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SOMETIMES YOUR BODY TELLS YOU THINGS YOU DON'T WANT TO HEAR

I head back to my apartment to gather some extra clothing. The moment I step inside, my body betrays me. The familiar wave of anxiety washes over me, and my bladder tightens like a clenched fist. Not now, not again . I squeeze my thighs together, clenching, but it’s no use. The second I hear the click of the door closing behind me, my body gives in. Hot, humiliating wetness spreads, and I stand frozen in the entryway, mortified by my own body’s response. What the hell is wrong with me?

I’ve had UTIs before, where you have to pee suddenly and furiously, even if barely anything comes out, but this is not that. It only happens when I get to this apartment, the place where Timmy tried to kill me.

This is my space, my home. But now, every time I walk through the door, my body reacts like I’ve just stepped into a war zone. I wipe my hands across my damp shorts in frustration. I’ve fought through tough situations before, lived through trauma—but never has my body betrayed me like this.

Once I’m in the bathroom, I sit on the cold toilet seat and search for answers. Trauma-related incontinence , the screen reads. The words sting, but at least I’m not imagining it. It’s real. My body is screaming at me, telling me something isn’t right.

I glance at the broken toilet lid—Timmy’s handiwork. I sigh and carefully reach for the shattered ceramic piece. The jagged edge catches my finger and rips through the skin before I even register what’s happened. Blood spills out fast, hot, and red.

“Fuck!” I scream, clutching my hand as the pain blooms. I press a paper towel to the wound, but the sight of the blood makes me dizzy. It’s like this apartment won’t let me forget. I slam the broken lid back down on the floor, the sound loud and jarring in the quiet apartment. I hold the towel against my hand and storm into the kitchen, my pulse roaring in my ears.

As I grab another paper towel, one of my precious cat carvings—the ones that mean so much to me—tumbles off the counter with a dull thud. The sound of wood splintering hits my ears, and when I look down, a jagged piece of its little paw lies on the floor.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!” I cry, my voice breaking. I crouch down, cradling the broken carving in my hands. The tears hit me all at once, hard and hot, and they don’t stop.

It’s not just the carving. It’s not just the lid. It’s everything—the piss, the blood, the shattered remnants of what this place used to be. It’s the ghost of Timmy’s rage that still lingers in every corner, as if his energy never really left. It’s like the evil that possessed Timmy the night he attacked me still lurks here. It’s hiding in the corners, mocking me as I try to make sense of everything. And I don’t know how to make it stop.

I yank off my shorts and underwear, throw them in the washing machine and turn it on.

I collapse onto my bed and bury my face in the pillow, inhaling deeply, trying to calm the shaking sobs that rack my body. For a moment, I let myself surrender to the exhaustion, closing my eyes. I don’t fall asleep, but the simple act of lying still—of retreating into myself—offers a small, fleeting comfort.

Then my phone buzzes in my hand, pulling me back into the harsh reality. I swipe the screen and see a message from Timmy.

Timmy:

Everything okay? You’ve been gone a while, and I haven’t heard from you.

I hesitate, my thumb hovering over the screen. I don’t want to tell him I just pissed my pants. But what’s the point in pretending? He’s the reason it’s happening. So I tell him the truth.

Me:

Cut myself on the toilet piece when I lifted it up.

Peed myself, because that’s what I do when I get to the apartment now.

And one of my carvings flew off the counter and broke.

His response comes quickly, almost as if he’d been waiting for the chance to say something right.

Timmy:

Oh my god, I’m so sorry, Margaux.

I wish I could be there to help you with everything.

I hate that I created this situation for you.

I love you so much, and I’m going to give you the longest, best back rub when you get back.

I stare at the message, feeling the familiar, toxic mix of emotions welling up. His words are like a balm—temporary, fleeting relief. He sounds like he means it, and part of me wants to believe him. But how can I reconcile the person who smashed my toilet, broke my things, and tried to hurt me, with the one who promises back rubs and love? The one who says all the right things when he knows I’m at my most vulnerable?

Timmy:

Remember to send me a picture of the toilet lid I broke so I can get a new one.

It’s refreshing and a relief to see Timmy holding himself accountable. I still don’t know how he expects to pay for the replacement items, but he seems to think he’ll be able to. And so he should. If someone comes to your home and breaks things, they need to pay for the repairs. It’s simple.

He can’t come and do the repairs himself, of course, seeing he’s banned from the property.

“I’ll send Matty or someone else to come and fix it. There’s a guy I used to work with who I’d trust to do a good job, and he won’t charge much.”

It feels like he’s taking responsibility and ownership for what he did, and trying to make it right. Of course, I’d love it if he could just come here and get all the information and fix it himself, but obviously that’s not an option in this situation.

I push off the bed slowly, my limbs heavy with fatigue. As I move toward the door, I pause, spotting my deck of oracle cards on the counter. It’s a strange ritual, but one that’s been grounding me lately. I shuffle the deck, and as if guided by something beyond me, I pull a card. CRY.

The simplicity of the word hits me hard. I already am , I think bitterly. But the card isn’t just about tears. It’s telling me to let go—to release, to grieve, to feel every emotion I’ve been bottling up.

I place the card back in the deck and stuff it in my bag, grab the rest of my things, and head toward the door, for now leaving the shattered ceramic, the broken carving, and the haunted memories behind me.