“I saw that!” shrieks a nosy aunty from the side of the pool. “I am a witness! I’m telling security what I saw!”
Are you fucking kidding me?
NowIam the public ‘abuser’ for lightly tapping Timmy with the drumsticks that he ran outside with like a fucking child?
This is literally insane.
“Oh my god,” I mutter, storming back to the apartment.
This day cannot get worse.
The rest of the afternoon descends into chaos. Timmy is in rare form, doing everything he can to get under my skin as if the aunty’s verbal outpouring for support has emboldened him to push me further.
He criticizes the shows I watch, mocks the music I play, and holds his phone at an angle where I can see him fake-typing to imaginary women.
Finally, I snap. I lunge for his phone. “What thehellare you doing?”
We wrestle over the phone, a ridiculous pushing and shoving match that escalates quickly. “I’m calling the cops!” I yell, backing away from him. “This is insanity!”
But he’s faster. He grabs his own phone and dials first.
The police arrive within minutes. Timmy runs outside to greet them, waving his arms dramatically.
More minutes go by.
“Police,” a deep voice announces as there’s a knock at the door.
I open it, wearing only a sports bra and short shorts. It’s the same officer who chased Timmy over the fence the time I ended up with two black eyes—the one who arrested him when he found him eating ice cream at the 7-Eleven. “Hi,” I say, already exhausted.
“We’re taking you in,” he says.
I blink. “What?”
“There’s been an allegation of domestic violence made against you, and you’re intoxicated. So we’re taking you in.”
“Domestic violence accusation—againstme?” I repeat, dumbfounded.
“Yes, ma’am. He’s saying you scratched him and pulled his hair,” another officer says.
My eyes narrow. “Are you serious?”
“Turn around please, ma’am, and put your hands behind your back.”
I roll my eyes and exhale sharply while I do as he instructed.
You have to be fucking kidding me.
He handcuffs me and—for some reason—let me keep my cell phone in my hands behind my back.
As they escort me to the car, I glance back and see Timmy smirking at me from a distance.
An officer helps me into the vehicle, protecting me from bumping my head.
As we pull away, Timmy continues to smirk.
I twist the cell phone awkwardly in my hands, and manage to dial Phil’s number. He answers on the second ring. “Phil, please help me,” I plead. “They’ve arrested me because Timmy said I attacked him. I didn’t.”
Phil sighs. “What in the world? How can we help?”