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CHAPTER 3

SUNDAY SCARIES

MARGAUX

I ’ve had the Sunday Scaries before—back in my corporate life, when Mondays loomed like a guillotine. But this? This is something else entirely. The Scaries have reached Code Red. 911. Nuclear.

Again and again, it goes. The cycle, unrelenting. Sunday isn’t a day anymore—it’s a countdown, a pressure cooker—a trap.

90 Day Fiancé. It’s just a reality show, a wildly popular one at that. I know people judge it, but I love it. For me, it’s harmless escapism—mindless entertainment that fills the gaps in my chaotic life with other people’s, usually sillier, drama. But for Timmy, it’s something else entirely.

The show has become a battlefield, the arena for his unpredictable moods

A few hours before it airs, Timmy starts acting twitchy, the energy in the apartment shifting like storm clouds gathering on the horizon.

His movements are sharper, his tone clipped. It’s as if he knows what’s coming, what I’ll inevitably want to do, and he’s already preparing to fight it.

Every word, every action is a potential landmine. If we make it to the show without incident, he’ll sit beside me, watching intently.

At first, it feels almost sweet—like he’s taking an interest in something I enjoy.

But I know that’s not how things will play out. These days, my stomach knots as the clock ticks closer to showtime.

If I press play? It’s like pulling a pin on a grenade.

And today is no outlier.

“I hate this show,” he declares, pacing the room. “It makes me really upset, seeing people fight like that on TV. It’s toxic. It makes me emotional.”

I raise an eyebrow, my voice incredulous. “Timmy, you watch horror movies where people are dismembered, tortured, and mutilated—where they cut off other people’s body parts and torture animals—and this is what upsets you?”

“It’s different,” he snaps. “This is real. It’s people hurting each other for entertainment.”

I don’t get it. I really don’t. How can a trivial reality show provoke this kind of reaction when the messed-up stuff he willingly consumes barely seems to faze him? But I don’t say that. I’ve learned not to poke the bear.

Still, the mere existence of the show is enough to set him off.

But then he starts talking. And talking. And talking. He analyzes every couple, repeating himself, interrupting the dialogue on screen. When I pause the show to hear him out, he’ll monologue for twenty minutes.

If I disagree with his assessment of a couple or their choices, the tension spikes. That’s the trigger. The powder keg explodes.

Sometimes it boils over. He storms off, slamming doors and muttering about how stupid the show is, how stupid I am for liking it.

He stomps out, slamming the door behind him, off to drink with the transient crowd on the beach. He comes back hours later reeking of cigarettes and cheap booze, his mood volatile, his words sharper than broken glass.

“You have an illness,” he tells me, sneering. “For watching trash like that.”

My chest tightens. “It’s a show, Timmy. A stupid show.”

“And you drink too much,” he retorts, his slurred voice dripping with accusation. “You’re no better than those idiots on TV.”

I don’t drink too much. Not really. Not like this. Not like him.

At least when I drink, I’m silly and fun and maybe a bit sloppy, not mean or cruel like you.

My inside voice has grown stronger since knowing Timmy. There’s no point sharing my thoughts out loud—I know that.

I can just watch the show and enjoy it and move along with my life, but you can’t.

And yet, some Sundays, he’s different. He’ll sidle up to me around showtime, his tone almost conciliatory. “You’ve worked really hard this week. Why don’t you watch your show? I promise I won’t complain.”

Like he’s granting me permission to enjoy my own life. Like I’m a child he’s indulging with a treat.

I feel like I’m going insane.

The irony isn’t lost on me—he’s turned our real-life relationship into a drama more intense and damaging than anything playing out on screen.

Lately, Timmy has developed an obsession with back rubs. It started innocently enough—an act of intimacy, a way to relax together. But it’s grown into something else entirely.

“Tickle me,” he demands, handing me the tweezers. “Pull the hairs out of my back.”

It’s not sexual, but it feels invasive, a chore I never signed up for. And he reciprocates, but even that feels transactional, a reminder of the strings attached to his every gesture of kindness.

At the same time, his savory broths—once a source of comfort—have turned into another tool of control. I can’t even enjoy a simple bowl of soup without it becoming a power play.

Whether he wants to offer the broth to me or not is indicative of his moods, which directly impact the energy in our apartment. Off, off, off.

If I have a sip, it tastes good. But I know it’s just a game now. A weird tool. Imagine having broth as your tool to manipulate another human being. Will I share it with you or won’t I?

And then he’ll mention what a nice person he is, going out of his way to accommodate my preferences.

“See, I made it extra spicy, just the way you like it,” he says, his tone saccharine.

“I made the onions just slightly cooked so they’re crunchy for you.”

“I made it super spicy, just the way you like it.”

“I didn’t put the crunchy things in that you don’t like.”

Always the gentleman and yet also never the gentleman.

So thoughtful, but the thought nearly always turns out to be grounded in manipulation.

Or, worse, he eats it in front of me with a smirk, refusing to share.

It’s broth, not a dick, Timmy. Stop taking it so hard.

The games never end. Something as simple as soup has become a test, a manipulation, a reflection of his mood. And I hate it. I hate that he’s tainted so many things I used to love.

There’s no more spoon-feeding—which I’m fine with because that’s annoying, although he does keep warning me it’s hot. It’s just a stark contrast from how he behaved when we first met, when he pretended to put effort in for anyone’s benefit but his own.

I’m so tired.

I’m so exhausted.

There’s literally nothing that Timmy can’t find a way to ruin.

I don’t know how that’s even possible.

I didn’t ask for this, Timmy.

I love your broths, but I wish that’s all they were about.

I hate that something so deep of flavor, so rich, so resonant, can be made by someone like you. Someone fake deep. So into themselves and their shallow representation.

Something that used to make my stomach flutter now makes it flip like a wild storm.

Something that gave me peace now gives me panic.

Like you.

You were my life raft and now you’re my murderous anchor, pulling me down into the murky depths.

I hate it.

I hate you.

But I also love you.

And I feel like I’m drowning.