He rarely does anymore when it comes to Timmy.
Probably doesn’t want to get involved.
But he’s also more than happy to send him money. And what does Timmy spend the money on? Nothing good.
It’s not soda.
It’s not vegetables or pasta or soap or detergent or rent or gas.
He spends it on cigarettes and alcohol.
Maybe drugs.
And now he might use it to buy an explosive to blow up my fucking face.
So I could really use some help from Phil.
But Phil is nowhere to be found.
Timmy’s relationship with his parents is as infuriating as it is predictable.
He paints himself as a doting partner, weaving tales of my writing successes and our happy home.
But his parents aren’t fooled entirely. “Get a job, son,” they continue to say, half-heartedly.
Timmy’s face hardens each time. “Iamworking,” he lies. “I’m doing my hats and designing new shirts. I’m making progress.”
He’s not. I know it. I think they know it too, or at least have some doubts. But nothing changes.
“Aren’t I making great progress, Margaux?” he’ll ask, forcing me into his narrative.
“Yes,” I sigh, offering the answer he demands.
I drift off, exhausted, at around 2AM.
Tonight, the nightmares come.
They’ve been dormant for a while, but now they’re back with a vengeance, clawing at the edges of my mind. It’s like my brain is starting to process my current situation.
A dark shape screams at me in my dreams, accusing me of being a monster, pointing crooked fingers at my chest.“You fucking monster! Youuuu!”it shrieks.
Everything goes black.
I bolt upright, my heart pounding, gasping for air.
In another dream, a person is handing out shots of whiskey. Then someone chases me, shouting about a car accident, blaming me for everything.
I fall back asleep.
Suddenly I’m surrounded by scary faces, howling and moaning at me.
I wake again, my body soaked in sweat, my stomach a churning pit of acid. My heart races as I glance at the clock. It feels like at least eight hours have passed, but it’s only 218AM.
I write myself a note:
Every day I’m with you, it erodes me a little. I get a little bit sadder, a little bit more destroyed.
Why am I doing this?