“That’s what love bombers do.” I shrug.
“So… what are you going to do about it?”
I sigh. “Nothing for now. I need the timing to be perfect. It’s a fragile situation.”
“Like you’re detonating a love bomb.” He smirks.
“Kind of. For real.”
“Well, be careful. Because you know that the person sent to detonate the bomb risks being exploded along with everything else. Shooting the messenger, if you will.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
74
SOMETIMES YOUR BODY TELLS YOU THINGS YOU DON'T WANT TO HEAR
Ihead 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 wordssting, 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: