Page 79

CHAPTER 79

ZOLOFT FUGUE

MARGAUX

W ith my insurance finally sorted out, I manage to see a doctor at the local health center. Stepping into the brightly lit waiting room, I feel a mix of relief and trepidation. The sterile smell, the hum of the HVAC, and the low murmur of conversations remind me that I’m here to make progress—to take back some control.

The doctor is like a breath of fresh air. She’s professional but warm, her gentle manner somehow disarming the wall I’ve built around myself.

I’m honest with her. I explain my situation—the abusive relationship, the emotional rollercoaster, the overwhelming stress. The crippling pain that debilitates me for at least two days every month. It tumbles out of me like a confession.

She listens without judgment, nodding thoughtfully. “Let’s get you some help,” she says. “I’ll prescribe you an antidepressant to take the edge off. And I’m also going to refer you to therapy.”

I nod, already feeling a little lighter.

“And since you mentioned your physical health, I’ll refer you to a gynecologist as well. You shouldn’t have to live with that kind of pain every month.”

Her practicality is comforting. She’s addressing the things I’ve ignored for far too long.

Then she adds something unexpected—“I’m also giving you a referral to the gym here at the center. It’s affordable, and it’s a great way to meet people. I go there myself. It might help to get out and broaden your connections around here.”

I nod again, catching the subtext. She’s nudging me—offering a lifeline to something beyond Timmy. Sure, I can work on my cardiovascular health and get back to the ripped, shredded creature I was when I first moved here. But she also knows I need distance, perspective, something to remind me of my own strength. She’s not pushy, but I can tell she’s rooting for me.

As I leave, she makes sure the local domestic violence shelter’s number is programmed into my phone. “Just in case,” she says.

For the first time in a long while, I feel like someone in this town is truly on my side.

A few days later, Timmy is in one of his moods again. He’s storming in and out of the apartment, retreating to the tents to drink and smoke. Each time he comes back, he’s angrier and more emboldened—resentful, seething with accusations he hurls my way.

I’m exhausted. His behavior chips away at my already fragile sanity.

The antidepressants are new, and while they’re supposed to stabilize me, they’ve left me feeling off. I’m on edge, a little more hyper and irritated than usual, my patience thin. I take a swig of whiskey to blunt the edges, but it only seems to blur the lines between rationality and impulsiveness.

How dare he? How dare he run off, leaving me here to stew in this boiling pit of resentment? How dare he expect me to carry the weight of everything—our finances, our home, our relationship—while he indulges his whims like a rageful toddler?

I want to storm down to the tents and confront Timmy, and every time I’m about to, he comes back into the apartment and then leaves again.

I sit for a while, feeling a bit funny as the whiskey starts to numb me, to blur the edges a little. It makes him seem less scary, like I’m watching him from outside my body.

Each time he returns, his voice sounds more hollow.

He leaves, comes back again, leaves again.

My mind races, spinning into a storm of anger and desperation. I can’t stay here, pacing, helpless

I need to get him.

Bring him home.

Fix this, somehow.

I have to get him to come home.

It’s dangerous out there.

My body is on a different plane from my brain.

How dare he? I have to get him, for his own good.

And because I’m so angry, so very angry.

I grab the truck keys and head to the parking garage. The air feels heavy, pressing down on my chest as I start the engine.

I drive through the dimly lit streets, scanning for any sign of Timmy.

I have to get him. None of this is okay. This isn’t the life I want.

At the 7-Eleven, a man waves me over. He’s holding a can of Rolling Rock in one hand, a football tucked under his arm. His disheveled appearance and the smell of stale beer that clings to him make me hesitate.

But desperation overrides my caution. “Can you help me find Timmy?” I ask.

“Sure,” he says, climbing into the passenger seat.

I start driving, hoping he might point me in the right direction. But instead of being helpful, he leans closer. “Pull over here,” he says.

I think he’s ready to get out, but then he grabs me, crushing his lips against mine. His breath reeks of alcohol, and I recoil, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

I take another swig of whiskey, hoping it will steady me.

He doesn’t stop. His hand darts out, groping at me.

“No, don’t do that,” I snap, shoving his hand away. “I need to go.”

My brain is in slow motion, my thoughts muddled—but still, it screams at me.

Danger. Get this random guy out of your car. This was a terrible idea.

He smirks. “If you kiss me again, I’ll get out. I’ll even let you keep this football,” he says, holding it out like some kind of twisted trophy.

I feel trapped.

“No,” I say.

“Come on,” he says, grabbing at me again.

I let him kiss me again, just to make him leave.

Please, just get out of the car. I did what you wanted.

But then, everything fades to black…