The next two days pass in a haze. The physical pain is nothing compared to the emotional weight pressing down on me. The mirror is a cruel enemy, reflecting back the swollen lip, the purple shadows around my eyes, the finger-shaped bruises on my arms. Each time I glance at my reflection, I feel more like a caricature of myself—a battered, broken version of the woman I used to be.
I call the domestic abuse hotline at the number listed on the card the police officers once again gave me, the little yellow rectangle a reminder of what I endured. A woman with a calm, soothing voice answers, and I share what I can remember of the other evening.
“This is serious, and you should consider leaving,” she implores me. “Men who strangle their partners are seven hundred and fifty times more likely to kill them. There’s a real chance he could come back and end your life.”
I feel simultaneously terrified and numb at her words. The statistic is shocking. But Timmy wouldn’t really try to kill me, would he? This was another aberration, a result of drinking too much and misunderstanding my laughter at a stupid song. Still, her words prickle at the edges of my mind.Seven hundred and fifty times more likely to kill their partner.
I google strangulation, and am upset to learn that when someone does try to strangle you, there’s a risk that down the line—weeks or months or possibly years—it could lead to you having a stroke. Timmy’s actions have potential long-term health consequences for me, and his penance is a couple of measly nights in jail. It doesn’t seem right. But I’m too defeatedto even think about going through the court process again. It’s too much.
As a small respite, I drive over to the side of the island where my friend Rebecca lives with her boyfriend, Jetson.
We hop into her car and drive further to the part of the shore where people hang out around bonfires. She’s sympathetic and supportive as I share my experience, and as a small act of warped defiance we blare Machine Gun Kelly songs through her speakers, singing them as loudly as we can.
We meet up with Jetson, who is hanging out with some of his friends over that way. The mood is relaxed, a stark departure from what I’ve just been through.
Later in the evening, the three of us sit on fold-out chairs down on the sand.
“You know, he’s actually crazy,” says Jetson, his tone grim. “He’s likely to hurt you again. I know it’s hard, and that you care about him, but I think you need to leave him.”
“I agree,” says Rebecca, her tone nonjudgmental. “Being with him is going to be a constant roller coaster of highs and lows. I know some people are into that, and if that’s what you want, that’s fine,” she shrugs, “but he’s dangerous, and I personally don’t want to have anything to do with him ever again.”
“Same,” Jetson nods.
I sleep on the couch at their place, and for once I don’t feel afraid. I don’t fear the sound of the door beeping and swooshing open. He doesn’t know where I am, and he can’t access me because he’s locked up.
I feel a sliver of freedom and, for the first time in a long time, I sleep well. But I know it won’t last.
The next morning, I enjoy the long drive back to the apartment, listening to music and podcasts that I enjoy, that Timmy would only have negative things to say about.
For once, I feel like I’ve regained a tiny semblance of control over my life.
CHAPTER 2
GUESS WHO'S BACK, BACK AGAIN?
MARGAUX
And then he’s back.
Timmy walks into the apartment, his face a mask of contrition. He moves toward me, slow and careful, as though I might shatter if he touches me too abruptly.
“I’m so, so sorry,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion, a tear running down his cheek. He pulls me into his arms, and I collapse against him, the tears spilling over before I can stop them.
He pulls something from his pocket and hands it to me. It’s actually two things, the diamond and platinum rings. “I didn’t mean to take these, I swear. I grabbed money for ice cream, and I guess they got tangled up in the bills somehow when they were in the safe.”
I quirk a brow. “What?”
“Yeah, and I didn’t want the cops to steal them, because I know they’re important to you. So I shoved them up my ass and hid them there for a while. But then one of the other guys in the cell told me you can get dysentery from shoving things up your ass, so I took them back out.”
I’m speechless.
“Don’t worry,” he continues. “I washed them really well.”
I’m frozen, still unsure how to respond.
“I really didn’t mean to hurt you,” he murmurs, stroking my hair. “I just… I panicked. I’m so sorry, Margaux. I love you so much.”
I cry harder, and he holds me tighter. For a moment, I let myself believe him. I let myself sink into the warmth of his embrace, desperate for comfort, for safety—even if it’s from the very man who caused my pain.