Page 30

CHAPTER 30

CONTRIBUTE OR DIE TRYING

DEX

A fter checking on Margaux, I realize I can no longer sit idly by.

It’s time to act.

Sure, the anonymous texts and first few pranks were fun, but Timmy’s crazy behavior is only escalating. I don’t want to push him to do anything to hurt Margaux, but he’s gone too far, and it’s time for me to take real action.

Am I going too easy on Timmy? Maybe. At least for now.

Sure, I could hire someone to kill him, or at least seriously hurt him. I could certainly fly over and take care of him myself.

But somehow I just know that would destroy Margaux, and she’d be left pining for a ghost of a man that never was.

Selfishly, seeing her all bent out of shape over his loser ass would destroy me . I couldn’t see her going through that. And part of her would always be his.

If she ever found out I had anything to do with it? Game over.

She’d never be mine.

I can’t have that.

I have to make it so that Timmy destroys himself.

So the second phase of my plan starts innocently enough, at least on the surface. A tiny adjustment here, a flicker of confusion there.

I remotely change his phone’s language settings to Mandarin.

He spends the better part of an hour trying to switch it back, muttering curses under his breath.

When he finally figures it out, I switch it to Russian.

A small, satisfying crack in his already fragile composure.

Next, I tinker with his email. I add a filter that reroutes messages from his father into his spam folder, and then send an anonymous email from an untraceable account:

Subject: YOU KNOW WHAT YOU DID

Message: It’s only a matter of time. Tick tock.

He stares at his screen, the color draining from his face, and for a moment I think he might actually piss himself.

Good.

I dig deeper into his psyche. I know his insecurities like the back of my hand—his lack of a real job, his reliance on Margaux, his pathetic dependence on his father’s moral support and occasional few dollars sent via Apple Pay for ‘soda’.

I set up a string of fake calendar notifications:

9:00 AM: Interview with Burger Shack – Don’t Blow It

11:00 AM: Call Dad About Loan Repayment

2:00 PM: Find Your Balls, Timmy

Each notification pops up with a cheerful ding while he’s lounging on the couch, watching some mindless movie.

At first, he ignores them, but the frequency ramps up, and his irritation is palpable. He slams his phone down on the table, muttering about ‘fucking technology.’

“Your phone’s making a lot of noise today,” Margaux comments, clearly curious. “Is someone texting you?”

“No, it’s nothing,” he frowns, lying to her like usual. “It’s just some dumb update.”

The laptop is next. I make sure every time he opens it, his homepage redirects to a job board for fast food positions.

On the second day, I escalate by replacing his desktop wallpaper with a bold text image that reads:

** CONTRIBUTE OR DIE TRYING**

His paranoia grows. I see it in the way he glances around the room, suspicious of nothing and everything.

He starts accusing Margaux of touching his stuff, messing with his settings.

Watching him unravel is almost too easy.

Would Margaux be happy if she knew? Not at all.

But I’m not trying to be creepy.

I’m trying to help her. Margaux. The woman of my dreams.

The real pièce de résistance comes when I adjust his Spotify playlists. Timmy’s taste is predictable: a mix of 2000s pop, party anthems, and local reggae. I infiltrate his account and replace every playlist with titles like:

Songs for Losers

You’ll Never Be Him

Daddy’s Disappointment Vol. 1

Baby Shark Mashup Megamix - I later delete this because I realize he might actually like it too much.

The tracks themselves? Lullabies, funeral dirges, and a looped audio clip of someone whispering, “Get a job, Timmy.”

When he tries to play his usual songs, they won’t load. Instead, his phone emits a high-pitched whine for a few seconds before silence falls.

“What the fuck?” he shouts, shaking the device as if it’ll give him answers. It won’t. Only frustration. “Margaux, did you fuck with my Spotify?”

She looks up from her laptop which she’s working on as usual, confused. “What are you talking about?”

“Somebody’s fucking with my shit,” he says.

She rolls her eyes. “Nobody’s fucking with your shit, Timmy,” she says. “You’re not that special.”

Jesus. Sweet Margaux is turning into a bit of a bitch toward Timmy. Not that I blame her in the slightest.

To seal the deal, I slip into his social media accounts.

I make subtle changes: a ‘like’ on a random Instagram photo of a girl Margaux doesn’t like, a vague Facebook status update reading, ‘Feeling useless today. Anyone else?’

His friends start commenting supportive messages, but Timmy has no idea why. He deletes the post, but I make sure another one pops up within the hour: ‘Sometimes I think Margaux deserves better.’

I sit back, watching the chaos unfold. Every piece of his digital life is now an unpredictable minefield. The control he so desperately clings to has slipped through his fingers, and he’s left floundering, doubting his own sanity.

“Margaux, did you post on my Facebook?”

She furrows her brow. “What the fuck, Timmy? No, of course I didn’t. I don’t know your password.”

“Maybe you grabbed my phone or laptop while I was in the shower.” He frowns at her.

“Nope, I sure didn’t.”

Margaux, ever the compassionate one, tries to calm him down when he’s ranting about his phone and computer ‘freaking out.’

But I know she’s exhausted, and I know she’s starting to see him for who he really is—a man crumbling under the weight of his own inadequacy.

“Maybe you just need to take a break from screens,” she suggests, her voice steady but tired.

“Break from screens?” he snaps, his eyes wild. “It’s not the screens! It’s something—someone— messing with me !”

“You sure it’s not just you?” she replies, arching a brow. It’s the tiniest bit of resistance, but it’s enough to push him further into the spiral.

He storms out, slamming the door behind him, and I let myself smile.

Step by step, I’m dismantling Timmy’s world. He might not know it yet, but the cracks are spreading.

Soon, they’ll be too big to ignore.

I watch with amusement as Margaux sends her friend Alice yet another running pickle.