But to hear him spew these topics back at me with such venom? It’s like he’s gone into a new level of cruelty.
Shit. I’m not going to make a dent in his logic, and he’s just lashing out.
Gray rock, gray rock.
His frown grows deeper, his gaze locked with mine. “You are not my penguin anymore.”
The words hit harder than I expect, but I don’t let it show.
Instead, I nod. “No, I’m not. And I never really was.”
I feel foolish for everything I’ve poured into this man. The time, the money, the love—it all feels wasted on someone who never truly loved me back.
He didn’t loveme.
He loved the way I made him feel about himself.
Part of me still wants to believe he cares. That he’s just broken and unable to show it. But then I remember his rage.
His hatred of women.
The way he’s left a trail of destruction through his relationships, each one worse than the last.
He’ll kill someone someday. I’m certain of it.
Maybe it’ll be the next partner who can’t meet his impossible expectations.
Maybe it’ll be someone at a bar who ‘hurts his feelings.’
Hell, maybe it’ll even be his own father, when the man finally stops enabling him.
They say a narcissist’s mask can only stay on for about 120 days. That tracks almost perfectly with how long it took Timmy to reveal his true self after the period of calm—the selfish, manipulative, rage-filled man behind the charming facade.
And I just have to make it through to Tuesday to be out of this nightmare.
Timmy starts removing items from the apartment one by one.
First, it’s the jungle of plants outside the screen door. He starts with the plant that Francois lives in—a little lizard I’ve named who comes and looks at me and Sabre throughout the day. It’s a petty act—something he knows will make me sad.
Then it’s his tools. “Please leave your tools here,” I say. “I can maybe sell them to pay back some of the money you owe me.”
He narrows his eyes at me. “Oh you can keep them. My sentimental value for them isten thousand dollars.” There’s a chill in his voice that sends a shiver down my spine.
“Timmy, please, you’re being ridiculous.”
He shoves past me and walks off with his bag of tools, bulging at the seams. Definitely not worth ten thousand dollars, but certainly a few hundred.
Next, it’s the rice cooker. He walks it over to the meth tents.
I call Phil. “Please help,” I beg. “He’s removing items from the apartment and taking them over to the meth tents. Plants, his tools, now the rice cooker.”
“Well, I know he’s upset,” says Phil. “You must have upset him again. It takes two, you know.”
I snap, blood boiling in my temples. I want to reach through the phone and grab his throat and squeeze and squeeze until his eyeballs bulge from their sockets.
What an absolute fucking moron.
“It doesn’t fucking take two!”I scream into the phone. “I can’tbreathewithout him getting mad at me.Don’t you understand that your son has a real problem?”