The back room is a nightmare, stifling and cramped with little air flow and the noise of people constantly walking past, surrounded by uninspiring cinder block walls. It feels like a prison cell. It’s a stark contrast to the front room, with its wide-open windows facing theocean, where I can see swaying palm trees, and waves spraying up over the reef. With access to the kitchen, air conditioning, and natural sunlight. The only place in the apartment where I can breathe. Where I feel creative. He has to be joking. It would be more inspiring to write while sitting on the toilet.There’s no way in hell I’m writing from the back room.
But any time I push back, which is increasingly often, he automatically goes on the defensive, twisting the narrative. “All you care about is money,” he hisses, as if I’m the greedy one here.
“I contribute food stamps,” he snaps, as though that’s a sustainable solution that somehow levels the scales. “And don’t forget the value of the truck. You have to include the value of the truck.”
I bite my tongue, but my resentment festers. He’s made it abundantly clear that his contribution—those food stamps that he does literally nothing to earn—mean that I should carry the rest without complaint. As if keeping a roof over our heads, paying all our bills, and providing emotional labor aren’t monumental tasks I shoulder every single day.
Then I see it. A text exchange between him and his father, sitting open on his phone, carelessly left on the kitchen counter. They’re talking about the truck. The truck Timmy gave me—that’s in my name—as though it’s still his. They’re scheming about how to maintain Timmy’s ownership of the truck, even though the title is mine, even though I’ve paid for registration and safety checks and maintenance and everything else.
They’re scheming behind my back, planning how to pull the rug out from under me. My heart sinks, twisting in my chest like a vise. It’s not just Timmy—it’s him and his father, plotting together.
After everything I’ve done for Timmy.
I feel so betrayed, and quite frankly shocked by his dad’s involvement.
I’ve been shouldering the load for months—paying the rent, bills,andfood over and above what the food stamps are able to provide, entertainment, vehicle costs, things we need to keep the house running… making sure that Timmy’s okay. And now, behind closed doors, they’re over there conspiring how to fuck me over further, discussing how to take even more from me. It’s a betrayal I can’t quite wrap my head around.
A hollow ache settles deep inside me. It’s not just about the truck, or the rent, or the endless excuses. I know that part of my resentment is because I don’t have this type of support on my side. No family scheming to helpme, although I have a feeling if I did they’d be telling me to run. No safety net waiting to catch me. I’ve been shouldering everything alone.
And it hurts.
It’s not Timmy’s fault that I don’t have family to fall back on and he does. It’s not his fault I’ve never had anyone looking out for me the way his father looks out for him.
But the pain lingers, gnawing at the edges of my mind. It’s hard not to feel bitter when you realize you’re the only one fighting for your survival, while others conspire against you—even the ones who claim to love you.
I shake off the guilt creeping in.This isn’t my fault. I know that. But knowing it doesn’t make it any easier to bear.
As the days go on,the tension builds every time I sit down to write.
I’m running out of money, deadlines are looming like dark clouds, and my brain is screaming for me to focus. But the constant interruptions, the dismissive comments, the subtle digs—it’s like trying to write with a ticking time bomb under the desk.
I catch glimpses of Timmy messaging his dad late at night, their conversations quiet and secretive. I know they’re planning something. And every time I confront him about it, he brushes me off.
“Relax,” he’ll say, with that infuriating grin. “We’re just talking. Dad thinks you’re great. You’re overthinking everything.”
But I know what I saw. And the pit in my stomach tells me it’s only a matter of time before the other shoe drops. I just don’t knowwhat the shoe is—what style, what size, anything. Just that there is one, and it won’t benefit me in any way.
I can feel myself unraveling, piece by piece. My writing—once a refuge—feels like a burden. Every word I manage to get on the page is a battle, every chapter a war fought against the chaos of my own life.
And all the while, Timmy looms in the background, sabotaging my efforts with a smile.
I’m drowning, and the people closest to me are the ones pulling me under.
108
VIOLATED
Afew days later
Timmy’s voice is light and playful, as if he just shared a funny secret instead of something deeply disturbing.
“I had sex with you while you were asleep!” His grin stretches wide, his eyes bright and proud, like he expects me to find this hilarious or cute. The satisfaction in his tone is unmistakable.
I freeze, my heart skipping a beat. “Excuse me, you didwhatnow?” My stomach flips and my brow knits, hoping—praying—that I misheard him.
“Yeah,” he repeats as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I’ve done it before, too! I have sex with you while you’re sleeping.” There’s a giddy excitement in his voice, as if he’s expecting me to join in on the joke.
I feel the blood drain from my face, my skin cold and clammy. My brain struggles to keep up with what he’s just said.