The Poison That Remembers Your Name

Miguel pours Maker's Mark into plastic cup with precision suggesting sacrament—bourbon catches basement light, caramel and copper promising warmth before it burns. This one's been aging in my heart, Mom, he says, voice carrying childlike tone wrapped around smoky edges. His wedding ring glints as he slides the cup across bar top's restored grain, wood remembering every scar even after refinishing made it beautiful again.

I'm exhausted. DevOps emergency ate my afternoon—production server decided today was perfect day to shit itself, taking half our infrastructure with it. Spent four hours elbow-deep in code, rebuilding what shouldn't have broken, explaining to executives why "just restart it" isn't solution to systemic failures. My spine screams electric fire where sciatic nerve pinches, titanium plates holding shattered leg together conducting cold through bone.

Keira sits beside me reading Morrison's Beloved, her presence quiet anchor in chaos. She doesn't look up but her shoulder presses mine—subtle contact saying I'm here without demanding attention.

The Sanctuary pulses with Tuesday evening energy. Stevie Ray Vaughn's "Pride and Joy" bleeds through speakers, guitar work visceral enough to taste. Ezra claims their beanbag throne, blue hair electric silk catching light as they sketch something intricate on napkin. Della emerges from kitchen carrying plates of blackened catfish that smell like heaven looks like sin tastes like home.

Mom, you look like hammered shit, Ezra announces with cheerful brutality.

Thanks, kid. Your observational skills remain impeccable.

I'm just saying, maybe eat something before you collapse. They gesture at Della's offering. She made the good stuff.

Della sets plate in front of me with aggressive care. Eat, bitch. You're no good to anyone if you fucking starve.

I take bite of catfish—perfectly charred outside, tender inside, seasoning complex enough to make me forget production servers exist. Christ, Della. You trying to make me cry?

Every goddamn day, she says, satisfaction evident. It's how I show love.

The door opens. Cold December air rushes down stairs, carrying exhaust and winter rot.

And then there she stands.

Victoria.

I have only heard about her. She was fixture here back then—before Sanctuary existed as an actual name, before Miguel and Della created underground haven. Lesbian who commanded rooms through sheer force of will, political activist who organized protests and consciousness-raising groups, feminist who spoke about liberation with religious fervor.

She's older now. Fifty-something, maybe older. Gray streaks through short dark hair cut with military precision. Face shows lines earned through anger held too long, mouth set in permanent disapproval. She wears boots and jeans and flannel shirt buttoned to throat—armor disguised as practicality.

Miguel's face goes carefully blank. Della's hands still on bar top, white-knuckled.

Victoria, Miguel says, voice losing all childlike quality, becoming flat professional tone bartenders use for problem customers.

Miguel. She surveys basement like general assessing battlefield. Place has changed.

People do that, Della says from kitchen doorway. Change.

Victoria's eyes find me. Something cold and calculating moves behind her expression—recognition followed immediately by disgust so visceral it feels like physical blow.

What the fuck, she says, voice carrying across sudden silence. They let a piece of shit like you in here?

The Sanctuary goes quiet. Conversations die mid-sentence. Rush's "Tom Sawyer" keeps playing but nobody's listening anymore. Ezra's pen stops moving. Keira finally looks up from her book.

Excuse me? I say carefully.

Victoria moves closer. Her presence fills space like toxic gas expanding to poison available air. You heard me. What the fuck is a man doing in lesbian bar? Throw out this trash Della. This thing is not worth your or anyone else’s time.

My spine goes rigid. Electric fire shoots through nerve endings, pain and rage indistinguishable.

This ain't a lesbian bar, Miguel says quietly. Never was.

Bullshit. Victoria turns on him. This was our space. Women's space. Safe from male violence. And now you're letting—she gestures at me like I'm contaminated waste—that thing in here? It is an unnatural abomination. The Christians have it right. Kill them all. Including him.

Della moves from kitchen with speed suggesting violence barely contained. Get the fuck out.

No. Victoria plants herself, boots making authoritative statement against concrete. I helped build this community. I organized rallies when you were still figuring out which bathroom to use. I fought for women's rights while you were—she looks at Miguel with disgust that makes my stomach turn—mutilating yourself to escape being female. And this—pointing at me—this fucking abomination gets to waltz in here, invade our spaces, pretend it understands what it means to be a woman?

