On Sunday night, he sent a flurry of strange messages (some were sexual, some were about how he was messing the apartment up). He said I was there when I was not anywhere near there, moving the truck and entering the apartment. He sent a picture which in the middle of the night looked like he had spilled açaí, and he sent me a kiss emoji right after it.
It was only when I woke up yesterday morning, and saw you had called saying he was committing suicide, and saw he had posted his bloody pictures on two of my unrelated Facebook posts, that I realized it was actually blood.
So please do not message me anything else offensive. I understand you are upset your son is acting out, but this behavior far predates me as shown by online criminal records and his own admissions, and I don’t need or deserve to be attacked. I’m glad he is physically safe.
As I reread it, the weight of everything Timmy has put me through over the past year bears down on me. From the first incident with Parker, to the latest manipulative stunt involving his father, the spiral of abuse has been relentless.
Alice takes her time reading.
Alice:
Good. Respond to nothing they say.
Me:
Sending now.
Thank you for reading it.
Alice:
I know this is hard and unfair.
I press send, my stomach churning.
Immediately, a wave of emotions crashes over me—relief, anger, fear, and the faintest hint of hope that maybe—just maybe—this will force Phil to look at the reality of his son’s behavior.
But deep down, I know it’s unlikely.
Timmy’s manipulation runs deep, and Phil’s denial is a fortress I can’t penetrate.
Phil is what’s known in narcissistic abuse terms as a ‘flying monkey’ to Timmy, always willing to do his bidding and come to his defense, even in the face of hard evidence against him. Appealing to a flying monkey typically doesn’t do shit.
Still, this isn’t for him.It’s for me.To reclaim my narrative. To remind myself that I’m not crazy, no matter how much Timmy or his flying monkey of a father try to convince me otherwise.
The day stretches on. I wait for a reply, though I already know what it will say if it comes.
Alice’s words stick with me—Respond to nothing they say.
I glance at Sabre, curled up next to me, his soft purring the only sound in the room. For now, that’s enough.
I’ve said my piece.
And for the first time in a long time, I feel a sliver of control returning.
I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and let the silence settle around me.
CHAPTER 100
THE TIMMY SHOW
MARGAUX
LATER IN THE DAY
Iget back to the apartment complex, but before heading in, I stop by the parking garage. I just have a feeling he’s done something to the truck. Entering the code to unlock it, I hop into the driver’s seat and put the key in the ignition. But it won’t start. As feared, Timmy has done something to the truck.
I sigh.