Page 40

CHAPTER 40

THE CHAOS CHRONICLES

MARGAUX

A FEW DAYS LATER

T he past few days have been a mix of relative calm and bizarre disruptions, which seems to be the default rhythm of life with Timmy. I’ve actually managed to write without major interruptions—an almost miraculous occurrence.

We’re playing Mario Kart on the edge of the bed, and for a while, it’s fun. He keeps winning, which I’m fine with, but his attitude quickly becomes unbearable.

“Haha, you suck at this game. I keep beating you,” he smirks, puffing his chest like he’s just conquered the Olympics.

“Okay, I’m not a sore loser,” I say, frowning, “but you don’t have to rub it in like that.”

“Look at you getting upset about a game, Margaux,” he shoots back, feigning superiority. “You should really work on that.”

I furrow my brow, trying to keep my tone steady. “You’re being an asshole. I don’t mind you winning, but you don’t have to be rude about it.”

He pauses the game dramatically and glares at me. “Look what you did. You just turned Mario Kart into something sick .”

“What?” My voice is incredulous, dripping exasperation.

“Never mind,” he snaps. “You ruined the whole thing.” With that, he shuts off the game and puts on regular TV.

I message Alice.

Me:

He says I turned Mario Kart into something sick. I’ll have to tell Nintendo.

Alice:

Uhhh what??

Dude is nuts.

We chat away on other topics, and it’s nice to have a reprieve from the Timmy Show.

After dozing off for a couple of hours, I wake and notice Timmy sneaking toward the front door, his movements slow and deliberate, as if he’s trying not to draw attention to himself.

He freezes mid-step as he notices me watching him, his shoulders stiffening, and guilt flickers across his face before he quickly masks it with a casual shrug. “I’m just going to get some things out of the truck,” he says, the words tumbling out a little too quickly.

I fold my arms across my chest and narrow my eyes, my skepticism evident. “What ‘stuff’?”

“Um… just stuff,” he says, avoiding my gaze. “Like I think I left some board shorts and a hat in there.”

I quirk a brow, my disbelief written all over my face. “Board shorts and a hat? At this hour?”

“Yeah,” he says, his tone defensive.

“It’s late, Timmy,” I say, shaking my head. “Whatever you left in the truck can wait until daylight.”

His expression darkens, the hint of guilt morphing into irritation. “What?” he snaps. “I’ve been working on my art stuff for the last two hours, and I need a break. So I’m just going to the truck.”

“To smoke a cigarette?” I counter, my voice sharper than I intend. I’ve seen the disgusting little compartment in his truck where he keeps partially smoked cigarette butts, and I know his patterns too well.

His jaw tightens. “No,” he says, but his tone is weak. He knows he’s been caught.

“You’re gross, and I don’t believe you,” I add. “It’s late, and it’s completely inappropriate for you to be leaving the apartment at this hour. We’ve talked about this like a million times.”

His frown deepens, and his voice rises, defensive and sharp. “Fuck you, then. I’ll stay, but I’m going to the back room.”

Before I can respond, he spins on his heel and stomps down the hallway, his heavy steps echoing through the apartment. He slams the door to the back room so hard that the walls vibrate, leaving me standing in the silence, my frustration bubbling beneath the surface.

I let out a slow breath, forcing myself to stay calm. Timmy’s deflections and dramatics are nothing new, but they never fail to leave me feeling drained and questioning why I keep letting him get away with it.

In the quiet that follows, I glance toward the door he was so eager to sneak out of and wonder, not for the first time, what else he’s hiding.

I fill Alice in.

Me:

Like, don’t come in or leave while I’m asleep, unless there is a very good reason.

I hardly sleep, so it seems unnecessary to be sneaking in and out in the few hours I am.

That sounds controlling, but we aren’t dealing with normalcy here, are we?

Alice:

Yeah. You’re dealing with absolutely abnormal.

The next morning, Timmy is sweet and caring, as if nothing happened—Captain Clean Slate is in full swing.

I’m battling one of the heaviest periods of my life, to the point I’m borderline considering going to urgent care.

It’s not just inconvenient—it’s exhausting and overwhelming.

After I bleed through my pants, I change, embarrassed and annoyed, but Timmy takes my soiled clothes without a word, and rinses the blood out for me.

It’s a small act, but it feels monumental in the context of our chaos. For a fleeting moment, I feel supported and cared for. This is how I want to be treated in a relationship, and he’s making it happen. For now.

The moment doesn’t last.

Next thing I know, Timmy is tangling himself in the curtain.

“Timmy,” I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. “You don’t need to wrap yourself in the curtain. Please unwrap yourself before you break it.”

He grins. “But I feel so comfy, like I’m in a giant burrito.”

