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YOU NEVER NOTICE THE PREDATOR UNTIL YOU SEE HIS TEETH

T he Next Day

We go back to my apartment. I’m apprehensive, but Timmy hasn’t mentioned the leasing agent as much since we left—just a couple of times here and there—and we want to enjoy some more time to ourselves.

There’s a false sense of calm in the air, like the moment when the ocean pulls back before a massive wave crashes down. Timmy is quiet but jittery, as if the slightest thing could trigger him. I feel like I’m walking on eggshells, sensing that his rage is not far beneath the surface.

He’s been drinking all day, and earlier he disappeared for an hour or two. He went off, wearing his stupid coconut hat, running around looking like a mentally unwell, unhoused person with dirty feet and board shorts. I was upset when he left, but figured he just needed to let off some steam, running around and doing his thing. It’s nice to have a moment away from him, his wild behavior directed at my neighbor has just been so unhinged and I haven’t had a chance to process it.

His boss texts me while he’s gone to see if he’s with me. I guess he was meant to help with some more tasks today, but he didn’t mention it, and he never showed up. I explain that he’s being weird. She doesn’t sound at all surprised, and her automatic reply is that he’s probably on some kind of bender.

When he eventually returns, things are initially fine.

He joins me on the mattress, watching a movie.

At first, it feels like everything might be okay. He’s acting relatively calm, like the drinks have mellowed him out a little. That he’s content to sit in silence and enjoy the movie.

The night is going fine, until it’s really, really not.

After a little while, his agitation at the neighbor returns, and he’s once again seething, his ear pressed to the wall, his fingertips trailing menacingly against it. “I could break through this wall pretty easily,” he says, his expression darkening. “Give her what she deserves.”

I shiver, very uncomfortable with his behavior, but unsure how to respond. It’s so surreal. He can’t really mean anything he’s saying right now. He sounds psychopathic, like he might actually want to kill her. But not for one second does any of his anger seem directed at me—he’s fixated on my neighbor, obsessed with doling out his own version of justice.

His obsession seems to be growing worse, though, despite my efforts to distract him. I can feel the tension continue to rise, thick and suffocating. But I just try to stay calm and focus on the movie.

Then, without anything seeming to prompt it, something snaps within him. All of a sudden, Timmy rages at me.

The man who just moments ago was lounging beside me is suddenly gone, replaced by someone unrecognizable—a monster wearing his skin.

His entire face changes.

His normally kind, blue eyes are dark, almost reptilian. And his mouth, normally smiling and relaxed and cheeky, is twisted into a horrifying grimace. It’s like he’s transformed into a monster out of one of his horror movies.

He charges at me, yelling. “You fucking cunt!” he roars, lunging at me. “I’m going to fucking kill you! ”

The words hit me like a slap, stealing the breath from my lungs. “Timmy, stop!” I cry out, scrambling to get away, but he’s too fast.

Time slows down, and everything is in slow motion.

“ You fucking stop! Don’t tell me what to do!”

I flinch away, but he grabs me by the arms, then he drags me off the bed and slams me to the floor. I cry out as my cheek smacks the smooth wood, pain radiating through my face.

“Don’t you fucking move!” he snarls, his voice dripping with venom, as I try to wriggle out of his firm grasp, desperate to break free. But he’s about two hundred pounds and used to fighting, and I’m about a hundred and twenty-five at the moment. Strong, but definitely not used to physical combat. It’s no use. His manic fury is a monolith against my much smaller frame, still in complete disbelief at what’s happening, feeling frozen in place.

I stare in terror as he grabs one of the large deer antlers from the ground and rears it back, then smashes me in the face with it, narrowly missing my eye.

I flinch away, my cheek stinging.

He rears it back again, and then aims it at my body.

“I’m going to shove this up your fucking ass, you dumb bitch!” he screams. The dull point jabs painfully at my backside, stopped only by my shorts and underwear. "Ouch, Timmy! You’re hurting me!" I yell, panic rising in my throat.

Then he leans in close. “I’m going to slice your throat with this,” he growls, his voice inhuman. He drags the antler across my throat, and I feel it scratching me, pressing into my flesh. I try to flinch away.

“Please don’t hurt me,” I whisper.

“I’ll do more than hurt you,” he growls, his voice dark and filled with terrifying promise.

He suddenly pulls away, getting to his feet, and for a brief second, I think it’s over. I’m out of breath and in total shock, feeling like I’m inside a nightmare.

But then I hear smashing sounds coming from the bathroom—glass shattering, bottles clattering against tile. My heart races as I grab my phone, hands shaking, and fire off a desperate text to his boss:

Me:

He just tried to kill me. I’m alive, but I need help.

