Page 28

CHAPTER 28

YOU WANT TO BE THE VICTIM? HERE YOU GO

DEX

N ow that they’re back in the Cay, Timmy is unraveling, and I’m enjoying every second of it.

The apartment is no longer just a chaotic mess of his making—it’s a minefield of carefully laid traps. Tiny inconveniences, subtle adjustments, each one designed to chip away at his fragile sense of control.

Now, as I watch him through the cameras I had installed during their trip, it’s like witnessing the world’s most satisfying domino effect.

The first show of cracks happens mid-morning. He’s standing in the bathroom, shirtless, holding a bottle of his overpriced, overly fragrant shampoo. His expression shifts from confusion to mild outrage. I zoom in for a closer look.

“Why the hell is my shampoo so runny?” he mutters, shaking the bottle furiously. He tips it over his hand, and a thin, oily liquid dribbles out. I stifle a laugh.

He sniffs his hand and recoils, yelling to no one in particular, “What is this shit?!”

The camera in the living room catches him storming out of the bathroom, dripping wet and muttering about how ‘everything’s going wrong’. I almost applaud.

You want to be the victim, Timmy? You got it.

But the real comedy comes later, when he gets ready for his usual beach outing. He grabs his board shorts, tugs them on, and frowns. He inspects the shortened drawstrings with a mixture of confusion and fury. “What the hell is this?” he mutters, yanking at the strings like they’ll magically grow longer. “Did these shrink or something?” he mutters, glaring at the shorts like they personally betrayed him. When they don’t, he throws them onto the bed and storms off to the bathroom.

No, Timmy, I just made your drawstrings a little less functional. Just enough to frustrate you.

The cameras capture every glorious second of his tantrum. He stomps around the apartment, yanking at the strings and muttering about ‘cheap-ass crap’, oblivious to the fact that I’m watching and grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

It’s beautiful.

He’s spiraling, questioning his grip on reality. Is the world against him, or is he just losing his mind?

And then come the shoes.

He slides his feet into what he assumes are his favorite pair of flip-flops. They’re just a size too small now, thanks to the quick swap I orchestrated while Margaux and he were out. He freezes mid-step, his face twisting in confusion as his toes hang awkwardly over the edge.

“What the fuck is this?” he yells. The camera catches him throwing the flip-flops across the room. I almost applaud. “Am I getting bigger? Am I gaining weight?!”

I smirk at the screen. It’s not enough to make him spiral completely, but it’s a start.

Margaux’s presence during these moments is the only thing that tempers my satisfaction. Watching her through the cameras, I see the quiet toll his chaos takes on her, the way her shoulders slump when she thinks no one is looking.

She’s back to walking on eggshells, trying to navigate his mood swings while keeping herself from completely crumbling.

She deserves better. I’ve known that all along.

Timmy’s next meltdown happens when he returns from the beach. His board shorts are barely holding on, his shampooed hair looks greasy, his giant feet looking ridiculous in his mysteriously snug flip-flops.

He storms into the kitchen, slamming cupboards and muttering about ‘everything being off’.

“Something’s wrong in this place,” he says to himself, pacing like a caged animal. “Everything feels… different.”

That’s the idea, Timmy.

As he storms off to sulk in the back room, I switch to the camera feed in the living room. Margaux is lying on the bed, scrolling through her phone, her expression a mix of exhaustion and quiet determination. She looks like someone who’s given up trying to find peace, and who is simply trying to survive.

My chest tightens.

Even after everything, she’s still here—a masterpiece of resilience in the middle of a dumpster fire. Still standing. Her texts to Alice are a window into her thoughts—raw, honest, and laced with dark humor. And that’s what’s keeping her afloat.

The running pickle GIF she sends to Alice every time Timmy storms out is like a little beacon of light cutting through the dark.

It’s absurd, but that’s the point.

She’s clinging to something that makes her laugh because otherwise, she’d break. I admire her for that.

‘Timmy’s in the sea again,’ she texts Alice, and I can almost hear her laugh through the screen. Her friend fires back with the perfect response: ‘Sounds like a bad video game. Hints: the rocks, the sea. Deterrents: unpredictable behavior.’

I laugh under my breath. Alice is a good one—witty, loyal, and ready to verbally deck anyone who crosses Margaux. She’s exactly the kind of friend Margaux needs, even if Timmy’s ego can’t handle her.

Then there’s Josephine, another solid anchor in Margaux’s life. She doesn’t sugarcoat, and she doesn’t tolerate Timmy’s antics. She even has a rescue plan: text her ‘202’ and she’ll make sure Margaux gets help.

I don’t know her, but I like her already.

Margaux deserves these people. She deserves people who lift her up, not weigh her down. And Timmy? He’s an anchor dragging her deeper into the abyss.

I laugh again as I observe another of Margaux’s exchanges with Alice, shaking my head. Margaux’s ability to find humor in the absurdity of her life is incredible. It’s also heartbreaking. She shouldn’t have to laugh through this. She shouldn’t have to endure this at all.

When Timmy returns to the apartment hours later, he’s dripping wet and still muttering about his bad luck. He grabs a towel, glances at Margaux, and says, “I’d never shit on your art!” before storming out again.

Margaux doesn’t even flinch. She just texts Alice and fills her in.

Alice fires back with her usual wit, and Margaux laughs. She’s tired, but she’s still laughing.

I lean back in my chair, watching the screen. She’s stronger than she gives herself credit for, but even the strongest people have limits. Timmy is pushing hers to the breaking point, and I won’t let him take her down.

I zoom back out, my eyes narrowing on Timmy as he stomps around the apartment like a petulant child. Every tantrum, every outburst, every frustrated scream, caused by me, feels like a small victory.

Because one day, Timmy will implode. One day, she’ll see him for what he really is— dead weight. Until then, I’ll be here, watching, waiting, and making sure she’s as safe as I can. And giving Timmy a few more reasons to question his sanity along the way—he deserves nothing less.

And when that day comes, Margaux will finally be free.