Beautiful Terror (Burn It All Down Duet #2)

8. Im So Extra

CHAPTER 8

I'M SO EXTRA

MARGAUX

A few days later, we’re sitting on the bed. Timmy is immersed in some sci-fi movie while I’m trying to read a book for work to understand a few tropes I’m less familiar with. The contrast couldn’t be starker—him, absorbed in fiction purely for fun, and me, fighting to stay focused on a work task I genuinely need to get through.

At first, his running commentary is just background noise. A comment here, a question there. But as the movie progresses, his words start coming faster and louder, like a child unable to watch quietly. He’s narrating every scene, asking my opinion about characters and plot points he knows I’m not paying attention to. He knows I detest this type of sci-fi, too—the kind with aliens and spaceships—I respect that other people enjoy it, but it’s just not my thing.

“Timmy, please,” I say, trying to keep my tone calm but firm. “I need to read this, and you’re slowing me down.”

His head snaps toward me, his expression morphing from casual to wounded in an instant. “You’re such a bitch! I can’t believe you’re so mean and cruel to me. I was just including you in what I was doing.”

I take a deep breath, counting to three in my head. “I’m not being cruel. I’m just asking for a little peace and quiet so I can concentrate.”

“You should really stop drinking,” he snaps, his tone laced with disdain. “It turns you into a complete asshole.”

My stomach twists. I’ve barely touched my drink. It’s not alcohol fueling my frustration—it’s his constant disregard for my boundaries, my work, my time.

“For fuck’s sake, Timmy,” I finally snap, my voice rising despite my efforts to stay composed. “I just want to sit here and read. Can’t we do separate activities side by side? Must we do exactly the same thing at all times? I love you, but for fuck’s sake.”

He huffs and turns his attention back to the movie, sulking like a scolded child. I try to refocus on my book, but my motivation for reading has evaporated, replaced by a simmering frustration that refuses to let me settle.

Shifting gears, I grab my laptop and open a document. Writing has always been my escape, and I hope the shift will help me channel some of this energy into something productive. My motivation to write usually dries up the moment Timmy starts acting like this, but today feels different, so I go with it.

For a moment, it works. Words flow freely, and I start to feel a glimmer of accomplishment. But it doesn’t last long.

The movie ends, and Timmy switches to playing Mario Kart.

I brace myself, hoping he’ll get absorbed enough in the game to leave me in peace. But it’s not long before his voice rises again.

“Stupid fucking game!” he yells, slamming the Switch down on the bed. “It’s so rigged! The computer is against me! ”

“Timmy, it’s only a game,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “Just try again. Please, I’m trying to write.”

He glares at me as if I’m the source of his frustration, his anger at the game spilling over onto me. “Don’t tell me to be quiet in my own house,” he growls. “Fuck you.”

I swallow hard, willing myself not to react. The tension in the room is suffocating.

He picks up the Switch again, but I can feel his agitation radiating off him in waves. It’s only a matter of time before it boils over again.

Sure enough, after coming third in a race, he throws another tantrum, muttering and cursing loudly under his breath.

“Timmy, please! ” I snap, my voice breaking. “I can’t handle constant narration about a film when I’m reading, and I can’t handle tantrums over video games while I’m writing.”

He stares at me for a long moment, his eyes cold and accusing. “You’re awful, Margaux. You know that? Just awful. ”

I sigh, my shoulders slumping under the weight of his words. “You’re right. I know. I must be so extra.”

“You are,” he says, his voice sharp and cutting. “You really are.”

The words hang in the air like a noxious cloud, choking me. I sit, staring at the screen, my fingers frozen over the keyboard. The words I was so eager to write have vanished, replaced by a hollow emptiness that settles deep in my chest.

I know I’m not awful. I know I’m not ‘extra’ for asking him to respect my need to get work done. But the constant drip of his dismissive, biting comments wears me down, chipping away at my confidence and my sense of self.

And the worst part is, I can feel myself continuing to change—becoming angrier, more reactive, less like the person I used to be.

Later in the evening, he starts pushing my buttons again, over nothing, and then locks himself in the back room.

I try to follow him in there to have a conversation, but then I hear the unmistakable sound of him drilling the door shut.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I scream, louder now. “You just drilled the door shut ?”

It’s very Timmy of him to make a hole in the perfectly good door. I’m beyond infuriated.

“You’re such a fucking piece of shit loser! You have no friends!” The words coming out of my mouth are vile, the resentment that’s been building up now spewing freely. But I can’t stop the torrent. “Well, you have two friends but neither of them wants to spend much time with you! You wear people down and nobody can take you in anything more than tiny doses!” My words are mean, but they’re also accurate.

I’m shrieking now, my voice loud enough to ring in my ears.

Suddenly, there’s a knock at the door.

I peer out the peephole, and a member of the security team is standing outside.

Fuck .

I sigh and open the door.

“Margaux, we need you to lower your voice,” says the guard, her face grim. “It’s quiet hours, and you’re being very loud.”

I’m mortified. “I’m so sorry,” I say, my cheeks burning. “I’ll stop.”

She nods and then leaves, and I stand in the doorway for a moment, mortified.

Half an hour later, I’m even more embarrassed when I check my email and see the write-up come through, with my landlord cc’d on the email. “Margaux was yelling during quiet hours.” In the scheme of things, not an egregious charge, but still embarrassing.

Fucking fuck .

And the irony that Timmy is now smirking at me, the back door now undrilled and open, gleeful that even though he’s the one who usually does the yelling, he’s getting off scot-free.

“You really need to work on yourself,” he grins cruelly. “You’re drawing attention to us for all the wrong reasons.”

I bite my tongue while blood hammers in my temples, and my body begins to shake.

Timmy’s lack of respect and constant need for validation are driving me to these breaking points, but when I try to point it out, he acts out and makes me regret it. So I focus on what I can control, dwelling on my own outbursts, my own raised voice, and I hate myself for it.

Maybe I am awful.

Maybe I am the problem.