Page 104

CHAPTER 104

TIMMY STRIKES AGAIN

MARGAUX

T he air in the apartment is suffocating, weighed down by fear, exhaustion, and the remnants of shattered trust. For a few days, Timmy is calm. Almost contrite.

I think he knows how badly he messed up our anniversary and that he's hanging by a thread.

He reads my email. “I agree with all of it, Margaux. You’re right. I love you, and I promise to do better.”

His words soothe, but calm is never a constant with him. It’s a fleeting intermission before the next act of chaos.

Sure enough, five days later, Timmy strikes again.

He runs away to the tents. Defeated and exhausted, I fall asleep, no longer having the energy to fight his runaway episodes.

Resigned to this being my life now.

I wake to the disorienting sensation of Timmy pressing against me. My body stiffens, my heart racing as I realize what’s happening.

He rubs his dick against me, then he moves down and licks my asshole.

I freeze, paralyzed.

My skin crawls as his tongue slides against me, and he crawls back up, sliding himself inside me.

I’ve told him before—explicitly—that this is not okay. That he does not have my consent to touch me while I’m asleep.

But what does consent mean to someone like Timmy?

I remain still, hoping he’ll stop, unable to find the energy to resist.

Last time I brought it up, he laughed.

My stomach churns as he finishes inside me, and I feel bile rise in my throat.

I lie here, numb, as he rolls over and falls asleep.

I’m trapped in my own body, replaying what just happened over and over—he just used my body without my permission, and it wasn’t the first time.

Timmy spends most of the next day in bed, finally emerging late in the afternoon.

He slams around the kitchen—the fridge door, the water bottle, the bathroom door all victims of his unchecked rage.

“I fucking hate your stupid fucking TV shows,” he snarls. “You watch them just to upset me.”

“No, Timmy,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “I’ve been watching them for over ten years. I watch them because I enjoy them.”

He sneers at Sabre, who’s lapping water from his bowl. “I fucking hate the noise your cat makes when he drinks water.”

“Okay,” I reply, exhaustion dripping from every word. “Then move out.”

“ You fucking move out,” he spits back.

Something inside me snaps.

“Get out of my life with your lame lies and your hollow promises, Timmy. Everyone knows about you—security, the landlord. You are nothing .”

But, like always, he doesn’t leave. He grumbles, complains about how bad I make his life, and stomps around until he disappears again. Likely back to the meth tents.

My therapist has a theory that I’ve been dissociating by this point, and I know she’s right. Because nobody sane and mentally present would be able to deal with this as their day-to-day.

By the time evening arrives, I’m fed up, and I head to the police station. I’m shaking as I approach the watch house, the weight of this decision pressing down on me.

“I’m finally ready,” I say to the officer on duty, my voice trembling. “How do I get a TRO?”

The officer glances up from his desk. “You’ll need to wait until the court opens in the morning.”

“But he’s acting crazy. What if he comes back and hurts me tonight?” I ask, desperation seeping into my tone.

“Just call us and we’ll come right out,” he shrugs. “Or you could go to a shelter.”

“You can’t issue me something in the interim to prevent him from entering the apartment?”

“No ma’am,” he shakes his head. “Just be ready to dial 911 and we will be there.”

I nod, though their reassurance feels hollow.

There’s no safety net here, just a promise to intervene after something happens.

I return to the apartment, dreading the moment Timmy walks through the door. My hands shake as I pour myself a drink, hoping to dull the edge of my terror.

I’m terrified of what state he’ll be in when he gets back, but I also feel like I have practice handling him. That seems preferable than going to a shelter and leaving Sabre here, defenseless, along with all my property.

A while later, the door beeps. Timmy’s back.

He bursts in, screaming, his voice a thunderstorm of fury.

I grab my phone and dial 911, my heart pounding as he rages.

By the time six officers arrive, he’s vanished.

I explain his erratic behavior, his threats, his abuse, and about my attempts to secure a TRO. I muster the courage to tell them the truth about what happened last night. “He’s been having sex with me while I’m asleep, after I told him not to.”

One of the officers scoffs at me. “No detective is going to take your statement while you reek of alcohol.”

My jaw clenches. My chest tightens. I feel like ripping my hair out.

I went out earlier to try to get a TRO—like the police advised me— and I couldn’t.

I just told the police I’ve been raped— and they shamed me for drinking alcohol.

I want to scream at the injustice of it all.

I turn to a female officer. “Look, I’m not a criminal for having had a drink. Your colleague is being extremely unprofessional. Can I speak to you instead?”

She nods, listening as I recount everything. She confirms that I can speak to a detective the following day if I want to pursue charges.

The officers leave, and the silence is deafening.

I put Timmy and his parents into a group text. My fingers fly across the screen, shaking with a mixture of rage, despair, and determination:

Me:

Timmy—you have 48 hours to move out your things.

If you become violent, verbally or physically, I will be calling the police.

They are already aware I am asking you to remove yourself from the premises.

I will be filing legal claims against you, as discussed, for the $20-25k in malicious damage you have caused in the past year.

I reserve the right to file future claims as they become apparent and as as advised by my attorney. I have a great attorney.

Your lack of recognition of your son’s behavior is really shit, Phil.

I do not blame you.

But seriously, Phil, he needs to be in a home. Get him one.

The police are ready to come and get him the second he does anything further illegal to me, and I’m sure they cannot wait.

They didn’t like it when he fractured my skull.

Or when he tried to kill me and I forced them to drop the charges.

He said 3 hours ago when he ran off to get a cigarette that he will hurt me if I talk to you, so here I am.

He will come back drunk and try to kill me again.

But keep ignoring.

Justify it.

When he is in prison for first degree murder, I hope you say, ‘Well, Margaux was a real bitch and she deserved it.’

Also, your son has been having sex with me in my sleep, which is rape. I told several friends after it happened, and blatantly asked him to stop the other day, to which he said ‘it was funny’. He has not tried since that time, but thought it was funny to lick my asshole and put his penis in my vagina while I was asleep again, without my permission.

The things I said are all true.

You both? I loved you both the moment I saw you, and I appreciate you making me feel so welcome.

But now I’m just waiting for your son to come back and attack me because of something he made up in his head.

Eventually, I receive a voicemail from Phil.

“I’ll call him in the morning and try to talk some sense into him,” Phil says. “But as for the allegations you made? That doesn’t sound like rape to me.”

I sob.

I’m enraged.

His dad is gaslighting me yet again, defending his son’s sexual assault.

And I feel very, very alone.