Beautiful Terror (Burn It All Down Duet #2)

84. Trash Man // Kill Me, I Dont Give A Fuck

CHAPTER 84

TRASH MAN // KILL ME, I DON'T GIVE A FUCK

MARGAUX

L ately, Timmy’s need to be admired by everyone except me has reached new heights. He thrives on external validation by complete strangers, collecting compliments like trophies while clearly no longer giving a fuck about my opinion.

He’s started picking up trash at the beach, an effort that would be noble if it didn’t feel so hollow.

He comes home, his bucket full of discarded debris, glowing with self-satisfaction.

Sometimes, as a joke, he’ll put his hands out wide and do a little jig, yelling in a sing-song voice, “Look what I can do!” And I don’t think there’s anything else that could sum up his behavior more accurately.

“All the aunties and uncles tell me I’m amazing ,” he says, grinning like a child showing off a gold star. “I’m really making a difference.”

“That’s nice, Timmy,” I reply, forcing a smile.

This time, he returns with a business card.

“I was helping the guys who were doing this for their community service,” he smiles proudly. “The supervisor gave me a packed lunch, and said that I could use him as a reference for any upcoming court appearances.”

“Oh okay, that’s… good?” I say, my voice rising involuntarily.

I want to believe in his good intentions, but it’s hard not to feel resentful. He has all this energy to help strangers, but none to help me. His kindness feels performative, a way to garner praise rather than make a genuine impact.

I can’t help but wish he’d put a fraction of his effort in here at home. Working on building our relationship, minimizing conflict. Being healthy and loving and kind.

At home, he’s cruel and dismissive. The man who beams at strangers for their approval is the same one who spits venom at me, telling me I’m the problem, that I’m the reason his life isn’t better.

I’ve been too depressed to go out and mix and mingle in our community. And I’m scared to walk up the street because of all the drugs and violence.

I’m the odd one out here—the pale redhead with a funny accent.

I’m an outsider.

The locals have their own language, their own rhythm, their own way of seeing life.

I’ve been pouring all my energy into our relationship, and trying to keep my writing going, while Timmy has seamlessly integrated himself into the local community.

He wants the accolades for an hour of work here or there, helping the environment and random strangers.

He doesn’t give a shit about developing the consistency to show up each and every day—whether that’s going to work or being a nice and kind human being to his partner. He’s a show pony, and I’m his caregiver.

No matter what the rest of the world thinks, I’ve stopped believing the facade.

The man who picks up trash to save the oceans isn’t real.

The man who cuts me down with his words is.

And I’m tired of pretending otherwise.

My doctor calls, her voice bright and full of purpose.

“Hey,” she says. “Just following up. I see you haven’t made the orientation appointment at the gym yet?”

Another gentle nudge. Another push in the right direction.

Checking in.

She doesn’t have to do this, but she does, and it feels like someone, somewhere, cares.

“Oh, yeah,” I say, trying to match her energy. “I’ve been meaning to do that.”

“Okay, just making sure. Everything okay?”

I glance at Timmy lounging on the bed, his eyes flickering between me and the muted TV. His mood today is uncertain—a coin spinning in the air.

“Yep!” I force my voice to match hers. “Everything’s great! Thank you for checking in. I’ll make the appointment soon.”

“Good. Let me know if you need anything.”

She’s so kind. Too kind.

And I feel like a fraud.

But I make the appointment, determined to follow through.

The gym orientation is… surprisingly enjoyable.

An enthusiastic lady teaches me and a group of senior citizens how to use each piece of equipment one by one. There’s laughter, encouragement, and no pressure. It’s a world away from the tension of my daily life.

For an hour, I feel human again. The kindness of strangers and the simple act of moving my body give me a fleeting sense of normalcy.

Afterward, I text Timmy a photo of the menu from the health center’s restaurant.

“I can bring you lunch if you want!” I call him. “Just let me know what you want!”

“Ummmm…. ahhhh.... ummmmm… give me a minute,” he stammers.

