Page 132

CHAPTER 132

MELTDOWN

MARGAUX

I arrive at the courthouse, a building I now know too well. The sheer absurdity of this knowledge isn’t lost on me. Before Timmy, I never had to know where a courthouse was—much less navigate one like a seasoned local. Yet here I am, walking up the familiar steps, resigned to another chapter in this nightmare.

At the sign-in desk, I’m handed a wristband. It’s a fluorescent strip denoting me as a victim—or survivor, depending on how charitable you want to be with the terminology. This isn’t a wristband for a VIP concert or a fun amusement park ride. This is a badge of shame, burning into my arm like a brand.

With trembling hands, I fill out the restraining order paperwork. Each word feels heavy as I document the abuse, line by line.

Poured water over my laptop.

Fractured my skull because he didn’t like the song I was playing and punched me.

Poured boiling hot water on me.

Tried to shove deer antlers into my anus.

Smashed the toilet and a pot plant with a hammer, saying he would do it to me next.

Spat on me multiple times.

Psychological abuse: name-calling, mentioning my sexual assault to hurt me.

My handwriting is shaky, adrenaline coursing through me. The more I write, the more I realize how much I’ve normalized. Each incident flashes in my mind like scenes from a horror movie I’ve accidentally lived.

While I sit and wait for my turn to submit my paperwork, I do something I rarely do.

I’m sick of being quiet.

I’m sick of being ashamed and alone.

I’m sick of Timmy and his dad making me feel like a vile piece of shit when they are the problems.

So I have a mental breakdown-slash-emotional meltdown on Facebook and post a raw, unfiltered cry for help.

I’m at the courthouse getting a restraining order.

The outpouring of support is immediate.

Vanessa:

Hey, I saw your recent posts. I don’t know what exactly is going on, but I just want to send you love and support. I was in a similar situation once a long time ago… more than once… anyway, the aftermath of those situations left me a very different person than I was before. All of this is to say that, once the immediate dust has settled, if you’re able to find it on you to do so, find a way to get someone to talk to. I don’t know anyone in Sunset Cay (assuming that’s where you still are), but I can give you the name of someone amazing who is located in NYC and I think can do Zoom.

Raquel:

Hi, sweetheart. I am so saddened that you are going through something so horrifying. I have been there, 6+ years of hell. You must alert authorities. You must reach out to professionals. You should probably stop posting to social media if he gets a rise out of this. Tell all your friends, family, baristas, whomever, so they know if anything happens to you. His behavior is not funny or a joke. Please, please reach out to me at any time. I had a gun put to my head as my last straw. Please don’t go the same way I did. Love you.

The comments buoy me, a small but powerful reminder that people care.

Finally, it’s my turn to submit my paperwork. I hand the form to the courthouse advocate, who scans it. “You missed a date here,” he says, pointing to a blank line.

“Oh, sorry,” I mutter, filling it in quickly.

“You say you want him to stay away from you for two years? Make it longer,” he suggests.

“What do you suggest?”

“I’d put fifty, but you put as long as you want.”

I think about it. My mind is still ensconced in fog. I cross out ‘2’ and replace it with a ‘10’.

“Alright,” he continues, “the judge will review these within the next two hours. Come back then, and if they sign off, we’ll have the paperwork for you.”

If.

The weight of that word presses on me. If. As though all of this—his violence, his threats, his unrelenting campaign to terrorize me—is still up for debate.

I leave the courthouse, my feet heavy, my chest tight. Back at the truck, I sit for a moment, staring at the dashboard. The phone rings, jolting me from my thoughts.

It’s Phil.

I hesitate but answer. “Hello?”

Phil’s voice is sharp, accusatory. “Margaux. I need to talk to you about this situation with Timmy. He says you’re trying to ruin his life.”

My stomach churns. “Phil, he’s been charging at me and spitting on me and trying to grab my phone. I had to leave the apartment. I’m scared.”

Phil sighs heavily. “Well, he’s threatening to kill himself. He says you’re at the courthouse trying to put him in jail.”

My breath catches.

How the fuck does Timmy know where I am?

I turned off my location days ago. He shouldn’t have any way to track me.

“I am at the courthouse,” I say, keeping my voice calm. “But I’m not trying to put him in jail. I’m here because he’s been violent, and I don’t feel safe.”

Phil cuts me off. “Hold on. I’m putting Timmy on the line.”

A few seconds later, Timmy’s voice bursts through, frantic and slurred. “Dad! Dad! She’s trying to ruin my life! She wants to put me in jail!”

Phil jumps in. “Tell him you’re not trying to put him in jail, Margaux. Tell him now.”

“I’m not trying to put you in jail,” I say flatly. “I just need to feel safe, Timmy. That’s all.”

Phil seizes on my words. “Son, did you hear that? She’s not trying to put you in jail.”

The conversation dissolves into an incoherent back-and-forth between Timmy and Phil. I sit silently, stunned by the absurdity. Phil’s coddling tone, his constant placation—it’s nauseating. It’s like watching a grown man breastfeed his forty-year-old son.

Timmy hangs up in a fit of self-pity. Phil doesn’t miss a beat. “ See? See what you’ve done, Margaux? I need to go now. I’m going to have a dead son now, because of you . Buh-bye.”

The line goes dead.

I sit there, my jaw slack, my heart racing. How do two people twist reality so completely? How do they make everything about me when Timmy is the one who’s violent and unhinged?

Talk about a shared delusion.

I don’t have a vendetta to get Timmy locked up for the rest of his life—which, frankly, I should have. I’m just way too exhausted, and not a vindictive piece of shit like him.

I just want him out of my life so he can’t hurt me anymore.

The realization hits me like a freight train.

Fuck .

Sabre is back at the apartment.

I must go save him.

I’ll drive back and then bring him back to the courthouse with me. Because I can’t leave him alone in the apartment with Timmy in this state.

He knows how much I love that cat. He knows Sabre is my world.

Timmy is spiraling, knowing he’s lost all control over me.

This is a very dangerous time for everyone. In his current state, there’s no telling what he might do.

Especially for me. And for my cat.

I fire up the truck and race back toward the apartment as quickly as I can, every second feeling like an eternity, the brutal heat making me feel even more flustered and on edge.

On the way, I call Jo.

“Margaux, I want to let you know I’m just so proud of you,” she says. “I know, from personal experience, how hard it is to leave a relationship like this, but you’re doing the right thing. You’re getting out, and you’re doing it the right way. I’m so glad you’re not getting your own Dateline episode.”

The drive itself is frustrating, with only one lane in and one lane out of this part of the Cay. The road wraps around the coast, hosting both laidback locals and easygoing tourists who’ve come to explore the area’s rugged, natural beauty.

There’s an ambulance in front of me, and for a moment I think his father might be right—he might have actually tried to kill himself. But it pulls into the high school next to my apartment complex.

For a fraction of a second I wonder if he’s gone there to do something silly—and I won’t lie—for that instant, I wish he had .

But let’s be realistic—Timmy is a master manipulator. He’s not going to harm himself—he’s going to make me pay.

I pull into the parking lot, race to the apartment, and immediately scan for signs of Timmy. The coast is clear. No doubt he’s still over at the meth tents concocting stories to tell his father about how horrible I am.

Whipping himself up into a homicidal rage.

Sabre meows softly when he sees me. I scoop him up and place him in his carrier. Parched by the drive and drained by my emotions, I grab two sparkling waters on my way out, and hustle back to the truck.

As I drive back to the courthouse, Sabre’s sweet meows are a balm to my frazzled nerves.

“You’re safe now,” I whisper. “We’re both going to be okay.”

For the first time all day, I almost believe it.