The room feels different now. Charged. I’m on edge, my senses heightened to every creak, every movement, every sound. Those kinds of scares don’t just fade in five minutes—they linger, embedding themselves in my nervous system, ready to erupt again at the slightest provocation.
I know I won’t be able to write now. My creative flow is gone, replaced by a tightness in my chest and a buzzing in my ears. The rest of the day will be spent bracing for the next jump, the next shout, the next cruel ‘prank’.
But Timmy got his revenge, so I guess that’s what matters.
Hours pass, and I’m still on edge. The earlier incident replays in my mind on a loop, each memory as sharp as the moment it happened.
Timmy walks into the room, his expression softened, almost apologetic. “That was mean of me before,” he says, his voice low. “Frightening you on purpose. I’m sorry.”
I glance up from my laptop, narrowing my eyes.
I don’t trust this tone.
“I was just so upset you woke me up,” he continues. “But I thought about what you said, and I realize you thought I was awake. So what I did to you was just mean. And I’m sorry.”
The words hang in the air, heavy with an edge I can’t quite identify.
My brain knows better than to engage. Knows it’s smarter to nod, accept the apology, and let it go. The one thing my braincan’tseem to do is to stop me from being a smartass.
Even around a dangerous man.
Especiallyaround a dangerous man.
“Wow,” I say, tilting my head. “That almost sounded sincere.”
His eyes narrow, his jaw tightening just slightly.
“I mean,” I continue, unable to stop myself, “it’ssocomforting to know that after hours of reflection, you’ve realized that deliberately triggering my PTSD was, in fact, a shitty thing to do. Gold star for you, Timmy.”
His lips press into a thin line, his face darkening. “Careful,” he says, his voice low, a warning wrapped in feigned civility.
I swallow hard, my pulse quickening. The room feels smaller now, the air heavier.Should’ve stopped while I was ahead,I think, kicking myself internally.
“I’m just saying,” I say, my tone softer now, trying to diffuse the tension. “You can’t expect me to bounce back immediately after something like that.”
He exhales sharply, a sound halfway between a sigh and a scoff. “IsaidI was sorry.”
“Right,” I say, nodding. “Thanks for that.”
Timmy leaves the room, but the tension lingers. I sit with my laptop on my lap, staring at the blinking cursor on my screen, but my focus is gone. The apology should’ve made me feel better, but instead, it leaves me feeling hollow.
The cruelty wasn’t in the act itself—it was in the calculation. The deliberate choice to hurt me, to target something so personal, so deeply rooted.
It wasn’t an outburst or a mistake—it was revenge.
Petty, cruel revenge.
And the apology? It felt rehearsed, transactional. A way to smooth things over without actually addressing the deeper issue.
He didn’t apologize because he understood the damage he caused.
He apologized to reset the scoreboard, to clear the slate so he could hurt me again later without guilt.
I close my laptop and stare out the window. The ocean glistens in the distance, calm and steady, a stark contrast to the chaos inside the apartment.
I wish I could escape into that calm.
But here, with Timmy, peace feels impossible.