“Okay,” I say, smiling through the phone.

“Ummmmm….ahhh….ahhhhh…”

There are only five items on the menu. What’s taking him so long? Has he forgotten how to read?

“Have you decided yet?” I ask gently. I’m at the front of the line by now, and people behind me are growing impatient.

“Don’t fucking rush me, Margaux!” he snaps. “Fuck! You’re such a fucking rusher. Like, give me a chance to read the fucking thing. You know what? Don’t get me fucking anything.”

His anger slices through me, unraveling the calm I’d worked so hard to achieve.

What was meant to be a nice gesture has turned into another argument, another source of anxiety.

I order something I know he’ll like anyway, to avoid another fight when I get home. There’s no winning with him.

A FEW DAYS LATER

Days later, the rage returns, this time laced with something darker.

I text Timmy’s dad, Phil.

Me:

He’s threatening to blow up fireworks between my eyes.

I’m desperate. Reaching out feels futile, but I don’t know what else to do.

The idea of having my face blown apart by a festival ball has planted itself in my mind, an absurd but terrifying seed.

Timmy keeps talking. “You know, I could do it, and they’d never find me,” he says, his voice almost conversational. “It’d be like— boom —and you’d be gone. Just like that.”

I know his threats are partly about control, partly for show. But they’re still threats. And there’s always the lingering question: What if?

Phil doesn’t respond.

Of course not.

He rarely does anymore when it comes to Timmy.

Probably doesn’t want to get involved.

But he’s also more than happy to send him money. And what does Timmy spend the money on? Nothing good.

It’s not soda.

It’s not vegetables or pasta or soap or detergent or rent or gas.

He spends it on cigarettes and alcohol.

Maybe drugs.

And now he might use it to buy an explosive to blow up my fucking face.

So I could really use some help from Phil.

But Phil is nowhere to be found.

Timmy’s relationship with his parents is as infuriating as it is predictable.

He paints himself as a doting partner, weaving tales of my writing successes and our happy home.

But his parents aren’t fooled entirely. “Get a job, son,” they continue to say, half-heartedly.

Timmy’s face hardens each time. “I am working,” he lies. “I’m doing my hats and designing new shirts. I’m making progress.”

He’s not. I know it. I think they know it too, or at least have some doubts. But nothing changes.

“Aren’t I making great progress, Margaux?” he’ll ask, forcing me into his narrative.

“Yes,” I sigh, offering the answer he demands.

I drift off, exhausted, at around 2AM.

Tonight, the nightmares come.

They’ve been dormant for a while, but now they’re back with a vengeance, clawing at the edges of my mind. It’s like my brain is starting to process my current situation.

A dark shape screams at me in my dreams, accusing me of being a monster, pointing crooked fingers at my chest. “You fucking monster! Youuuu!” it shrieks.

Everything goes black.

I bolt upright, my heart pounding, gasping for air.

In another dream, a person is handing out shots of whiskey. Then someone chases me, shouting about a car accident, blaming me for everything.

I fall back asleep.

Suddenly I’m surrounded by scary faces, howling and moaning at me.

I wake again, my body soaked in sweat, my stomach a churning pit of acid. My heart races as I glance at the clock. It feels like at least eight hours have passed, but it’s only 218AM.

I write myself a note:

Every day I’m with you, it erodes me a little. I get a little bit sadder, a little bit more destroyed.

Why am I doing this?

Why am I even with you?

What positive things do you bring to my life?

You should be grateful.

You’re a monster.

If I was a monster, you wouldn’t be alive.

So should I consider myself lucky?

Kill me, I don’t give a fuck.

You’ve destroyed my life and I have nothing to live for anymore.

I won’t let you get off that easily.

The words pour out of me, a quiet rebellion against the chaos of my existence.

Timmy doesn’t know it yet, but something inside me has shifted. Something is changing.

I’m no longer sure if I can survive much longer with him in my life—or if I even want to.