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PSYCHOPATHS DON'T WEAR WARNING SIGNS, THEY WEAR CHARM LIKE A SECOND SKIN

T he next day, I’m hoping for peace, but enjoying our day is a lot harder than one might think, even living in a tropical beach paradise.

Timmy’s thoughts just keep circling back to the leasing agent.

“She’s out to get us,” he mutters, his voice low and seething. “She’s got it in for you. I’m going to fix this.”

His words send a ripple of unease through me, there’s still something chilling about them although he’s not making more death threats right now. “Timmy, it’s just a complaint. We’ll sort it out. It’s not that serious.”

I want to remind him that, while the initial complaints were vexatious, he did go waggle his dick around on the balcony and tell her about it. We could have fought back if he didn’t loudly talk about how she gave him a boner. He’s rendered us powerless in a way.

But he’s not listening, and I’m still too scared to mention it because of his demeanor.

All day, he talks about her—how she’s making our lives hell, how she’ll pay for messing with us. His rage is sharp and focused, and what seemed to start as protective concern seems to be transforming into an unhealthy obsession.

A little later

Timmy says he has to go see a friend really quickly, and slips out the door before I can ask any questions. Anxiety swirls in my gut until he returns about an hour later.

“Don’t worry,” he says softly. “It’s been taken care of.” He stands across from me, his arms crossed, a smirk playing on his lips that sends chills down my spine. His voice is low and steady, laced with a hint of satisfaction.

I shift uncomfortably. “What do you mean?” I try to keep my voice steady, but I detect a slight waver. I hope he doesn’t notice it.

He steps closer. “It’s better if you don’t know. But she’s going to regret ever fucking with you.” His smile fades into something more serious. The air feels thick with unspoken words.

“Um, who did you go and see, anyway? What are you planning on having them do?” I search his face for answers, but his expression reveals none.

“Like I said, I called in a favor. She’ll get what’s coming to her.” His eerie calmness unsettles me. He’s usually so animated and loud, but his voice is low, monotone, robotic.

“Um, please don’t do anything violent. That’s an over-the-top response.” I try to reason with him, searching for a piece of him that will share what’s actually going on.

His voice becomes a growl. “How she’s been treating you is over the top.”

He leans in further, his voice dropping to a whisper that sends shivers down my spine. “You don’t want to know the details. Just trust me, it’s been taken care of.”

His body language and posture remind me of the day he told me about putting bodies in a wood chipper. I shiver at the memory of his random creepy story.

“So what?—.’

He puts up his hand to silence me. “It really is better that you don’t know. ”

I feel trapped, torn between a sense of relief that my problem may have been taken care of, and that a man cares enough about me to take care of it, combined with the dread of what he might have done to achieve it.

The way he says it, so casual yet laden with implication, sends a chill through me and makes my skin crawl. My scalp shivers like worms are wiggling all over it. As he stands up, a satisfied grin on his face, I can’t help but think he might have taken things too far. And that whatever he’s done might well be irreversible.

Over the next few days, his obsession only grows. He snarls whenever he looks at the wall that separates our apartment from hers. He frequently presses his hands against the wall, dragging his palms slowly over the surface as if trying to get closer to her, muttering under his breath.

He continues to talk about climbing up her balcony, and fantasies of killing her. Of slitting her throat wide open and watching her crimson blood pour out.

It’s creepy and disturbing and odd. But every time I try to tell him to stop, he’ll play it off as being protective over me.

“She’s hurting you. You’re doing everything right. Paying your rent, playing movies at a reasonable volume. She’s the one with the issue.”

“You don’t need to fantasize about breaking into her apartment and killing her, though. That’s a bit much. And I don’t know what you went and got your friend to do, the thing you won’t tell me about.”

“Look, let’s just say her vehicle is flagged by a certain group of people. And if they happen to run into her, let’s say she’s parked at a beach, or she’s at the grocery store… well, she’s going to start wondering why her tires keep going flat. She’s going to assume it’s because of some defect. And she’s going to buy more and more tires, and the same thing is going to keep happening. She won’t be able to explain it, but she’s going to be spending a lot of money on replacement tires.”

I scratch my head. What a curious revenge plot. But I’m also quietly relieved. He didn’t mention physical violence or putting her in a wood chipper. Just petty vandalism causing an ongoing inconvenience.

“Okay, well you’ve got that out of your system,” I say, partially relieved. “You said whatever it is you’re doing is in motion. Can you please just let this go, once and for all.”

“Okay,” he nods. “Yes, let’s just have a nice night. That movie I was talking about just came out, so let’s watch that.”

Great, just what I need while he’s acting like this. Another creepy horror. But, they do seem to calm him down. He becomes engrossed in imaginary worlds inhabited by monsters and slasher serial killers. That said, I get engrossed in dinner parties where women scream at each other and flip tables. We all have our kinks.

But his words send a wave of nausea through me. It’s as if I’m watching him unravel, little by little, spiraling into a dark place I don’t know how to reach. His calm is almost worse than his anger—it feels calculated, deliberate.

He tilts his head, his smile fading into something more sinister. “I’ll let it go for tonight. But I won’t rest until she stops fucking with you.”

I lie awake, my heart pounding every time I hear someone walk past in the hallway. I hear the sounds of him pacing, still mumbling under his breath about the leasing agent, and how she deserves to die. He’s spiraling, and I feel like I’m balancing on a knife’s edge, unsure of what will happen if he tips too far.

The next morning, I address it.

“I can’t handle this anymore. You’re acting crazy about the girl next door, obsessed. Won’t talk about anything else. It’s upsetting me, and we’re getting complaint after complaint. I think we need to get out of here, even if it’s just for the night. This is all too much.”

I’m at the point where I don’t feel comfortable walking past the concierge desk, and the way several of them look at me judgmentally. They peek over the counter, as if they’re way too interested in what I’ve purchased and brought back. Some of them are just doing their job, but some of them are getting off on being a nosy neighbor without actually living here. They’re like police wardens and I’m smuggling in contraband—god forbid I buy a pineapple or a new pair of shorts.

“We can go stay with Matty,” he shrugs. “He won’t mind you being there.”

“On the floor?” I quirk a brow.

“Well, yeah. I mean, there’s still a mattress.”

“But we’ll be sharing a room with Matty?”

“Yep. Is that a problem?” Timmy asks, as if my question is insulting.

“No,” I say quickly. “At least we won’t be bothered by the weirdos here.”

It’s me and the apartment, or me and Timmy. And he’s all I have here. So I’m choosing love.

Timmy gives Matty a call, and he’s kind enough to let us stay for the night. I feel like I owe him for this grand favor of being able to sleep on a mattress on his floor. It’s hard to explain. This certainly wasn’t the living arrangement I envisaged when I moved here, but it’s only temporary, just for the night. I’m in love, and if this is what it takes, I’m prepared to do it.

Who knows? Maybe having a night away will calm Timmy down and take his mind off things.

But I just have a nagging feeling within me that we’re not going to be staying in this apartment building for much longer.

As we pack to leave, a sense of deep dread settles in my gut. I know, somehow, this isn’t going to end well. Yes, the apartment has its problems. But so does Timmy. And I’m starting to worry that wherever we go, this darkness will follow us.

I glance at the wall one last time, a shiver running down my spine, knowing that whatever Timmy’s set in motion won’t be easily undone.