Page 126

CHAPTER 126

EMOTIONAL VAMPIRE

MARGAUX

T he next morning, I’m working and I see him stir beside me.

“Good morning!” I say brightly. An attempt to start the day out on a good note.

He shakes his head and scoffs. “You always wake up and you’re so cute to me the next day. It won’t fly this time!”

I peer at him, feeling my exhaustion weigh heavier than my anger. “No, Timmy. That’s you . You wake up and act sweet, trying to reorient yourself. I’m just trying to reset, trying to give you and the day a chance to be positive. But it feels like a waste, bruh—because you’ve proven—over and over—that you’re angrier, meaner, especially in the evenings. Not just when you’re drinking, but even when you’re not.”

He looks at me, blank-faced, but I can see the storm brewing beneath his surface.

“I’m the one who has to pay for your moods,” I say quietly. “And frankly, I’m tired of it.”

A while later, his demeanor changes. He’s suddenly all soft smiles and gentle words, his eyes warm again. “I’m sorry,” he says, his tone dripping with sincerity. “I’ve been thinking about things, and I apologize for the way I acted. You deserve better. I’m going to treat you so much better.”

I want to believe him. His kindness feels like a balm, soothing the wounds he inflicted just hours before. His smile is almost enough to make me forget the cruelty.

Almost.

Maybe he’s right, too—maybe I did contribute to the issues we’ve been facing.

But I know better than to trust his words—I’ve been to this rodeo, seen this cycle play out way too many times.

I’ve been burned by the sweetness that always precedes the storm.

Later that evening, a chilling thought crosses my mind.

They say if you die, your cat will eat you.

I know Sabre wouldn’t do that, at least not right away.

He’d snuggle up next to me, his warm body pressed against mine, until he couldn’t anymore.

Maybe then, and only then, would he eat me.

But Timmy?

If I died, I realize, he wouldn’t call an ambulance or the police right away.

No, he’d probably wander around the apartment first, scavenging for things to sell. He’d rifle through my belongings, figuring out what could bring in quick cash and what he wanted to keep for himself.

And then, maybe after a few days, he’d report it.

The thought sends an icy chill through my entire body.

The person I thought cared for me most doesn’t care at all.

Timmy. Is. Not. Here. For. Me.

Later, Timmy is pacing around the apartment, muttering to himself.

“You know, you treat people just like the pigeons and ducks you like to feed so much,” I say, finally seeing him for what he is.

He stops pacing, his brow furrowed. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You throw them little chunks of bread so they’ll come to you. They land on you, make a big fuss over you, and in that moment, you feel adored and special. And you do the same to humans. You throw people just enough emotional breadcrumbs to make them run to you and make you feel adored and admired and special. Just enough to keep them on the hook.”

“That’s not true,” he says, his voice defensive.

I press on. “You do it to me, to Matty, hell, even to Skank Pants. Keep us around for when you need us. The rest of the time, you behave like a monster. But we let it slide because those breadcrumbs, as small as they are, are just enough to make us stay. They’re delicious, even though they’re not nearly enough to sustain anyone. And when you’ve had enough of what you want, you withhold the bread until you feel us pulling away, and then you toss another crumb.”

He stares at me, his expression unreadable.

“Do you understand how fucked up that is?” I ask, my voice breaking.

“And when it comes to your parents, you’re even worse! You don’t even try to disguise it. ‘Mommy I love you. Mommy, mommy, mommy.’ What forty-year-old talks like that?

And you basically throw entire loaves of bread at your dad so you keep him wrapped around your little finger. ‘Dad, I’m so proud of your career, both in the military and out. I wish I could be just like you when I grow up. I’m sorry I didn’t make it into the military, but other people in the family did, thank goodness! I just want to sit here and tell you how proud I am of you.’ You make me throw up. And the worst part is, it’s so overt and yet your flying monkey of a father falls for it hook, line and sinker, and then he enables you to keep doing it to him and everyone else.”

His face crumbles slightly. “Is that what you really think of me?”

“It’s not what I think , Timmy. It’s what I know . You’re a textbook narcissist. And don’t try to twist this around and say that I am, because I’m not . You don’t just have manipulative tendencies. You’re the whole fucking narcissistic enchilada.”

“I don’t want to be like this anymore,” he says quietly. “I want to change.”

“Well, unfortunately for you, this type of behavior, these patterns you have? They’re almost incurable. I listened to an expert the other day, and she said she’s only ever seen one or two people out of hundreds truly change. And even then, it took years of intensive therapy with multiple therapists, costing hundreds of thousands of dollars. And the kicker is, it only worked because they genuinely wanted to change.”

“I do want to change!”

“No, you don’t,” I say, my voice firm. “This sad mode of operation you’ve lived in your entire life serves you too well. It gives you access to lifestyles you haven’t earned and people who are, quite frankly, better than you. And you derive a special kind of joy from being an emotional vampire, sucking the joy out of everyone around you for your own gain.”

“An emotional vampire?”

“Yes, Timmy. I’m sorry to say it because it breaks my heart, but that’s what you are.”

He turns away, but I see the slight tremble in his shoulders. Whether it’s from anger or something else, I don’t know.

What I do know is that I’m done.

Done being a pigeon, done being his emotional supply.

And done believing that Team Ginger Shark was ever anything more than a mirage.