What if I tell someone and they judge me? What if they say, “You should’ve seen the signs. You should’ve known better.”
I grip the edge of the table, the cool surface grounding me for a moment. I know what I need to do. I need to cut him off. I need to walk away. I need to be stronger than the web he’s spun around me. But the thought of leaving him—of abandoning him in that jail cell, of not being there when he calls—makes my chest tighten with guilt. What if he really does need me?
I shake my head, trying to clear the fog. This isn’t love, it can’t be. I know that. Iknowthat. But knowing and believing are two very different things. And right now, I’m still standing on the edge, teetering between the two, trying to figure out which way to fall.
I’m not ready to confront the truth yet. Not with anyone else. I need to figure out what to do next, but I need to do it alone. Without the judgment of others, I need to find a way to extricate myself from Timmy’s web of lies. But all I can feel right now is guilt, shame, embarrassment, and mortification that I missed so many flags and didn’t see the signs of what he was doing.
68
IF HE DID IT
Iwake in a sweat, stifling a scream and gasping for air.
The images swirl in my mind—Sabre’s small body, tossed over the edge of the balcony, his terrified meow silenced by the rush of air, the horrible drop, the thud far below. Too far away to hear. My stomach twists at the thought, a deep, hollow ache expanding in my chest. I clutch my sides, as if holding myself together might stop the vivid mental scenes from unspooling further. But the images keep coming, relentless and unbidden—Timmy’s face, twisted with rage, shifting into that horrifying grin, the one that tells me he finds amusement in the power he holds over me. The way his mirth emerges at the worst moments, as if hurting others feeds him.
I shiver, pulling my knees up to my chest as I imagine him tossing Sabre over the edge without a second thought. The helplessness. The guilt that would consume me. Sabre isn’t just my pet—he’s my support, my family, my constant in a storm of uncertainty. If I lost him, there would be no coming back from that. Not emotionally. Not mentally. And the fact that part of me believes Timmy could actually do that—it’s a possibility I can’t ignore.
And what if he throwsmeover? The thought slides in, uninvited, making my pulse race. If he can snap the way he did—if he can turninto a monster before my eyes—what’s to stop him from dragging me to the edge? One shove. That’s all it would take. One impulsive second where rage overtakes him. I’d be weightless for a moment, floating, before the sheer terror sinks in, and then the nothingness. I try to push the thought away, but it lingers, like a shadow lurking at the edges of my mind.
Even now, I can hear the echoes of his laughter, that sinister glee when he smashed things in the apartment, the giddiness in his voice when he announced he’d kill me with the hammer. It doesn’t feel real—none of it does. How could he, the man I shared my bed with, whispered dreams to, and fell in love with, turn into this?
His eyes, the change in his face, continues to haunt me. The way his kind, playful expression morphed into something alien—a stranger’s face carved with anger and malice. It’s not just the yelling or the threats—it’s the transformation, like a mask being ripped off to reveal what’s really underneath. That moment will forever be seared into my memory, the shift from man to monster in the blink of an eye.
I’m still in disbelief that I’m in this position. I used to be so careful, so guarded. How did I end up entangled with someone so volatile, so dangerous? I feel ashamed, foolish for letting him into my life so quickly. I feel the weight of my own choices pressing down on me, but there’s no clarity, no understanding. Just confusion and an overwhelming sense of betrayal.
He spoke so convincingly about his ex—how abusive she was, how she slapped him awake, berated him, made him feel small. And I believed him. Of course I believed him.
Sure, I’ve had arguments where people have raised their voices and frowned. Sworn at me, even, although that’s been rare. I’ve managed to avoid many relationships where people have called me names. But Timmy seemed like a different beast—an actual beast, when his face changed.
It’s really hard to reconcile with the lighthearted, fun, carefree man I met and so quickly fell in love with.
I had no doubt he’s a handful, and that he needed a bit ofcoaching to be a more consistent, reliable adult. But that’s very different from dealing with rage.
I hug myself tighter, feeling the weight of that realization sink in. His tears, his promises, his declarations of love—they weren’t mine alone. They were tools, just like his rage, just like the antlers he tried to shove inside me, just like every lie he’s ever told.
But then, there’s the other side of him, the side that holds me after sex, kisses my forehead, and whispers that I’m his person. That side is real, too. Isn’t it? Or am I just fooling myself again? Is anything real with him?
I think about his mental health—his wild mood swings, the manic energy that bubbles up out of nowhere, the deep crashes that leave him sullen and distant. Maybe it’s too many drugs in his past. Maybe it’s trauma from his childhood, or a previous relationship. Maybe he’s broken in ways I’ll never fully understand. And yet, I still care. I still want to help him. I still want to believe that somewhere beneath the chaos, there’s a man who loves me, who needs me, who can change.
But that’s the most dangerous thought of all, isn’t it? The hope that he can change.
The hope that I can be the one to fix him.
Today isthe day I’ve been looking forward to—the day I get to pick up Sabre. But it’s far from what I expected, and a little ironic. Sabre’s getting freed from his quarantine jail, and instead of celebrating, Timmy’s in actual jail for hurting me. One’s getting out and the other’s just gone in.
I shake my head and sigh as I order an Uber out to the quarantine facility. The journey is quiet, and it feels almost rude to look out the window at the beautiful, sunny day, and the palm trees gently swaying in the wind.
When I pick up Sabre, I’m excited to see him and can tell he is, too, but it’s a somber ride back to the apartment.
When we get inside, I let him out of his carrier. “This is our new home, little buddy. I hope you like it.”
He immediately wanders around, exploring his new kingdom.
I want to be excited, to enjoy this moment I’ve waited so long for, but instead I just feel sick and empty.
The rational part of me knows that it’s not my job to save Timmy. That loving someone isn’t supposed to mean putting your life at risk. But the part of me that’s tangled up in him, that still remembers the way he made me laugh until I cried, clings to the idea that maybe—just maybe—things could be different.
I don’t know how to reconcile the two Timmys—the one who makes me feel alive and the one who makes me fear for my life. The one who proposed to me in the botanical gardens while mongooses ate sausage in front of us, promising the world, or the one who threatened to kill me with a hammer and slice my throat with deer antlers.