CHAPTER 120
POP TART
MARGAUX
I’m sitting on the bed, engrossed in writing, when I feel something press against my leg.
“Ow!” I yelp, jerking my leg back as the searing heat registers.
Timmy pulls his hand away, laughing.
I look down to see the culprit—a freshly toasted Pop-Tart, still steaming. The skin on my leg tingles where it made contact.
“You just put a hot fucking Pop-Tart on my leg! You burned me!”
He laughs again, louder this time, as if my outrage is the punchline to a joke only he understands.
“Stop being so uptight,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s not even that hot.”
I stare at him, disbelief and anger bubbling inside me. “Why would you do that?”
“Jesus Christ, you’re such a bitch,” he sneers. “You’re always trying to find a reason to argue. Calm the fuck down.”
“You just took a burning hot Pop-Tart and put it on my leg,” I reply, my voice trembling.
“Fuck you’re dramatic. Just shut up and watch your stupid show,” he says, turning away as if I’m the unreasonable one.
I bite my tongue, retreating into silence. My leg still stings, but it’s nothing compared to the knot forming in my stomach.
Timmy is now tormenting me with breakfast pastries.
How did it come to this? And what will be next?
He spends the next couple of hours cleaning, and I brace myself.
Timmy cleaning always leads to something more.
I can hear music blaring from my headphones that he’s wearing, and he’s chugging Fireball like it’s going out of fashion.
After he’s done with the back room, he comes into the living room.
“You just need to stop being such a bitch,” he says casually, as if it’s a constructive suggestion. “That would make things easier. You know that?”
I haven’t said anything.
I haven’t done anything.
I’ve been sitting here working, the TV murmuring in the background.
He strides into the kitchen, picks up a plate, and pretends to examine it. “Look how badly you did the dishes,” he sneers. “This plate is still dirty.”
He throws it into the sink with a loud clatter. The sound of chipping porcelain fills the room.
I flinch. His smirk tells me he notices.
He knows I’m scared. Knows I’m wondering if he’ll turn around and throw the plate at me next.
Which would chip first—my skull or the plate?