I shake my head. It’s exhausting. He’s a six-foot-two, two-hundred-pound toddler.

The contrast between him rinsing my clothes and the whole curtain burrito escapade has exhausted me. All I want to do is sleep.

Later in the day, his weirdness takes a different turn.

“Oh, she just left town. I can fuck you now,” he says, grinning like a mischievous child as he gets closer to me, extending his hands like he’s about to grope me.

“Um, what?” I raise an eyebrow, completely confused.

“Oh,” he winks. “I’m role-playing.”

A wave of disgust washes over me. “That was gross,” I mutter. Another ick unlocked.

Timmy, ever the performer, frowns and calls his parents in the next breath. “Please, I’m begging you. Fly me home now. Margaux is being such a bitch to me,” he whines into the phone.

I update Alice and also text one of his brothers about his behavior.

Me (to Alice):

Drunken fugue state perhaps?

I watch as he opens the door and leaves it ajar, and my heart leaps as Sabre runs outside.

Me:

Omfg he let Sabre out. Not fucking again.

Alice:

I see another friend is online—Mirabel, or Bel for short. I met Bel while living on the East Coast, and she’s back in New Zealand these days, working as a cop.

On a whim, I reach out.

Me:

Hey! Can I chat with you?

I need some advice.

She replies immediately.

Bel:

Sure.

I’m just at work. Call me.

I call Bel on Facetime, and she answers immediately.

“What’s up?” she asks, and I fill her in. “What the actual fuck?!” she exclaims. “First things first, go get your cat.”

She’s right. Sabre is my priority.

Next thing, Timmy re-enters the apartment, panting. “I found him,” he says. “He’s hiding under the stairs over by the laundry, and he won’t come out. He’s hissing at me. You need to come get him.”

I sigh, my heart pounding as I realize Sabre’s out near the busy street in front of the apartment complex.

I walk to the stairwell and retrieve Sabre, Timmy walking beside me, as the security team looks on from their shack.

They must think we are complete basket cases , I think to myself. And they’re probably right on both counts.

When we get back to the apartment, Sabre in my arms, I give him a cuddle and a Churu. “Don’t you go running out there, buddy,” I say, my voice soft. “It’s dangerous.”

Timmy glares at me and leaves again.

I flop down on the bed, too exhausted to care.

Me (to Alice):

I called my friend in NZ who is a cop at work on duty and she was like ‘wtffffff?!’

I glance over at the door and notice Timmy has left it ajar. I look around, and there’s no sign of Sabre.

For fuck’s sake.

Me:

For the love of god.

He found him.

I had to bring him back.

Then he just let him out again.

Panicked, I run out the front door, but there’s no sign of him.

On instinct, I head back into the apartment and check the back room. I let out a sigh of relief as Sabre’s eyes glow at me from the far corner, large and round.

He’s done with this shit, too.

Alice:

DID YOU FIND YOUR CAT?

Fuck him, did you find your CAT!????

Fuck him for treating you like shit after a potential miscarriage he caused.

Alice had speculated that it wasn’t an ordinary period, and she may have been right.

Me:

Yes, I found him. The second time even Sabre had had enough and was hiding in the back room.

My phone buzzes. It’s his brother:

Timmy’s brother:

He’s a dick. I don’t know why you put up with him.

I sigh. Ain’t that the truth. At this point, neither do I.

Alice:

Ugh. What’s his fucking problem?

I mean… I know what it is.

He’s outright being mean to you.

When he returns, he immediately heads to the bathroom to rinse off, and he’s in there for a while. When he emerges, it’s with a freshly altered—and horrifying—facial hair situation.

“Um, why did you do that?” I ask.

He frowns. “Do you think it looks bad?”

“No,” my voice squeaks. “Just… I’m not used to it, I guess?”

“Fuck you,” his eyes narrow.

He stomps to the back room, and I hear him grumbling to someone, presumably his dad. It must be 2AM his time—I’m sure he’s thrilled.

Me:

I don’t know what the fuck he did to his facial hair, but he looks stupid AF.

Like he took the facial hair from a middle-aged man in Wisconsin.

The beard part is gone. And now the mustache is separated from the goatee.

Alice:

Ewwww, no good!!

After a couple of minutes, the back room door opens, and Timmy stomps back into the living room, clearly frustrated.

“Have fun complaining to your dad about me?” I ask.

“No,” he frowns. “I wasn’t complaining about you.”

I roll my eyes. Liar . You weren’t calling your dad at 2AM to ask him about his day.

“Anyways,” he adds, his voice glum. “It wouldn’t work if I did, because my dad fucking loves you.”

Defeated, he flops down on the bed beside me, sulking.

And just like that, another day in the chaotic circus of Timmy’s existence comes to a close.

Only—for me—it’s a nightmare I can’t seem to wake up from.