“I need to get all my stuff,” Timmy argues, his face a mask of exaggerated sadness.
“No,” the officer replies firmly. “This visit is to grabessentials—clothing, medication, chargers. Noteverything.”
“But it’s all my stuff,” Timmy whines, gesturing around the apartment as if he’s leaving behind untold riches.
The reality? His ‘stuff’ amounts to a sad list:
- tattered clothing
- mattresses he’s ruined by peeing on them while he was drunk
- a broken surfboard
- a couple of tools that he didn’t give away to his meth friends the day before
- a small amount of medication
- the cheap TV he inherited from Skank Face.
That’s it.The totality of Timmy.
Everything else—the appliances, furniture, and electronics—is mine.
An officer hurries him along. Reluctantly, he picks up a few more items of clothing and is escorted out again.
Then they leave.
But I have a feeling this won’t be the last time I see him.
Nerves frayed, I call Jo, and update her. She’s kind and supportive, and very relieved to hear the TRO has been served.
We talk through next steps—how I’m going to leave this apartment, what I need to do in preparation for the permanent restraining order hearing, and so on.
It’s nice to hear a friendly voice on the other end of the phone, a stark reminder of how I’ve been unable to speak often with anyone other than Timmy for the past seventeen months.
When darkness falls, I try to relax, forcing myself to watch TV. I’m feeling drained, exhausted, and yet still on edge, and sleep doesn’t come easily.
I drift off eventually, only to be woken around 230AM by an intense, gnawing feeling of unease.
I feel like Timmy is near.
By 330AM, my worst fear materializes.
The door beeps as he enters the code. He shouldn’t be able to get in, because I’ve locked the bottom lock, and he doesn’t have a key.
But then I hear the unmistakable swoosh of the door opening.
My blood turns to ice. Timmy is inside.
His eyes lock with mine. I see something in them that I can’t quite put my finger on.
Hands shaking, and heart about to bounce out of my chest, I dial 911.
“Please, Margaux,” he says, his voice low and shaky. “I just need to sleep in the back room. The meth heads on the beach told me they’re going to snap my neck the moment I fall asleep.”
His words are desperate, but I’m not falling for it. He’s told me time and again how much nicer the meth heads are than me.
If they’re turning on him, that’s not my problem.