I pause, caught between shock and exhaustion.
He opens the trash can to throw something away, then shouts louder, “Ewwww, you stink! Is that your butt?”
I ignore him, focusing on my breath. But then he starts pulling perfectly good food from the fridge and freezer, throwing it into the trash—mostly things he knows I like.
He disappears for a while. When he returns, he’s holding a football.
“Found this in the truck,” he says, a note of curiosity in his voice. “Didn’t know I had a football.”
A chill runs through me at the sight of it. “That’s from the creep I let in the truck,” I say quickly. “Please throw it out.”
His expression softens for a moment, sympathy flickering across his face. “Oh my god, babe. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I’ll take it out right now.”
Relief washes over me as he heads out the sliding door with the football in hand.
But when he returns a few minutes later, he’s still holding it.
“Timmy, no, please,” I plead.
The gleam in his eyes is dark, his smirk cruel. “I’m keeping this football,” he says, his voice low and menacing. “This is what you get for letting strange men into the truck and driving into a fence. You have to look at it.”
I retch, overwhelmed by his twisted sense of punishment. Snatching the football from him, tears streaming down my face, I run to the kitchen and grab a chef’s knife.
I stab the football—over and over again—until it’s fully deflated.
Timmy watches, his smirk widening into a grin. “Wow, you’re an absolute psychopath,” he says gleefully. “Stabbing the football like that? What a crazy fucking bitch. Are you threatening to do that to me?”
“No,” I sob, my voice shaking. “Not at all.”
I throw the football into the trash, my hands trembling, and he laughs.
He grabs the knife from the sink and goes to the fridge. Pulling out the bougie nonalcoholic drinks I’ve been using to replace liquor, he stabs each can, liquid spraying everywhere as he cackles.
I message Alice and fill her in, because this is getting out of hand.
Alice:
This is complete madness.
Timmy walks over to me, grinning. Then he inhales sharply and spits, his saliva landing on my arm.
Me:
He just spat on me.
Alice:
Nope.
Assault.
“Don’t fucking type about me,” he snarls, noticing my messages.
He picks up his phone and makes a call. “Mommy,” he says. “You wouldn’t believe how Margaux is acting right now.” He moves his face away from his phone. “I’m going to call the police on you for scratching me last night,” he says.
His rapidly escalating erratic behavior sends a shiver down my spine. I know nothing good will come of this. With shaking hands, I dial 911. Before anyone answers, I reconsider, and hang up.
Me: