Beautiful Terror (Burn It All Down Duet #2)

5. The Erosion of Self

CHAPTER 5

THE EROSION OF SELF

MARGAUX

T he days pass in a haze of dull pain and quiet dread. My head still throbs from the impact, the egg-shaped bump on the back of my skull refusing to fade, a constant reminder of that night.

The bruises around my eyes shift from purple to sickly yellow-green, a grotesque gradient that makes me avoid mirrors.

My throat aches, the lingering soreness a cruel echo of his hands around my neck. Every time I touch it, the words of the domestic violence advocate play on a loop in my mind: Seven hundred and fifty times more likely to kill their partner.

I haven’t left the apartment. I can’t. I’m too ashamed of the marks on my face, the ones that snake across my arms and legs where I hit the floor and where he gripped me like I was an object.

The physical wounds are bad, but it’s the invisible ones that are worse. I feel as though I’m losing pieces of myself, slipping into an abyss where reality blurs and my thoughts betray me. I tell myself to hold on, but to what? He’s been calm for the last few days—apologetic even—but it doesn’t feel like peace.

It feels like a predator circling its prey, waiting for the right moment to strike again.

A FEW DAYS LATER

It starts small, like it always does. A comment, a look, an irritation in his voice that builds into something monstrous. By the time Timmy is screaming, I’m bracing myself, mentally checking out—but then, abruptly, he stops.

The silence is worse than the yelling. His scowl stays, his lips pressed so tightly together they turn white, and his eyes… those eyes. There’s no apology in them—only menace.

He’s hoping I’ll drink enough to not remember. And that’s fine by me, because I want to escape, too. I want to drink until this entire nightmare becomes a blur. And he knows it. Every time I leave the room to use the bathroom or grab something from the back room, I come back to find my glass refilled. At first, I thought it was kindness, a small gesture to ease the tension. But now, I’m not so sure.

The alcohol doesn’t feel like an escape anymore—it feels like a trap. It’s pulling me further into his world, his control, numbing me enough to dull my defenses.

And that’s what he wants. For me to forget. To forget the bruises, the screaming, the manipulation. To forget my own sanity. Because if I can’t trust my memory, how can I trust my judgment?

I know I’m slipping. I feel it in the way my thoughts tangle, in the way I hesitate before every word I say, afraid of how he might twist it against me. I’m unraveling, and I don’t have the energy to stop it.

And so I go along with it, consuming cup after cup of cheap vodka. Because remembering would feel even more like madness.

And feeling anything is the last thing I can handle right now.

A week later, I see it. The reason for his recent calm.

It’s a video, innocuous at first, appearing in the shared cloud we use for photos and files. I almost don’t click on it, but curiosity gets the better of me because it’s a video of me that I don’t remember him taking. And then I’m watching it, my stomach twisting into knots as the scene unfolds.

I see myself sitting on the kitchen floor, mascara streaking down my face. My shoulders are hunched, my body language screaming defeat. My posture is off, like I’m trying to hold myself as still as possible so I don’t accidentally provoke him any further.

The TV hums in the background, a jarring contrast to the tension in the room.

Timmy’s voice is calm, too calm. “Can you just say it, Margaux? Just one more time? Can you just say it?” His tone is laced with mockery, his words slow and deliberate, like he’s speaking to a child.

I don’t respond. I can see the misery etched across my face, the way I’m trying to hold myself together. The shock in my eyes is evident, even on the small screen. He continues, his voice pushing, needling, prying. “It’d make it so much easier for everyone if you just say what you said.”

I’ve stopped engaging, but that only seems to spur him on.

He sets the phone down, but the recording doesn’t stop, the video now aimed at the ceiling. Suddenly, his voice explodes. “Stop hitting me! Stop pushing me!”

My voice, trembling and strained, cuts through his yelling. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m sitting on the floor in the kitchen, and you’re over on the other side of the room by the bed.”

He’s slurring his words now, sounding drunk, sounding dangerous.

My own voice carries a note of fear but also something sharper—defiance. I try to hold him accountable, pointing out the inconsistencies in his story, even though I know he’s recording me.

I know he wants to twist this, to use it as evidence of something, but what?

The realization hits me like a blow. He’s creating a narrative, crafting a version of events where he’s the victim and I’m the aggressor.

He’s not just trying to gaslight me in the moment—he’s archiving his lies, collecting ‘proof’ to use against me. For what purpose, I don’t know. Maybe to convince others. Maybe to convince himself. Maybe to destroy me.

All I’m doing in the video is speaking my truth, standing up for myself and correcting his lies. Holding him accountable for his changing stories. And yet he’s making me out to be the one with the problem. I should feel angry, but all I feel is hollow.

I don’t know if this is the first video he’s taken like this, or if there are more that just haven’t synced to the cloud. But it doesn’t matter, really. The energy it would take to fight back is energy I don’t have.

I’ve spent so long trying to defend myself from his words, his hands, his manipulation. Now it feels like I’m fighting a war I’ve already lost.

So the video stays out there somewhere, lingering in the cloud, waiting to be used against me. A shadow that will follow me, just like him.

For what purpose, I have no idea.

But I know it isn’t good.