Her reply is instant, disbelief bleeding through her words:

His boss:

Are you serious? Are you okay?

Me:

I wish I was kidding. He just smashed me in the head with antlers.

Smashed my face.

His boss:

Oh my god! Call the cops.

He’s so busy raging that he doesn’t notice what I’m doing.

The chaos in the bathroom suddenly subsides, a moment of eerie silence, and Timmy stumbles back into the room, panting, his eyes wild. His face is red and sweaty, a twisted mask of fury and desperation. “You stupid fucking bitch,” he hisses, leaning in close, his breath hot against my ear.

He returns to his feet and storms out to the balcony, glaring at me, and I hear more smashing. I’m frozen. My brain screams at me. Get out. Get out. But before I get a chance to make a dash for it, he returns inside, and he’s suddenly back on me, breathing raggedly in my ear. “You stupid fucking bitch. Look what you’ve made me do.”

“Timmy, I don’t?—.”

He notices the phone in my hand, and he tries to yank it from me.

“Who the fuck are you texting?!” he roars, even more enraged.

Fuck. What have I done?

I don’t know what to tell him, other than the truth. “Your boss. I?—.”

“You’re texting my boss ?” He looks even more furious now, his yelling even more guttural. “Are you fucking kidding me? I’ll kill you, stupid bitch!”

“Timmy, I?—.”

“Shut the fuck up! Just shut your fucking stupid mouth!” he screams, cutting me off.

He brandishes his pink-handled hammer, now, raising it just high enough for me to see the malicious gleam in his eyes. “I will fucking kill you with this hammer.”

He has me on the ground again, and this time he drags me across the floor.

He lifts up the hammer, as if he’s about to strike me in the head with it. But then he drags it across my hip instead, and I wince as the claws scrape across my skin.

My heart hammers against my ribs. My brain screams at me to move, to run, to do something. I have to get out of here.

Somehow, I manage to wriggle free from his loosened grip, adrenaline giving me strength. His coordination is faltering, his movements sluggish and sloppy now, motor skills severely compromised, like a drunk giant stumbling through a nightmare, an elephant that’s just been shot with a sedative.

I feel frozen, but I manage to fumble with my phone and dial 911.

I get to my feet and dash for the door. I open it just as he tries to drag me back into the apartment, growling like a wild animal, but I slip free. He lunges, grabbing at me again, but I’m faster. I burst into the hallway, barefoot and terrified.

My pulse pounds in my ears as I hear heavy footsteps.

“Help!” I cry out, my voice breaking with panic.

“We’re here, ma’am!” One of the officers reaches me first, steadying me as I tremble. “Are you okay?”

I nod, breathless. “He’s inside. Please—he said he was going to kill me.”

A couple of officers rush past me and I see Timmy slipping out the exit stairs at the other end of the hall.

“I’m the one who called,” I explain, in shock.

“We got several calls, ma’am,” one of the officers says. “Are you okay?” He’s standing right in front of me, but his voice sounds muffled, like he’s speaking through a fluffy cloud, as if I’m in a dream.

“I don’t know,” I whisper. “He tried to kill me.”

They come and take a quick look around the apartment, which by now is a mess, one of them snapping pictures.

“Do you need an ambulance, ma’am?”

“No, I think I’m okay.”

“Are you sure?”

“I don’t have my insurance sorted yet. I really can’t afford it. I’ll be fine.”

“Why don’t you come with us,” he says. “We’ll go to the lobby, and we need to ask you a few questions about what happened.” I nod, in complete disbelief.

They lead me to the elevator bank, and we ride down in silence. Their expressions are solemn, and I feel like I’m going to throw up, but I manage to hold it in.

We take a seat at the long table in the lobby, several officers gathered around me, looking at me with concern.

It’s not long before I see them dragging him toward the police car with his hands behind his back. I hope he can’t see me through the glass. All I can see are the red and blue flashing lights.

He thrashes and spits, but I can tell that his strength is mostly gone, burned out by his manic rage. He catches sight of me through the glass. I look away, but not before his gaze catches mine—those eyes that once looked at me with so much love—now glare with hatred. My stomach twists as the lights from the police cars outside reflect off his pale, sweaty skin.

I watch from the window as they shove Timmy into the back of one of the cars. The door slams shut with a heavy, final sound. I feel a twisted mix of relief and sorrow as the car drives away. How did we get here?

“So what did he do exactly?” the officer asks, taking my statement. “Take me through it, if you don’t mind.”

“Well, he was very upset about my next door neighbor, and next thing I knew he was attacking me.” I explain what happened with the antlers, and being thrown to the ground. I describe how he threatened to kill me, and how he was smashing items in the apartment with a hammer that he threatened to use on me. How he told me he was going to slit my throat.

