Page 119

CHAPTER 119

PETTY REVENGE AND PTSD

MARGAUX

THE PAST

Timmy: You’re emotional. But that’s okay, because so am I.

I’m a Cancer, you know.

Me: I’m actually not that emotional, unless I’m triggered.

Like… loud noises trigger my PTSD.

Timmy: Oh no, I didn’t realize.

I’ll be extra mindful of that.

I never want to hurt you, Margaux.

THE PRESENT

His foot shakes, and the whole bed trembles. The rhythm is relentless, unyielding, and impossible to ignore. As usual, it starts as a faint vibration and crescendos into an insistent, deliberate disturbance, like a jackhammer attacking my sanity.

I try to block it out.

Night after night, he does this. And then as soon as he wakes up, he starts again.

It’s okay, I tell myself. Just focus. Just write.

But it’s like quicksand, pulling me deeper into frustration and exhaustion.

The shaking stops briefly, and I exhale, hoping for peace.

But then the moaning begins.

It’s not just a sleepy groan. It’s guttural, almost animalistic. The sound of distress—unsettling and persistent. The noise worms its way into my thoughts, unraveling any focus I’ve managed to muster.

I glance over, and Timmy’s eyes are open. “Timmy?” I ask cautiously.

His gaze flicks to me, but it’s vacant, unseeing. Then he starts talking—jumbled, incoherent words spilling from his lips, half-slurred, as though his mind is disconnected from his body.

“Timmy, are you awake?” I try again, louder this time.

He bolts upright as if electrified. “You woke me!” he roars, his voice sharp and venomous. “I’ve told you not to wake me! You’re lucky I didn’t hit you!”

My heart pounds. “You had your eyes open, and you were talking to me,” I say, trying to steady my voice.

“Well, I was asleep!” he snaps. “How many times do I have to tell you not to touch me when I’m asleep?”

I take a deep breath, willing myself to stay calm. “Timmy, it’s ten-thirty in the morning. I’ve been trying to work for the last four-and-a-half hours while you’ve been shaking the bed and making these moaning noises. I can’t concentrate.”

His gaze shifts to the TV, and his lips curl into a sneer. “You’ve put this shit on for when I wake up? Fuck, you’re a piece of work. I see you.” His words drip with malice, his tone like a venomous whip lashing at my skin.

“I was watching something entertaining while I worked,” I reply, shrugging off his anger. “You were asleep, so I put on something you don’t like. I didn’t think it would bother you.”

“Like I’m not absorbing that crap subconsciously while I sleep! And you have the curtains open so people can see me sleeping? How dare you!”

I resist the urge to yell. “I waited until after eight-thirty to open the curtains. I like to see the ocean for inspiration while I write. You know I don’t want to feel trapped in the dark room, especially when there’s a view of the water right there.”

“You’re so fucking selfish,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Always putting yourself first.”

The irony hits me like a punch to the gut. I swallow it down. “I’m trying to make things comfortable for you and get some work done,” I explain, my voice measured but strained.

“Whatever,” he hisses, throwing himself back onto the bed.

Later, I’m deep in concentration, lost in the flow of writing. The world outside my story has faded—it’s just me and the words. Then, suddenly?—

“BOO!”

Timmy lunges toward me, his face twisted into a menacing expression. His voice is sharp, guttural, designed to pierce through my focus and shatter my calm.

I scream, flinching so hard that I jerk backwards and almost hit my head on the cinder block wall behind me. My heart pounds like a war drum, my skin tingling with an all-too-familiar rush of adrenaline. It’s not just a startle—it’s a full-body reaction, a direct trigger for the PTSD I’ve worked so hard to manage.

“Why would you do that?” I gasp, clutching my chest. My voice wavers, a mix of shock and anger. “Oh my god, Timmy!”

He shrugs, his expression unreadable. “You woke me up earlier,” he says flatly.

My mind races. Is this revenge? Is he serious?

“That was an accident, and I apologized,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady despite the tremor in my hands. “So you decided to get some kind of revenge by purposely triggering my PTSD?”

He shrugs again, his nonchalance like a slap to the face.

The room feels different now. Charged. I’m on edge, my senses heightened to every creak, every movement, every sound. Those kinds of scares don’t just fade in five minutes—they linger, embedding themselves in my nervous system, ready to erupt again at the slightest provocation.

I know I won’t be able to write now. My creative flow is gone, replaced by a tightness in my chest and a buzzing in my ears. The rest of the day will be spent bracing for the next jump, the next shout, the next cruel ‘prank’.

But Timmy got his revenge, so I guess that’s what matters.

Hours pass, and I’m still on edge. The earlier incident replays in my mind on a loop, each memory as sharp as the moment it happened.

Timmy walks into the room, his expression softened, almost apologetic. “That was mean of me before,” he says, his voice low. “Frightening you on purpose. I’m sorry.”

I glance up from my laptop, narrowing my eyes.

I don’t trust this tone.

“I was just so upset you woke me up,” he continues. “But I thought about what you said, and I realize you thought I was awake. So what I did to you was just mean. And I’m sorry.”

The words hang in the air, heavy with an edge I can’t quite identify.

My brain knows better than to engage. Knows it’s smarter to nod, accept the apology, and let it go. The one thing my brain can’t seem to do is to stop me from being a smart ass .

Even around a dangerous man.

Especially around a dangerous man.

“Wow,” I say, tilting my head. “That almost sounded sincere.”

His eyes narrow, his jaw tightening just slightly.

“I mean,” I continue, unable to stop myself, “it’s so comforting to know that after hours of reflection, you’ve realized that deliberately triggering my PTSD was, in fact, a shitty thing to do. Gold star for you, Timmy.”

His lips press into a thin line, his face darkening. “Careful,” he says, his voice low, a warning wrapped in feigned civility.

I swallow hard, my pulse quickening. The room feels smaller now, the air heavier. Should’ve stopped while I was ahead, I think, kicking myself internally.

“I’m just saying,” I say, my tone softer now, trying to diffuse the tension. “You can’t expect me to bounce back immediately after something like that.”

He exhales sharply, a sound halfway between a sigh and a scoff. “I said I was sorry.”

“Right,” I say, nodding. “Thanks for that.”

Timmy leaves the room, but the tension lingers. I sit with my laptop on my lap, staring at the blinking cursor on my screen, but my focus is gone. The apology should’ve made me feel better, but instead, it leaves me feeling hollow.

The cruelty wasn’t in the act itself—it was in the calculation. The deliberate choice to hurt me, to target something so personal, so deeply rooted.

It wasn’t an outburst or a mistake—it was revenge.

Petty, cruel revenge.

And the apology? It felt rehearsed, transactional. A way to smooth things over without actually addressing the deeper issue.

He didn’t apologize because he understood the damage he caused.

He apologized to reset the scoreboard, to clear the slate so he could hurt me again later without guilt.

I close my laptop and stare out the window. The ocean glistens in the distance, calm and steady, a stark contrast to the chaos inside the apartment.

I wish I could escape into that calm.

But here, with Timmy, peace feels impossible.