Timmy has locked himself in the back room once again, probably nursing his bruised ego, or coming up with another excuse for his latest stunt. My jaw clenches at the memory of Margaux’s frantic messages to Alice earlier in the week.
He threatened me with a chainsaw. Called the cops. They said it’s ‘not normal.’
As if Alice didn’t know.
As ifMargauxdidn’t know.
Not normal.That’s one way to put it.
I replay the footage of him pacing the hall with the chainsaw in hand, muttering nonsense under his breath, before tossing it aside. It’s as if he’s reenacting a scene from one of the slasherhorrors he’s so obsessed with—who the fuck threatens their partner with a fucking chainsaw?Horrific.
My hands ball into fists at the sight of Margaux curled on the bed, trying to make herself smaller. It’s a miracle she hasn’t shattered yet.
But she’s close. Too close.
Through the feed from Timmy’s laptop, I see him scrolling through Instagram. His fingers hover over the search bar before he types in a name I’ve seen before—Desperella’s actual name. My jaw tightens. He’s still keeping tabs on her.Pathetic.
And as for Thirstina Aguilera? Her profile picture is literally an attention-seeking bikini picture where she has her thighs splayed apart, as if she’s actively inviting followers into her cervix. Gross.
I don’t wait. With a few keystrokes, I redirect his connection to a fake login page I’ve set up. He tries to click on Budget Barbie’s profile, but all he gets is an error message.Good luck stalking, loser.
Next, I plant a few choice files on his laptop. Nothing too obvious—just enough to catch Margaux’s eye if she decides to snoop. Old photos with half-finished messages he never sent, and one particularly damning screenshot of a dating app profile he never deleted.
She needs to see the cracks.
She needs to understand he’s not worth saving.
It’s not like I’m making these things up from scratch—he created the content in the first place. Restoring his recently deleted messages and photos—and there are plenty, because he’sa serial deleter—is evidence enough that he’s not treating her right.
From her phone’s camera, I watch as Margaux glances toward the back room. Her hand tightens on Sabre, and for a moment, she looks like she’s about to scream. Instead, she unlocks her phone and starts typing.
Her texts to Alice appear on my screen in real time:
Me:
He’s locked himself in the back room again. Probably sulking. I’m so sick of this.
Alice:
What happened this time?
Me:
Same old shit. Lies, gaslighting, throwing tantrums.
He told me earlier he’s ‘too scared’ to come out because ‘I might hurt him’.
Alice:
He said YOU might hurt HIM? The audacity.
Margaux’s lips twist into a bitter smile as she reads Alice’s reply.
She types back quickly:
Me:
I know, right? The irony is so thick I could cut it with that stupid chainsaw.