Page 98

CHAPTER 98

VOLCANO OF PAIN

MARGAUX

M y intuition screams at me, louder than ever— Get out. Now.

This is no ordinary day.

Timmy’s escalating behavior—his false allegations, the spitting, the rage—feels like a red flag on fire. It’s not just his words or the threats of violence—it’s the sense that there might truly be nothing he’s not capable of in this state.

Sabre’s and my lives are in real danger.

As soon as Timmy leaves the apartment—probably to panhandle at the 7-Eleven or drown himself in vodka at the tents—I spring into action. I pack essentials—my laptop, a few clothes, Sabre’s food and carrier—and we head to a hotel.

Once there, Sabre does his usual perimeter check, sniffing every corner of the room before hopping onto the bed with a loud purr. His approval is a small comfort, one of the few silver linings in this situation.

After grabbing a bite to eat, I open my laptop to do some work. But the moment I see the inside, my stomach lurches.

Oh my fucking god.

The keyboard is saturated—water, or worse, has been poured inside.

Desperately, I try to dry it out.

I press the power button. The screen flickers for a moment, then dies. I plug it in, and the familiar MacBook chime gives me hope, but the screen stays black.

My laptop. My main tool as a writer.

Most of my work is saved to the cloud, but not all of it. Backup plans have fallen by the wayside in the chaos of my life with Timmy.

I curl up in the fetal position on the bed, tears streaming down my face as the weight of everything crashes over me.

Sabre, sensing my distress, curls up against me, purring softly. His small, warm body is a lifeline in itself.

Somehow, amidst the despair, I manage to fall asleep.

When I wake up, my phone is buzzing with notifications.

Timmy:

Come back, I need to get my dick wet.

I gag.

There are photos, too. Purple droplets splattered across the apartment floor, like melted acaí. He must have removed items from the freezer and thrown them all over the floor again.

Timmy:

Look, I messed up the apartment.

I feel sick.

My mind flashes back to the first apartment I rented when I moved here, the way Timmy wrecked it during one of his fits.

He’s unraveling—not that he was ever particularly raveled to begin with. And the thought of what he might do to the place while I’m not there fills me with dread. But I know going back right now isn’t an option.

I check my social media, and I notice a couple of notifications on Facebook.

He’s put the same purple puddle photos on one of my posts, and as a comment below something a friend posted on my wall. How odd.

Feeling absolutely defeated and drained, I fall back asleep.

I wake to two transcribed voicemail messages from Timmy’s father, Phil:

Phil:

Margaux, what’s going on?

Timmy is cutting his wrists, lots of blood!

Call the police. Stop this attack on Timmy.

We love Timmy.

Where are you, and why are you doing this?

I am asking you to stop the attacks.

Please call me.

This is serious, this is no game.

Huh? What is he on about?

Another voicemail follows:

Phil:

Margaux, I need you to call me right now.

As soon as you get this.

Timmy is committing suicide. He’s got knives.

This is serious. Stop it.

Oh my fucking god. Stop what?

Attacks on Timmy?

My entire body shakes with rage and disbelief.

The audacity of his father, who I’m beginning to see is just as bad as him.

Maybe worse.

This so-called man—this father —is enabling his son in ways I can’t fathom. He’s placing all the blame for his son’s horrific behavior on me, despite knowing the violence, the threats, the destruction I’ve endured. Despite the fact his son has left a trail of destruction since well before he knew I existed.

I left the apartment because he was being violent and putting my life in jeopardy.

He’s already destroyed so much of my property. I’m terrified about what the apartment is going to be like when I get back.

And his dad is calling me and telling me to stop attacking him ?

No wonder Timmy’s so fucked up.

They both are.

I reply.

Me:

If by stopping the attacks on Timmy, you mean when he strangled me, poured boiling water on me, fractured my skull, brought chainsaws out and threatened to chop my head off with them multiple times, spat on me, split my lip and gave me two black eyes, kidnapped my friend’s 14-year-old son, threatened to kill my cat, the list goes on…

He sent me a variety of incoherent texts last night.

I am nowhere near him or the truck.

Of course I don’t want him to harm himself, but I don’t want to get killed because I stayed when he was behaving completely unhinged.

Then I see Phil has left another voicemail. It’s almost twenty minutes long. What the hell?

I play it, only to realize it’s a boomer faux pas—an accidental recording of a conversation Phil had with someone else.

“Margaux is a whole volcano of pain ,” he says at one point, his tone disdainful. “She’s a liar , and I never want to see her again.”

The person on the other end tries to reason with him. “Maybe you should focus on your son instead of Margaux. He has a real problem and he needs serious help.”

But Phil is resolute—according to him, the problem isn’t Timmy. It’s me .

Margaux—the Volcano of Pain.

“ He’s a really nice guy. He just has a bit of an alcohol problem,” Phil defends his son.

Unbelievable. Who’s delulu now?

I message Alice, my safety net through this madness.

Me:

Timmy is saying he’s going to kill himself.

And his dad is blaming me.

Alice:

Ignore him.

This is an attention tactic.

I’m so sorry.

I think about everything that’s happening. That’s been happening.

Damn .

When I was a kid and wanted attention from, say, my dad, I’d dance around in front of the TV he was trying to watch. I’d never dream of slicing myself up, taking pictures of the blood and posting them all over my significant other’s social media.

But here we are, I guess.

I send her a screenshot of the message I sent his dad, and then realize I probably need to explain why he’s named the way he is in his contact profile.

Me:

His dad is saved as Sheila in my phone because he deletes his dad’s number if he sees it in there, so I had to give him a random name.

His mom is Bob.

As I write this, I realize how absurd it sounds.

Alice:

Sorry, but it’s funny.

Me:

I just listened to the whole nearly 20 minute voicemail his dad left for me, and apparently I’m a ‘whole volcano of pain’ and he ‘never wants to see me again.’

Alice:

Good. He’ll be doing you a favor.

Me:

I won’t reply, but I feel like saying, ‘When did you ever call ME and not take his word for everything? When did you ever call and offer to help get your son the support he needs?’

A few hours later, Timmy randomly sends me a clip from Saturday Night Live, as if nothing ever happened. He’s laughing in the background, and sounds demented.

I feel conflicted—I don’t want him to hurt himself. Despite everything, I care about him, and don't want him to kill himself.

It seems right to reach out just to try to keep him calm.

I don’t know if the suicide attempt was real or not.

I message him:

Me:

I do want you to know that I care about you, and I’m very glad that it seems like you are physically safe.

I update Alice, feeling uneasy that I reached out to him, but still feeling like it was the right thing to do.

Me:

Ugh. I hate it because I love the person, even though they might not deserve it.

Alice:

I know. But love isn’t enough for a safe relationship.

You need safety, too.

Me:

I messaged him but I would have felt like an awful human being if I didn’t.

Alice:

It’s hard not to.

Just don’t see him in person. It’s too dangerous.

Me:

Yeah, safety is a real concern, I know.

There were times last night the sliding door here at the hotel would rattle, and I would exhale when I realized it wasn’t him coming into the apartment in a volatile, unpredictable condition.

Alice:

Me:

It sucks, because you love the person and see the good. But there’s bad that puts you in danger. His shit behavior from yesterday has cost me $2k so far.

But ya know what? That’s better than losing my life or putting up with more shit.

He made me feel more loved than any guy ever has.

But it wasn’t based on anything real.

And it’s come at a cost where I’ve ended up feeling the exact opposite, and am physically at risk. Let alone mentally.

Sabre curls up next to me again, his soft purring grounding me in the moment.

I’m exhausted, emotionally drained, but one thing is crystal clear: This can’t go on.