There are photos, too. Purple droplets splattered across the apartment floor, like melted açaí. He must have removed items from the freezer and thrown them all over the floor again.
Timmy:
Look, I messed up the apartment.
I feel sick.
My mind flashes back to the first apartment I rented when I moved here, the way Timmy wrecked it during one of his fits.
He’s unraveling—not that he was ever particularly raveled to begin with. And the thought of what he might do to the place while I’m not there fills me with dread. But I know going back right now isn’t an option.
I check my social media, and I notice a couple of notifications on Facebook.
He’s put the same purple puddle photos on one of my posts, and as a comment below something a friend posted on my wall.How odd.
Feeling absolutely defeated and drained, I fall back asleep.
I wake to two transcribed voicemail messages from Timmy’s father, Phil:
Phil:
Margaux, what’s going on?
Timmy is cutting his wrists, lots of blood!
Call the police. Stop this attack on Timmy.
We love Timmy.
Where are you, and why are you doing this?
I am asking you to stop the attacks.
Please call me.
This is serious, this is no game.
Huh? What is he on about?
Another voicemail follows:
Phil:
Margaux, I need you to call me right now.
As soon as you get this.
Timmy is committing suicide. He’s got knives.
This is serious. Stop it.
Oh my fucking god.Stopwhat?
Attacks on Timmy?
My entire body shakes with rage and disbelief.
The audacity of his father, who I’m beginning to see is just as bad as him.