My body reacts before my brain can process, and I fold into myself, curling into a fetal position on the bed. My fingers tremble as I dial 911. My heart pounds so loudly I can barely hear the operator’s voice when she answers. “I need help,” I stammer. “My fiancé just threatened me with a chainsaw.”
“Is he actively trying to harm you right now?” the operator asks, her voice calm and methodical.
“No,” I whisper, glancing up to see Timmy standing there, his chest heaving. “But he’s holding it.” I pause. “Timmy, put the fucking chainsaw down!” I manage to shout, my voice trembling.
He doesn’t respond immediately, just stands there breathing heavily, his grip still tight around the handle. Finally, he throws the chainsaw down halfway down the hall with a loud clatter, muttering something under his breath as he retreats outside.
I sit there frozen, trying to make sense of what just happened. And trying to process that it’s not the first time my fiancé has threatened to decapitate me with his chainsaw.
The cops arrive about twenty minutes later. Two officers step inside, their eyes scanning the small apartment. One of them pauses as his gaze lands on the chainsaw lying ominously in the hallway.
“Is it normal for your partner to threaten to chop your head off with a chainsaw?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper, pointing toward the weapon.
The officer’s brow furrows, and his face hardens. “Uh, no, miss. I’d say that’s quite abnormal.”
I don’t know why I ask him that, but it’s like my brain is trying to process that this isn’t okay, but it can’t quite get there. Timmy has spent so long convincing me that his behavior is normal—that I’m the problem and he’s the victim—that I’ve started to believe him. I’ve been gaslit into questioning my own reality.. So I need some external professional to tell me that, in his experience, having your partner threaten to decapitate you with a high-powered, scary tool is not okay.
But the officer’s words cut through the fog. It shouldn’t be a revelation, but it is.
I want to scream. I’ve been upset by plenty of people in my life—family, friends, strangers—and never once has it crossed my mind to threaten them with a fucking chainsaw.
“This isn’t the Texas Chainsaw Massacre,” I say out loud, mostly to myself. “This is my life.”
The officer nods solemnly, his expression softening. “You’re right. And this isn’t okay. You don’t deserve to live like this.”
Hearing him validate my feelings makes something inside me crack. It’s not a relief exactly, but it’s a start. A tiny pinprick of light in the suffocating darkness.
The other officer takes my statement while the first examines the chainsaw. “He didn’t turn it on,” I explain, as if that somehow makes it less horrifying.
“Doesn’t matter,” the officer replies. “The threat alone is enough. You’re not safe here.”
I want to believe him. I want to pack my things and leave, but something inside me keeps me tethered to this nightmare. Fear? Hope? Denial? I don’t even know anymore.
Timmy is eerily calm when he returns to the apartment after the cops leave, acting like nothing happened. He picks up the chainsaw from the hall and takes it to the back room.
“See?” he says, as if to prove some invisible point. “I didn’t even turn it on.”
My jaw drops. “Youthreatenedme with it, Timmy. Do you not understand how insane that is?”
He shrugs. “You’re so dramatic.”
I can’t even form words. I turn and walk out of the apartment, my heart racing again. Outside, the cool night air hits my face, but it does little to calm me.
I text Alice:
Me:
He threatened me with a chainsaw again.
Alice:
WHAT THE FUCK.
Me:
Cops came. They said it’s abnormal, in case that wasn’t clear.
Alice: