not understanding math, something about disabilities 
and how the ADA still matters, that it doesn’t matter what he, 
my boss, thinks—he did not get to attack my brother 
who was sitting right there beside me. And when I hung up, 
in the dream, I turned to my brother and told him what he needed 
to do, exactly how to do it, what words to use, how to send them,
and who to send them to. And while it took some time convincing 
him (it always does, because a victim often prefers denial) 
he said he would do it, and then I woke up crying, not for my brother 

but for myself, because I asked again how long PTSD lasts,
how many more nightmares I will have to endure.
And I know the answer—it’s for a lifetime—but now,
as I go through my morning routine, letting the dog out, 
making the pot of coffee, taking out my trusted pad of paper 
and a pen that finally works—I will tell you, and not 
in metaphors, that it does not matter if it was last night,
last month, or fourteen years ago in a battlefield park where 
I also thought I was safe, in a place I had called my haven,
because I was between jobs and still in recovery 
and my children needed me home. And all I asked

was to pick up trash I had seen along my meanderings.
But you did what that man on the phone did. You did what
the others had done, and when I told you what I had gone through 
just before volunteering—sexual assault, harassment—what you said 
was ‘oh my, that must have been scary for you,’ and you piled it on 
yourself, mocking me with stories and words, asking about my husband, 
what he liked and didn’t like, what he did for a living, moving things 
on purpose so I would do the same meaningless tasks again 
and again and you could laugh with your friends and your own boss
like this was some kind of sport, adding to the cuts and bruises

until I wanted to open my own soft wrists once again and bleed 
all over the page—except this time, I will not bleed one drop 
of my own thick blood for your pathetic benefit, or endure one 
more moment of you, and you will not destroy my family—not my 
brother, my husband, my son or daughter, or anyone else I love, 
and finally, that also means me. And I do not have to love you, 
nor do I have to forgive you, because my name has never been 
Jesus Christ and yours most certainly isn’t either. But still, I will 

have my peace. Still, I will have my words. And if it’s a war of words
you wanted, you lost that long ago, sirs. Because I will never stop 
writing this story. I will write it over and over, repeating the truth 
and naming names, pulling the sword you stuck in our backs, 
patching the gashes to stop the flow, saving myself and the ones 
who matter, until this time, there is justice.

Katherine Mercurio Gotthardt, copyright March 10, 2024, all rights reserved