“Oh, I’m waking you up, alright.You pissed on me!”
There’s a pause as he rubs his eyes, and then, to my utter disbelief, he smirks. “Oh yeah,” he says casually, rolling onto his back. “That’s the only leverage I had against you. All I had to use was to piss on you.”
I stare at him, my mouth open, the words caught in my throat.
Did he actually just say that?
“What the actual fuck? You’re disgusting!”
He smirks again, satisfied, then rolls back over and falls asleep like nothing happened.
I want to scream, to throw something, to physically shake him awake and demand an explanation. But instead, I retreat to the bathroom, peeling off my urine-soaked underwear. The mirror reflects my flushed face, and for a fleeting second, I don’t recognize myself.
I can’t take this anymore.
The shower water rushes over me, washing away his filth. It’s scalding hot, but I don’t care. I need to feel clean again, to reclaim my body from the sheer indignity of what just happened.
By the time I step out, my rage has simmered into a low boil, steady but more manageable.
I lay a thick towel over the soiled spot on the bed and climb back in. I’ll deal with this tomorrow.
Right now, I just want to sleep.
When Timmy finally stirs in the morning, his eyes fall on the towel covering the bed.
“Did you piss the bed, Margaux?” he asks, grinning. “Did you join the club?”
My jaw tightens as I turn to face him. “You pissed on me, you fucking asshole! And then you laughed about it, saying it was the only ‘leverage’ you had against me!”
Timmy throws his head back, laughing. “I really said that? That’s pretty fucking hilarious.”
My blood boils.
I can feel the rage coursing through me, my hands trembling as I clench them into fists. “It’s not funny, Timmy. It’s disgusting.You’redisgusting.”
He stops laughing for a moment, sensing the edge in my voice, but then shrugs it off. “Well, I’ll clean the sheets,” he says breezily, climbing out of bed.
And to his credit, he does. He changes the sheets, tosses the soiled ones into the washer, and then spends the rest of the morning cleaning the apartment. By midday, the place is spotless, the air filled with the faint scent of citrus cleaner.
“Look what I can do!” Timmy announces proudly, gesturing to the pristine apartment. “I made the place all nice again!”
I cross my arms, narrowing my eyes. “Thanks for cleaning, but you pissed on me. Remember?”
He waves a hand dismissively. “This is how I’m making it up to you,” he says, flashing a charming smile. “I don’t know why I did that, and I’m sorry. That’s really gross of me.”
At least he’s acknowledging it now.
At least there’s some semblance of self-awareness.
But as the day wears on, my frustration lingers.
It’s not just the urine.
It’s the pattern.
No matter how much I pour into this relationship—my energy, my resources, my patience—Timmy keeps taking.
Wasting.