Miguel's face shows nothing. Absolute professional control. But his hands shake pouring whiskey for himself—wedding ring catching light, fifteen years with Della written in gold band.

You need to leave, I say, standing. Leg protests, sciatic nerve screaming, but I'm beyond caring.

Or what? Victoria laughs—sound like breaking glass, jagged and dangerous. You going to make me? You going to show everyone what you really are underneath that dress? You are gonna hit a woman? Because you lie to yourself and think you are a woman? A fucking man with a fetish, a predator cosplaying womanhood so you can access women's spaces and violate us? Still got a dick right? Still use it don’t you?

Victoria— Miguel starts.

Don't you fucking defend it! She wheels on him, spittle flying. You of all people should understand. They're erasing us. Erasing actual women. Every time some man decides he's a woman, he's invading spaces we died for, demanding we validate his sexual fantasy while he mocks everything we fought to protect. You think you're a man? You're a fucking traitor. Self-hating woman who couldn't handle being butch so you mutilated your body to escape female oppression instead of fighting it. No more tits. And that—jabbing finger toward me—that is a man. A fucking man who gets off on parading around in our clothes, invading our bathrooms, our changing rooms, our rape crisis centers—

Get out. Keira's voice cuts through Victoria's tirade like scalpel through infected tissue. She's standing now, Morrison abandoned, expression showing steel I rarely see.

Victoria smirks. Another thing. How predictable. Some stupid trans-trash defending one of their own. You know what they do, right? These men in dresses? They force their way into women's prisons and rape female inmates. They invade women's shelters and assault vulnerable women. They demand lesbians fuck them or be called bigots. They're predators. Sexual predators using feminism as shield while they hunt us. These things are as bad a pedophiles…no really….worse….

I said get the fuck out. Della moves around bar, spatula still in hand like weapon. You come into my bar, my home, and attack my family? You got ten seconds before I throw your ass into alley where it belongs.

Your family? Victoria's laugh borders hysterical. These aren't women, Della. They're men playing dress-up. She’s—pointing at Miguel—a self-hating woman who couldn't handle being butch. And that—pointing at me—is a man. A fucking predator who should be in prison. Or better yet, dead. The world would be safer without it. Without any of them. They're destroying women's rights, destroying feminism, destroying everything we built. They need to be stopped. By any means necessary. I would kill it if I could. And I would be a hero.

The words land like physical blows. Silence crashes down—not peaceful silence but shocked vacuum where air should exist.

Did you just say I should be dead? My voice comes out remarkably steady considering I'm shaking.

I said the world would be safer without you. Victoria's eyes burn with righteous fury. Without any trans-identified males invading women's spaces. You're not women. You're men with fetishes. Men with mental illness. Men who mutilate your bodies and demand we validate your delusions. And yes—yes, I think the world would be better without you. I think women would be safer without you. I think every woman you've ever been in a bathroom with, every woman you've ever been in a changing room with, every woman forced to acknowledge your presence in spaces meant to protect us from male violence—I think they'd all be safer if you didn't exist. And any woman who was in a bathroom with you, could cry rape. I mean you would do it anyway right?

Fleetwood Mac's "Dreams" starts playing. Stevie Nicks singing about thunder only happening when it's raining, about loneliness being cleans when you're alone.

Out. Miguel's voice carries finality I've never heard before. Don't come back. Ever.

Or what? Victoria's face contorts. You going to call the police? Tell them a woman said mean things about men in dresses? They'll laugh you out of the station. Everyone knows what you are. Everyone sees through this bullshit. You're predators. Sex offenders. And eventually, eventually people are going to wake up and realize we were right. That we were trying to protect women and children from your violence. And when that happens, when the backlash comes—and it will come—don't say I didn't warn you. Don't say I didn't try to stop this insanity before it got innocent women killed.

You just threatened my Mom's life, Ezra says quietly, blue hair catching light, face showing horror. You just said she should be dead.

I said the world would be safer without trans-identified males. He is not your mom. No matter how much you wish he was. HE STILL HAS A FUCKING DICK. AN UNCLEAN EVIL FUCKING DICK, Victoria screams, deliberately, like explaining simple concept to stupid child. I said they're predators who harm women. I said they should be stopped. Those are facts. Documented facts. They're not threats—they're observations about reality you're all too deluded or too complicit to acknowledge.

