Page 120

CHAPTER 120

POP TART

MARGAUX

I ’m sitting on the bed, engrossed in writing, when I feel something press against my leg.

“Ow!” I yelp, jerking my leg back as the searing heat registers.

Timmy pulls his hand away, laughing.

I look down to see the culprit—a freshly toasted Pop-Tart, still steaming. The skin on my leg tingles where it made contact.

“You just put a hot fucking Pop-Tart on my leg! You burned me!”

He laughs again, louder this time, as if my outrage is the punchline to a joke only he understands.

“Stop being so uptight,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s not even that hot.”

I stare at him, disbelief and anger bubbling inside me. “Why would you do that?”

“Jesus Christ, you’re such a bitch,” he sneers. “You’re always trying to find a reason to argue. Calm the fuck down.”

“You just took a burning hot Pop-Tart and put it on my leg,” I reply, my voice trembling.

“Fuck you’re dramatic. Just shut up and watch your stupid show,” he says, turning away as if I’m the unreasonable one.

I bite my tongue, retreating into silence. My leg still stings, but it’s nothing compared to the knot forming in my stomach.

Timmy is now tormenting me with breakfast pastries.

How did it come to this? And what will be next?

He spends the next couple of hours cleaning, and I brace myself.

Timmy cleaning always leads to something more.

I can hear music blaring from my headphones that he’s wearing, and he’s chugging Fireball like it’s going out of fashion.

After he’s done with the back room, he comes into the living room.

“You just need to stop being such a bitch,” he says casually, as if it’s a constructive suggestion. “That would make things easier. You know that?”

I haven’t said anything.

I haven’t done anything.

I’ve been sitting here working, the TV murmuring in the background.

He strides into the kitchen, picks up a plate, and pretends to examine it. “Look how badly you did the dishes,” he sneers. “This plate is still dirty.”

He throws it into the sink with a loud clatter. The sound of chipping porcelain fills the room.

I flinch. His smirk tells me he notices.

He knows I’m scared. Knows I’m wondering if he’ll turn around and throw the plate at me next.

Which would chip first—my skull or the plate?

“You think you’re so smart,” he sneers at me.

“I am smart,” I reply.

“Oh really?”

“I’m smarter than you. You know that.”

He frowns but doesn’t say anything else for a while.

Because he does know that.

And he found it attractive at first, but now he’s so threatened by it.

It’s one of the only remaining things he doesn’t try to strip away from me. But he hassles me about it.

He screws his face up with contempt. “You and your smart little brain.”

That’s it. That’s the insult. The entire thing.

“Okay, I have a smart brain. Thank you. You’re right.”

“You really need to do a better job around here,” he continues. “I do way more cleaning than you, and I do it better. You just sit around and work, thinking you’re better than me because you pay rent. You think I’m stupid. You think my friends are stupid. You don’t even pretend to be nice. You’re such a bitch.”

This conversation is a dead end, a loop designed to corral me into submission.

I try gray rocking.

“Yep, you’re right. I’m a terrible person. I’m a dumb cunt. I never should have been born. Yep, you got it. Thanks for reminding me.”

My tone is neutral, but the words are dripping with sarcasm. Still, it seems to placate him.

He pauses, then announces, “I’m going out for a cigarette.” The door swooshes open and closed, and the beep of it locking behind him sends a jolt of adrenaline through me.

I stare at the chipped plate in the sink, my heart racing.

He wins.

I surrender.

I don’t care anymore.

I don’t know if I’m going to survive this, but at this point I just don’t care.

One of the things that bothers me most is the property damage.

I wouldn’t own half the things I do if it weren’t for him—items he insisted he needed. And yet, when his emotions flare, those same things become targets.

He sticks knives into wooden chopping blocks, scratches a custom-made statue that was a gift to me, and smashes a sentimental mug.

It’s malicious, calculated destruction.

“It’s just a thing,” I tell myself every time. “I’ll just replace it.”

But the logical part of me argues back:

You shouldn’t have to replace it. He broke it on purpose.

Every damaged item becomes a point of inner conflict. If I replace it, I live with the fear that he’ll ruin it again. If I don’t, I live without the comfort or utility it once provided. Either way, he’s stolen something from me.

Desperate for peace, I buy a singing bowl and a smudging kit. I’ve always wanted these things, but now I feel like I need them.

The first time I try the bowl, the vibrations send chills down my spine. They’re calming, centering.

Timmy notices, instantly curious. “Let me try,” he says, snatching it from my hands. He runs the mallet around the rim, producing a haunting hum. “Look how good I am at this,” he says, grinning.

I smile weakly, glad he’s found something positive to distract him from chaos. But soon, it becomes another competition. “I’m way better at this than you,” he boasts. “Admit it.”

I nod, swallowing my irritation. “You’re very talented, babe.”

He beams, satisfied.

It’s such a small thing, but even here—where I’m trying to find peace—he finds a way to assert control.

I sit at the edge of the bed, staring out the window. The ocean sparkles in the distance, a sharp contrast to the darkness in my chest.

I’m in one of the most beautiful places on Earth, and I feel trapped.

I spent six months living by the ocean and never went in. Depression kept me away, a weight I couldn’t lift.

“There was nothing stopping you,” Timmy had said, mocking me. But there was.

My mind, my fear, my exhaustion.

Now, I’m not sure if it’s my depression or him—or both—that’s keeping me from fully living. At least I go in the water again now.

I close my eyes, the hum of the singing bowl still ringing faintly in my ears.

And I wonder if I’ll ever feel peace again.