They ask a few more questions—details about the attack, what led up to it. I answer mechanically, the words falling from my mouth without thought or emotion.

“Do you want to press charges, ma’am?” one of them asks. I’ve never been asked that before, but my brain tells me that that’s what I’m supposed to do.

“Yes, I say,” robotically. “Yes, I want to press charges.”

The officer glances at one of his colleagues, and then he returns his attention to me.

For a moment, I feel like we’re just sitting here in silence, my brain racing, my heart still thumping in my chest.

I watch as the neighbor walks past, a smirk on her face, as if she’s amused by seeing me in this situation, and her presence makes my brain zap.

“Are you sure you don’t need an ambulance, ma’am?” an officer asks, snapping me back to reality. I realize he’s been talking to me this whole time, but his voice just sounds muffled, too, like we’re in separate rooms.

“No,” I whisper, numb. “I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?” he presses gently. “You’ve been through a lot tonight.”

“I can’t afford it,” I mutter, my voice hollow. “My insurance isn’t set up yet. I just… I just need to be alone.”

The officers exchange another glance, but don’t push further.

They hand me a card with a list of domestic violence resources, and say they’ll be in touch the next day with more information.

I return to the apartment, alone, and it’s eerily silent. I feel like a ghost, drifting through a surreal, nightmarish version of my life .

The apartment is wrecked—mattresses overturned, drawers emptied, shards of glass glittering on the floor. It’s a physical manifestation of the chaos Timmy unleashed.

I walk to the bathroom and look at myself in the mirror, stunned. A blood vessel in my eye is popped, and it rages crimson. It’s hideous, and it stings slightly, but I also feel numb.

I have bruises and scratches all over my hands, defensive from trying to prevent him from sodomizing me with the antlers, and from trying to push him away.

There’s a big, multicolored bruise on my hip from where he slammed me to the ground, or maybe from when he dragged the antlers and the hammer across my body.

I grab my phone again, texting his boss:

Me:

I called them.

He promised he’d never hurt me.

His boss:

Make sure they arrest him so he learns a lesson.

Me:

They arrested him.

He promised he’d never put hands on me.

He burst my eye blood vessel earlier and then tried to kill me with an antler.

His boss:

Send him for a night in jail. He needs to sober up.

Me:

He needs to stop being abusive. Said he’d never do it.

Her reply is sharp, cutting:

His boss:

He’s not going to stop. He’s done this to a girlfriend before.

My breath catches. He’s done this before? My heart sinks as the weight of her words settles over me. He lied—just like he seems to have lied about so many other things. Telling me he’d never put hands on me. He swore up and down that he’d never hurt a woman.

The way he showed complete contempt for Darren hurting his ex, that he looked down on any man who would ever hurt a woman in any way.

That he was some kind of hero, the type of guy that saved people from men just like him.

Me:

He has?

His boss:

Yeah. He’s a mess.

Me:

Stupid asshat. He could be so awesome and here we are.

I feel distanced from myself, watching myself see his potential even after what he just did.

I text another friend, Sven, who’s like a brother to me. That I made the worst choice. That the shithead punched me in the face and threatened to kill me. Ironic welcome to beach life. That I need to make better choices, clearly.

It’s like I’m watching my life from the ceiling, that I’m disembodied, just observing myself like a third party.

I leave the apartment, needing air, needing anything but these four walls. I wander down to the corner store, dazed, not sure where else to go, and buy a bottle of whiskey and a hard seltzer. The cashier doesn’t bat an eye at my injuries as I pay—just another lost soul buying booze to survive the night .

One of the cop cars is still in the driveway, and the officers watch me return with my items. I wonder if they’re observing me, judging my purchases. But at the same time, I don’t really care. I just need to numb myself further.

Back at the apartment, I sit on the disheveled mattress, the weight of everything pressing down on me. I sip the whiskey, hoping to drown out the thoughts swirling in my mind. But the silence is deafening, and the echoes of Timmy’s rage linger in every corner of the room.

Tears well up, but I swallow them down. I don’t have the luxury of falling apart—not now. There’s no one to call, no one to lean on. Just me, and the bottle, and the empty bed where I once felt safe in Timmy’s arms.

Sabre, who I’d usually rely on for support, still isn’t with me.

I stare at the ceiling, listening to the faint hum of the city beyond the windows. How did it come to this?

And as the whiskey warms my veins, I realize I don’t have an answer. I only know that I survived the night. But tomorrow is a new day, and I have no idea what it holds—or if I’ll ever feel safe again.