I’ve memorized every detail of her face, from the way her freckles dot her cheeks like constellations, to the tiny crease in her forehead when she’s concentrating. She’s everything.And she’s trapped.
It really pisses me off that he’s treating her like that.
Clearly, she deserves better. I mean, anyone does.
But I can see the games he’s playing with her mind.
The way he gives her just enough attention and then cruelly yanks it away.
He’s manipulating her, toying with her emotions, and she’s such a genuine person I’m sure it’s eroding her soul by now.
And while his physical abuse is enough to make me want to murder him five times over, it’s this mind-fuckery that makes me absolutely insane with my own rage.
I can tell that it leaves her feeling lost, lonely, confused, abandoned. To be in a relationship and feel lonelier than if you were by yourself is telling.
It means that something’s missing. That you’re not getting the companionship and camaraderie that you’d assume would be one of the highlights of being in a close relationship with someone.
And look at him, the piece of shit. Repeating the cycle over and over, dragging her further down with each move. Reaping joy from her misery.
But I can’t rush in like a hero from some poorly written romance novel. If I misstep, if I act too soon or too forcefully, she could see me as the enemy. Margaux is stubborn, and her pride is formidable. Push her too hard, and she might retreat further into Timmy’s grasp. And then? I’d lose her. Completely.
So, I balance on this tightrope, teetering between my obsessive need to save her and my calculated restraint. Every instinct in me screams to act, to end this nightmare for her, but I know I have to play the long game. It’s the only way to protect her without pushing her away.
The pictures of Margaux’s battered face are burned into my brain. Two black eyes, a swollen lip, bruises trailing her arms and legs like a roadmap of pain. My stomach churns as I study the photos she must have sent to someone—a therapist, a friend, maybe even just to document the evidence for herself. Evidence of what she’s enduring. A warning to herself of what could so easily happen again.
It doesn’t matter how I saw them. What matters is what I’m seeing. Bruises. Swelling.Fear.
Two black eyes. That’s not just abuse—it’s potential brain trauma.
My mind flashes to the research I’ve been doing on head injuries, and my chest tightens.What if she’s walking around with a ticking time bomb in her skull because of that human dumpster fire?
I double-check court records, desperate for a sliver of justice. Timmywasarrested. But the charges didn’t stick. Of course they didn’t. He’s slippery, a master manipulator. He’s probably already convinced the cops it was all a misunderstanding—and Margaux wouldn’t press charges. I understand why. She’s already been let down by the justice system before.
My fists clench. My jaw tightens. I want to kill him. Snap his neck and leave him for the meth heads he’s so fond of. But I can’t. Not yet.
I’ve hacked her webcam and phone camera—not to spy, but to protect. I need to know she’s okay. But the image of her sitting at her desk, shoulders hunched, eyes dim, cuts deeper than any blade could. She looks so tired. So drained.
I watch her text thread with her older sister, Amanda. Margaux glosses over the abuse, downplaying Timmy’s behavior.
Amanda presses gently, trying to reach her, but Margaux deflects, focusing on the rare ‘good moments’. Every time she defends him, it feels like a knife twisting in my chest.
I want to grab her, shake her, make her see the truth. But I know better. If I push too hard, she’ll only dig her heels in deeper.
Timmy’s a master manipulator, and he’s playing his part well. He pretends to be the man she fell in love with—charming, funny, attentive. I know it’s all an act. The real Timmy is a coward who gets off on destroying people.
The thought of him gaslighting Margaux, making her doubt herself, makes me want to put my fist through a wall. But I remind myself: patience.
He’ll slip up.
And when he does, I’ll be ready.
Timmy might think he’s untouchable, but I’ve been working behind the scenes, unraveling his pathetic excuse for a life.
I lock him out of his accounts and leave trails on the dark web for others to hack into. Soon, bizarre posts—‘Timmy Loves Twilight,’ ‘Live, Laugh, Love Enthusiast! DM Me for Inspirational Quotes ’, ‘Certified Clown College Graduate ’, ‘Official Rainbow Dash Cosplayer—Brony and Proud , ‘Bigfoot Fan Club President!’—begin to appear. His small number of followers mock him, and Margaux’s amused smirk is everything.
Timmy tries blaming her, but quickly realizes she has no part in it.
Packages from Timmy’s parents—tools and clothing he can’t afford on his own—get rerouted to random addresses. Watching him try to explain it to his parents is priceless. “It must’ve been stolen from the mailroom—the neighbors must be out to get me,” he insists, frustration oozing from his every pore as he paints himself as the victim once again.