Get the fuck out. Della's voice drops to dangerous register. Before I make you leave in ways you won't enjoy.

Victoria looks around basement one final time—at Ezra's horrified expression, at Della's fury, at Keira's protective stance, at me standing despite pain shooting through spine and terror freezing my chest. You're all going to regret this, she says quietly, voice carrying absolute conviction. When they start raping women in bathrooms, when they start beating female athletes, when they start eliminating actual women from existence—you'll remember I tried to warn you. I tried to protect you. And you chose predators over sisters. You chose male violence over female safety. That blood is on your hands. And I WILL BE BACK, you best believe , I will be back.

She heads toward door, then pauses. Turns back. Looks directly at me with hatred so pure it feels like staring into furnace.

You should be ashamed of yourself, she says softly. Parading around like this. Making a mockery of women. If I had my way, you'd be in prison. Or in the ground. Either way, somewhere you couldn't hurt actual women anymore. I hope you die a painful death that is long , drawn out, and the most excruciating time of your life, you pieces of shit. ALL OF YOU!!!!!

She leaves. Door slams. Cold air dissipates.

Nobody moves for long moment.

Then Della exhales shakily, spatula clattering onto bar top. Fuck. Fuck. Did she just—

She said our Mom should be dead, Ezra whispers. She said it multiple times. She said it would be better if Mom was in the ground.

Miguel pours three shots of tequila—Patrón, expensive shit—and slides them to Della, Keira, and me. I grunt protest but he shakes his head. Drink, Mom. You need it. We all need it.

I drink. Tequila burns, familiar and unwelcome, carrying memories of too many bad nights, too many times I tried drinking myself out of pain. But it helps. Rage and fear and exhaustion mixing with alcohol, creating numbness approaching functional.

My hands shake. Whole body shakes. Because Victoria didn't just disagree with my existence—she called for my elimination. My death. Said explicitly, multiple times, with absolute conviction, that world would be better without me in it. That I should be in prison or dead. That I'm predator, threat, danger requiring removal by any means necessary.

She wants me dead.

Actually dead.

And she thinks she's righteous for wanting it.

How long ? I ask quietly, voice barely functioning.

Miguel and Della exchange look suggesting entire conversation happening silently.

Six years, Della finally says. Before we opened as Sanctuary. When this was just a basement, occasional gathering space. She organized women's groups, feminist discussions. Seemed solid. Passionate about justice, about protecting women from violence.

She was solid, Miguel adds carefully. Until trans women started showing up. Then she got... different. Started making comments about biology, about protecting women's spaces from males. Started quoting Andrea Dworkin and Janice Raymond like they were fucking scripture. We thought she was just concerned, just trying to navigate complicated issues. Then she started calling trans women 'TIMs'—trans-identified males—like we were all predators. Started talking about how we were threats to children, to women, to lesbians specifically.

And you didn't kick her out? My voice comes out sharper than intended.

We tried talking to her first, Della says defensively. Tried educating her, tried explaining why her rhetoric was harmful. She'd nod, say she understood, then go right back to spouting same shit. Eventually we told her she wasn't welcome anymore if she couldn't treat trans people with basic respect. That's when she stopped coming.

Until tonight I guess right? Keira says flatly. When she decided to come back and explicitly threaten Wendy's life.

Not technically a threat, I say automatically, then hear how absurd that sounds. I mean—she didn't say she personally would kill me. She just said I should be dead, and she would do it if she “could”. That the world would be better without me. That I should be in prison or in the ground. That's not the same as threatening to kill me herself.

Bullshit, Ezra says fiercely. That's absolutely a threat. Just because she didn't say 'I will kill you' doesn't mean she wasn't threatening you. She was inciting violence. Saying you deserve to die, that people like you should be eliminated—that's stochastic terrorism. That's how people get killed.

The phrase lands heavily. Stochastic terrorism. When you create environment where violence against specific group seems justified, seems necessary, seems righteous—then someone, somewhere, will commit that violence believing they're hero rather than murderer.

Victoria didn't threaten to kill me herself. She just convinced herself—and potentially others—that my death would be justified. That I'm predator requiring elimination. That violence against me would be protecting women rather than harming one.

That's worse than direct threat. Direct threats you can report, can get restraining orders against, can point to as evidence of danger. But rhetoric? Ideology? Conviction that certain people deserve death for existing? That spreads like virus, infecting anyone vulnerable to message that their fears justify someone else's elimination.

I need to sit down, I say quietly.

Keira guides me back to barstool. Miguel pours more Maker's Mark without asking. The Sanctuary slowly returns to life around us—conversations restarting cautiously, as if everyone's afraid Victoria poisoned air permanently.

The door opens again. We all tense.

But it's just Dani. They stop seeing our expressions. What the fuck happened?

Victoria showed up, Miguel says flatly.

Dani's face hardens into something approaching murderous. That TERF cunt? She still spouting her bullshit about protecting women from imaginary threats?

Worse, Della says. She told Mom she should be dead. Multiple times. Said the world would be safer without trans people, that we should be in prison or in the ground.

Dani sets their drink down with controlled violence that makes plastic cup crack. Where the fuck is she?

Gone, I say quickly. Already left.

Good. Dani settles onto barstool beside me with authority. Because I've lived thirty something goddamn years, loved all of you for the best of them, and I never met a trans woman who threatened me half as much as bigots who claim to protect women's spaces from them. Victoria's been spouting this shit for years, right? Used to be subtle about it—concern trolling about women's safety, asking questions about biology like they were neutral. Then she found her people online, found communities validating her worst instincts, and went full fucking mask-off. Last time I saw her, she was posting on Facebook about how trans women should be forcibly detransitioned and institutionalized. Said we were mentally ill predators who needed to be separated from society for everyone's protection.

Jesus Christ, Keira mutters.

It gets worse, Dani continues. She's connected to groups in UK who've been fighting against trans healthcare, against self-ID laws, against anything that acknowledges trans people exist. They call themselves 'gender critical' like that makes their bigotry sound intellectual. They organize campaigns to get trans people fired, to shut down trans healthcare clinics, to eliminate legal protections. And they frame it all as protecting women and children. As if trans people existing somehow harms women instead of, you know, the actual patriarchy that oppresses all of us.

Genesis "Land of Confusion" starts playing. Phil Collins singing about too many people making too many problems, not much love to go around.

That's appropriate, Ezra says shakily.

The evening continues but energy's shifted. More people arrive—Renee, Sarah, Phoenix, River. Story gets told, retold, analyzed from different angles. Everyone has opinion about TERFs, about Victoria specifically, about what should happen if she returns.

Renee's particularly vocal, muscles tense as she cracks knuckles loudly with barely contained fury. She comes back, I'm handling it. Nobody threatens MY MOM. Nobody says that shit and walks away unscathed.

Violence isn't answer, Sarah argues philosophically.

Neither is tolerating people who call for others to die, Renee counters. There's a difference between disagreement and elimination. Victoria doesn't disagree with trans existence—she wants people dead. That's not opinion requiring respectful discourse. That's threat requiring response. Mark my words. She comes back in here, Im pushing her face flat into the bar top. I am not fucking kidding.

Phoenix sits close to River, ruby ring catching light, face showing trauma I recognize too well. People like Victoria are why I got beaten in that alley. Because someone believed their rhetoric about trans people being predators, about us being threats, about the world being better without us. They believed it so much they felt justified trying to kill me. And Victoria would probably say I deserved it. That I brought it on myself for existing visibly.

She absolutely would, River adds, nurse precision cutting through emotion. I've read their forums, their manifestos, their supposed research papers. They argue that violence against trans people is self-defense. That we're aggressive males invading women's spaces, so any violence directed at us is actually women protecting themselves. They've created entire ideological framework justifying our elimination.

The conversation spirals—everyone processing, everyone contributing, everyone trying to make sense of senseless hatred wrapped in feminist language.

But underneath discourse, I'm trapped in Victoria's eyes. The absolute certainty I saw there. The conviction that she was righteous, that her exclusion was justice, that trans people—particularly trans women—represented existential threat requiring elimination by any means necessary.

She really believes it. That's what makes it fucking terrifying. Not cynical manipulation but genuine conviction. She thinks she's protecting women by calling for my death. She thinks she's feminist hero rather than bigot inciting violence.

Mom? Ezra's voice pulls me back. You're shaking.

Can't seem to stop.

Keira's arm wraps around my shoulders. Let's get you home.

No. The word comes out sharper than intended. Not yet. Leaving feels like she won. Like her poison worked.