MARGAUX
THE FOLLOWING DAY
Timmy’s agitation has reached a fever pitch. His ‘bounciness,’ as Alice had described it earlier, now feels more like a volcano on the verge of eruption, a fault line on the verge of a world-changing quake.
It started with the cleaning this time, as it often does. I don’t know what it is about cleaning that sets him off, but every time he picks up a sponge or a mop, it’s as though he’s looking for a reason to explode. I now dread every time he cleans.
This time, it’s specifically the dishesagain—it seems to be his favorite topic.
I don’t do themthatbadly, but it’s really not the point. I realize with sadness that this isn’t about dishes at all.
“You’resouseless around the house. You fucking suck.”
The words cut deep, but I bite my tongue. At first.
Then I can’t handle it anymore, and words spew from me like a dam breaking.
“Stop criticizing me over stupid shit, Timmy! You’re such a fucking loser. Why don’t you stop acting like acomplete piece of shit!No wonder you have no fucking friends!”
Then he escalates.
“Fuck you!”he yells, storming out of the kitchen. He walks to the bed, picks up two pillows, and throws them at me.“I’m going to fucking kill you, you stupid cunt!”
I freeze.How did we get here?
Timmy reappears moments later, dragging a black-and-yellow chainsaw from the back room. He sets it down halfway down the hallway, his eyes dark and reptilian. “I’m going to chop your head off with this chainsaw!” he shouts, his voice cold and unrecognizable.
A shiver runs down my spine. My life has become a real-life horror movie.
As if that wasn’t enough, he vanishes again and returns, holding a screwdriver. He places it in my hand. “Or I might kill you with this instead. Or you could just do us all a favor and do it yourself.”
He walks away, leaving me shaking, clutching the cold metal handle of the screwdriver.
Call the police, a little voice in my head says.He’s threatening to kill you. You know what he’s capable of.
My hands tremble as I dial 911.
When the officers arrive, I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. “Please help,” I beg. “He’s threatening to kill me again.”
They exchange looks.
I explain what happened.
“We can talk to him,” another one says. “Do you want to press charges?”
I hesitate. The weight of the question feels crushing.
If I press charges, he’ll likely be locked up longer because of his upcoming DUI sentencing.
But if I don’t… what then? What he did was fucked up.
“No,” I say finally. “I just want him to stop. Please, just get him to leave me alone.”
They look disappointed, and I feel ashamed—ashamed for calling them, ashamed for not pressing charges, ashamed for being too scared to follow through.
I feel trapped. My brain is in a perpetual fog, and I can’t think straight.
One of the officers speaks up again. “What resolution do you want to this situation, ma’am?”