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VINDICTIVE

T he Next Day

I get up and start working, sitting on the bed like usual, while Timmy continues to sleep. At one point, he turns over and faces me, his eyes open, and he mutters something unintelligible. I ignore him at first, but he speaks again, and I realize he’s talking to me.

“Good morning, babe,” I smile at him. “How did you sleep?”

He suddenly startles, his eyes flying wide open, filled with rage, his arms flailing around so wildly it makes me jump. “What the fuck? Margaux! You fucking woke me up! Fuck you!” His mouth forms a tight scowl.

“Oh no, Timmy. I’m sorry I woke you,” I whisper softly. I really thought he was awake. “Your eyes were open, and you were talking to me.”

“Bullshit.” Timmy’s response is immediate and sharp, like a whip crack. “Fuck you for waking me up.”

My stomach twists at the venom in his words. I haven’t even had a coffee yet and I’ve already managed to get him so upset he’s swearing at me. Great.

I stay quiet for a moment, willing myself to stay calm, not quite trusting myself to navigate my way through this unexpected conflict. “I said sorry,” I say evenly, keeping my voice soft. But the truth is, I’m scared.

With Timmy, apologies seem to play on repeat. They’re a trap, a twisted game with no winning move. Not by me, at least. I try to tread carefully, to be the bigger person, to say sorry when the offense was trivial and even sometimes when I didn’t do anything at all, just to smooth things over.

But somehow, every apology I give gets swallowed into some invisible abyss between us, as if I never uttered the words at all. He simply seems to forget every time I’ve taken accountability, saying I never uttered the words I know in my heart and memory that I did so many times.

Today appears to be no exception, and his glare lingers, heavy with resentment at my early morning faux pas.

Later, when he’s fully awake and watching a movie, his expression grows sullen. “I still can’t believe you woke me up and didn’t even apologize,” he scoffs. His eyes scan me with barely concealed irritation.

I straighten, looking up from my work on my laptop, feeling the familiar knot of disbelief coil in my chest. “I did apologize,” I say carefully. “More than once.”

“No,” Timmy snaps, his jaw clenching as if I just insulted him. “You never said sorry.”

My breath catches. It’s like talking to a wall—or actually, worse than a wall. It’s like talking to a version of him that flips reality on its head, twisting everything upside down so I’m always in the wrong, and then accusing me of doing that very same thing.

“Timmy, this is the third time now that I’m saying I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry I woke you up, and I know you hate that. But it was a mistake, and I genuinely thought you were awake. I hope we can move past this.” My voice shakes slightly. I want so desperately to be heard, to get through to him.

“No, you didn’t,” he replies, shaking his head. “Stop lying.” His tone turns sharp and final, as if I’m being dismissed, as if his version of events is an unshakeable truth. “You never apologize,” he adds. “You always blame me for everything, and nothing is ever your fault.”

His words hit me with the force of a wave, leaving me reeling. He can’t be serious. I feel like I’m suffocating, trapped in an argument that bears no resemblance to the actual truth, and where logic simply doesn’t apply. It’s as if there are two versions of reality—his and mine—and no amount of reasoning will bridge the gap between us.

My head throbs as I fight back tears. I want to scream, to grab him and shake him until he admits I’m not crazy, that I did apologize, and that I’m not the monster he’s painting me out to be. But instead, I press my lips together, locking the frustration inside. I know where this is going, and I can’t bear it.

I’ve thought so hard about recording our conversations—I’ve even joked to myself about wearing a bodycam. That’s how crazy this situation is making me feel. Just to force him to confront reality and prove I’m not losing my mind. But even then, deep down, I know even that might not be enough for Timmy.

It isn’t just about the apologies. It’s about how Timmy’s entire version of reality twists, depending on his mood, and depending on who he’s telling about it, a constant distortion that leaves me feeling disoriented and unsure of myself. He has this way of flipping things back on me, making me feel like a villain for things he’s done or said. As if he’s projecting his worst qualities onto me, punishing me for crimes I didn’t commit.

And the worst part? If he really believes what he’s saying—if he really thinks I’m this unkind, unapologetic, selfish, dishonest, manipulative, unloving person—what does that mean for what he’s capable of, and for my safety?

He’s already joked multiple times that he’s going to kill me. I shiver involuntarily as I’m reminded of the cold, matter-of-fact way it’s rolled off his tongue. It’s generally followed up by an apology and a rescinding of it, saying he’d never hurt me. But in the moment, it feels like he means every word.

He always plays those comments off as throwaway lines, almost offhand, but his words are lodged in my brain as if there’s a siren ringing in the back of my head, warning me to be careful. That he just might follow through one day. Because it’s not just the words he uses, but the ease with which he says them, as if such a dark thought doesn’t trouble him in the slightest.

And when it comes down to it, that’s really what troubles me the most… that the man who claims to love me, to truly believe I’m his soulmate, to be the greatest and only true love of his life, is also someone who holds the potential—and apparently the occasional intent—to destroy me.

His devotion feels suffocating, like being trapped under glass sometimes—something fragile, breakable, with jagged pieces threatening to tear me apart just below the surface. After all, what does it mean to be someone’s ‘everything’ when that same person is capable of imagining your end?

I feel myself unraveling bit by bit. I’m starting to see through more than a few minor cracks in his facade—his charming grin, smooth words, affectionate gestures. It’s all starting to feel like an elaborate ruse, a flimsy cover for something far darker lurking underneath.

From a distance, with Timmy, everything looks normal. Perfect, even. But when you get close enough to touch it, you realize how flimsy it all is. How it’s only a hair away from completely falling apart. Like he himself is a human comb-over, one gust away from causing it to slip out of place, revealing the truth behind it. And now that I’ve seen it, I can’t unsee it.

The cracks are spreading, a seismic rift deep at the core of our relationship, and I don’t know how much longer I can pretend they aren’t there.