Page 127

The Past

Uncle: He harmed you physically and everybody believes you, regardless of what he says. Please know that. Anybody who says otherwise is lying to themselves and you.

Me: But… but it could have been so much worse. I feel for all those girls who walk down the street and get dragged into a dark alley by a complete stranger.

Uncle: How is this any less bad? Because you knew him?

Me: I feel partially responsible.

Uncle: Why?

Me: Because I agreed to go on the date. Two of them, in fact.

And I let him into my apartment.

Uncle: So, because you knew the guy, because he wasn’t some completely random person… you think you’re partially responsible for him sexually assaulting you? For putting something in your drink and then messing with your body while you were unconscious? Man, girl. You are very hard on yourself.

Me: Sure.

Uncle: Well, what I was trying to say is that there’s no question he harmed you physically, Margaux.

But the mental… the psychological trauma is there, too.

Please remember that. Bruises on your body fade, but the less visible damage is what’s going on in your mind. You need to get some help. It’s too much for anybody to deal with by themselves, no matter how strong they are.

A tear betrays me by escaping from my eye and rolling down my cheek. My lips also tremble as his words sink in.

Me: Okay… I’ll think about it.

Uncle: That’s good enough for me.

The Present

Things have been calmer for the past few days. Timmy has been fairly quiet, and has made an effort to do things around the apartment. Cooking, some cleaning. Insisting on soaking my feet and rubbing them. Being extra cute with Sabre. He’s even rearranged some parts of the apartment to make them less cluttered, and the atmosphere feels much nicer.

There hasn’t been much bickering, although I’ve noticed he’s starting to get a little agitated again about which movies we’re watching and what music we’re listening to.

“Why don’t you watch that sci-fi movie you’ve been wanting to watch, and I’ll listen to music on my headphones for a while?” I suggest. I’m not in the mood to fight over movies for the millionth time, so he can have his way and watch whatever he likes. And it will be nice to have a bit of quiet time, even though we’ll still be in the same room together. It’s my attempt at de-escalation, and keeping things chill. I’m done with the fighting and the stress and I’m terrified of any further erratic behavior.

I just want peace. I need peace so badly.

“Fine,” says Timmy. “If you want.” He sounds almost insulted, offended that I don’t want to watch exactly what he wants to at all times. That our eyes and ears need to be consuming exactly the same material in order for me to prove my love to him or something. But I take his words at face value, that he’s okay with my suggested plan,

and I put my headphones on.

An hour or so later, we’re both sitting on the bed and I’m listening to a Machine Gun Kelly song while Timmy is watching something or other on TV. We’ve had a couple of drinks, and so far the evening has been pretty chill. I’m enjoying having the headphones on and having a break away from his constant commentary. Which is fine, because partners don’t need to be joined at the hip and doing the same thing at every waking moment.

And then I giggle, because the song has a funny part where a cartoon of Lil Wayne dances around singing about how people smell like Guns N’ Roses. It’s ridiculous, and my favorite part of the song.

Without warning, Timmy suddenly flings his arm back, and there’s a blur of motion as he backhands me in the face. Hard. The crack of his hand against my skin echoes in my ears, and my head snaps to the side, the sting spreading like a wildfire across my face. The headphones are knocked partially off my head, my eyes well up with tears, and I taste the metallic tang of blood where my lip split against my teeth.

My jaw drops, my eyes widen in disbelief, as if I’m frozen in place by the force of his fury.

What the actual fuck? I didn’t see that coming for a second.

“What the hell, Timmy? You hit me!” I touch my lip and it’s bleeding. “You made me bleed!”

“You were laughing at me.” His eyes are no longer kind and blue. They’re dark and wild, that same reptilian look I remember from the first time he attacked me, gleaming with a dangerous intensity. It’s come out of nowhere.

He doesn’t look like the kind, cute and funny man I fell in love with.

His features have hardened into a mask of fury, his lips pressed thin, caught between a sneer and a snarl.

He looks demonic, murderous, like another entity has taken over his body, transforming his laid-back persona into something terrifying and unrecognizable.

Even his posture has changed from relaxed surfer dude to taut, hulking monster.

His entire personality has become rage, and I’m his target.

I recoil instinctively, my body tensing. The shock of his backhand has left me frozen, blinking, as if my brain can’t quite keep up with what just happened. The sting lingers, throbbing hotly beneath my skin, my face pulsing with every beat of my heart.

“No, I wasn’t!” I plead, my voice squeaking. “I was laughing at the song. Why would I laugh at you? What the fuck? You just hit me in the face!”

“You were making fun of me!” he yells. “Stop lying, you fucking cunt!”

A sharp intake of breath escapes my lips, my hands trembling as I stare at him, wide-eyed at his unexpected outburst. My mind struggles to process this sudden eruption of rage.

“Oh my god,” I touch my lip again and wince at the stinging sensation. My brain races to try to figure out what to do. How to get out of this situation. “You can’t hit me like that, Timmy. I’m calling the police!”

His face drops further, contorting into a mask of pure rage. “No you’re not!” he yells.

I flinch, and my eyes dart in search of an escape. Leave. I have to leave. My subconscious wills me forward, to get out of this and get to a place of safety.

I start to head for the door, when suddenly he roars and lurches toward me.

He lifts me in the air and slams me downward.

My body crashes into the concrete tile floor with a sickening thud, recoiling and bouncing slightly before coming to a halt, as if the floor itself is violently rejecting me.

My head bounces against the hard surface, and I see bright lights shattering and exploding in my peripheral vision, as if a million little stars are bursting around me. I land like a rag doll, limp and defenseless, and everything goes gray.

And then he’s kneeling over me, and his hands are squeezing around my throat.

He’s choking me, strangling me.

Pressure builds inside my head, as if it’s about to explode.

I gasp for breath, but can’t take in any air.

My chest heaves and my head bobs as he continues to constrict my airway.

The tunnel of gray gradually becomes darker, the world around me shrinking as my lungs scream for air. Sounds become muffled as everything closes in, replaced by a ringing in my ears.

Black spots dance around my vision, growing, swallowing everything.

I try to resist, to thrash around, but my body feels sluggish and weak. It’s no use .

There’s something deep in my instincts telling me to play dead so he’ll just stop squeezing.

Because this man is trying to kill me.

I still my body.

And then he’s checking my pulse, leaning over me with his fingers against my carotid.

And he’s whispering, “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

And then everything fades to black…