Page 6

CHAPTER 6

DIGGING MYSELF DOWN DEEPER

MARGAUX

I can’t take it anymore. I really think I’ve reached my limit. My hands tremble as I type out an email for work, my mind unable to focus.

Something inside me has snapped, a fragile thread pulled too taut, finally breaking under the strain.

Every word I write feels like an impossible effort, every keystroke weighed down by the relentless cycle of chaos Timmy has put me through.

Every time I try to relax, my mind betrays me, pulling up maddening memories like a relentless slideshow of pain and indignity.

The smirking emojis and affectionate banter he exchanged with that ugly girl—her, of all people—are etched into my brain like a scar.

The bruises on my body that never seem to completely fade, a testament to his outbursts and the violence and general roughness that has become a part of my daily existence.

And his constant criticism, picking apart my words, my actions, everything that makes me me , until I feel like a hollow shell of who I once was.

He always has an excuse, of course. His star sign. His alleged mood disorder. Anything but personal accountability.

And he gets away with it, every single time.

Because every time I try to hold him accountable, he makes me regret it, so it’s just easier to say nothing. To let things slide. To let him roll over me like a bulldozer.

It’s the Timmy show and my co-starring role has warped to the point I’m now an extra making a cameo here and there.

But now, as I glance over at him lounging on the bed, watching another dumb movie, I feel the familiar tide of resentment rise within me. There he is, not making any attempt to be a productive member of society, while I’m here holding everything together—emotionally, financially, mentally. He knows that if he upsets me, it affects my ability to write, and sometimes renders me unproductive for the remainder of the day—so he upsets me a lot .

My fingers hover over my laptop keyboard as I force myself to stay calm, to keep the words from spilling out. But they’re pressing against my chest, clawing to be free.

“You don’t care about me at all. Just what I can buy for you,” I say finally, my voice trembling but determined.

His eyes flicker toward me, disinterested. “K.”

That one syllable. That dismissive, infuriating syllable. My heart pounds, blood rushing to my temples. “You don’t actually care about me,” I say, louder this time, anger cracking my voice like a whip.

“K.”

The one-letter word feels like gasoline poured on an open flame, and I erupt. “I’m done with everything. I’m so done. You wasted months of my life. We are done . You never loved me. You piece of shit! ” The words pour out of me, each one louder than the last, my voice shaking the air between us. My body is trembling now, too, humming with a sick energy. I’m mortified by my loss of control.

He finally looks at me, his expression a mixture of boredom and disdain. “Okay, fuck you,” he says, his tone even, unaffected.

“Fuck you!” I scream, my voice raw and desperate, the sound of it ricocheting off the walls.

Without another word, Timmy stands and slides open the screen door. I watch as he walks off, his silhouette disappearing in the direction of the meth tents nearby. I sink back into my chair, feeling the adrenaline drain from my body, leaving me hollow and defeated.

What have I become?

I turn on one of my reality TV shows, my attempt at normalcy as I stare blankly at the screen. But it doesn’t help. The shame is relentless, gnawing at me from the inside.

I could have said nothing. I should have said nothing. But how could I?

His apathy, his refusal to contribute anything of value to this relationship or his life, his constant provocations—it’s like he’s deliberately pushing me to the edge, testing how far I’ll go before I break. And I hate that I’ve become the one starting arguments now—that I’m the one who yells and screams.

It’s not who I am.

At least, it didn’t used to be.

A few hours later, my phone buzzes. It’s a text from Timmy.

Timmy:

I left because I’m scared of you.

I stare at the message, my vision blurring with anger and confusion as I read it over and over. I mean, I was kind of being a bitch. I did yell at him. And technically, I did pick the fight. But I’m not letting him off that easily.

Me:

No. You want to fuck that ugly bitch.

And blame me.

That’s what you want.

It’s so gross.

As soon as I hit send, I feel a wave of shame crash over me. Who am I? Who is this bitter, angry woman sending hateful texts? I can no longer stop myself.

I’ve never been like this with anyone before, let alone a romantic partner. But now, with Timmy, it feels like all I do is lash out, whether in person or via texts—just like nearly every other text exchange with every other person on his phone.

I’m becoming the very thing I despise—he’s shaping me into a monster, and I’m ashamed because I’m letting myself be driven there.

I hate myself for letting him drag me down to his level.

I’m becoming the problem, or at least part of it.

It’s not who I am at my core, although maybe it is now. And I don’t like what I’m seeing in the mirror.

Three days later, the pendulum swings.

Timmy stands in the kitchen, meticulously weaving ti leaves into a lei. His hands are careful, deliberate, as he threads hibiscus and plumeria into the green braid. “Margaux,” he says softly, his voice full of reverence. “You’re so beautiful. You deserve the world. I’ve picked flowers that match your gorgeous red hair and your freckles. I wanted to make you something to show you how much I love you.”

The warmth in his tone wraps around me like a blanket, soothing the raw edges of my soul. For a moment, it feels like the start of our relationship again—those intoxicating early days when he made me feel special, cherished, adored.

“I love it,” I whisper, my voice trembling. And I do . I love the lei, the gesture, the way he’s looking at me with such tenderness. But more than that, I love the feeling of being seen, of being cared for, even if it’s fleeting.

I let myself sink into the illusion, clinging to the hope that maybe this time he’ll actually change. I’m holding out hope that this version of Timmy, the gentle and thoughtful one, is who he really is.

But deep down, a small voice whispers a truth I’m not ready to face: that version of him was never real.

As I lay my head on his shoulder, inhaling the sweet scent of the flowers he picked just for me, I feel the weight of my own transformation.

I’ve always been someone who uplifts, who loves deeply and forgives easily. But now, I’m unkind. I’m mean.

I’m losing myself, piece by piece, and I don’t know if I’ll ever find my way back.

I don’t know if I’ll survive this.