Beautiful Terror (Burn It All Down Duet #2)

94. A Villain So Gruesome

CHAPTER 94

A VILLAIN SO GRUESOME

MARGAUX

T hings were starting to look up for a moment—Timmy had been helpful, kind even, taking care of small chores and doing little things to make my life easier. I allowed myself to feel a flicker of hope, a whisper of trust rebuilding.

But deep down, I should have known better. Every time I let my guard down, he proves that my faith in him is misplaced.

And every time I fall for it, I feel even more stupid.

I text Alice to fill her in on the latest debacle.

Me:

So this is really, really fucked up.

Things were going well.

And I was beginning to really trust him.

Which I should have known meant he was about to sabotage it hard.

Alice:

I know. But these are the colors he’s been hiding all along.

Me:

Like I can’t even write a villain so gruesome.

Hope he’s proud.

She was crying, clearly bc he said multiple times ‘I don’t want to upset you.’

Alice:

So now we tell him nothing.

Me:

Nothing at all.

Which tells me he’s not the person I should be with.

Alice:

Yeah.

Timmy leaves and then returns after a while, his mood mercurial as always. He busies himself with my desk, rearranging papers and supplies despite having just done it the other day. It’s clearly an act of control, a way to establish dominance in my space.

I feel his eyes on me.

“Who are you talking to?” he asks, his voice sharp.

“None of your business, bruh,” I reply, keeping my tone flat.

I’m not in the mood for Timmy’s bullshit. He just crossed a line that can never be uncrossed. To hurt me is one thing, but to use me as a weapon to hurt his mother and destroy her opinion of me with one cruel act? Unforgivable.

He narrows his eyes, but doesn’t respond. Instead, he walks over, presses his ass against me, and farts.

“Slut,” he says, smirking as if this is the height of comedy.

My fingernails dig into my palms. I count to three.

Don’t react. Don’t give him the satisfaction.

“You’re so ugly inside and out,” he continues, venom dripping from every syllable. “You’re just a small, unattractive person.”

I grab my phone and message Alice.

Me:

Hey Alice, can I call you and have a super normal convo with you so he feels like a dick?

Alice:

Yes, you can.

I call her, and we chat away for half an hour about anything and everything—roller derby, her crocheting projects, my books, and our cats—anything but Timmy.

He glares at me from across the room, clearly annoyed that I’m enjoying myself.

After we hang up, I feel much better.

Alice messages me:

Alice:

You’re amazing, friend.

Me:

Am I? I feel gaslit, and apparently I’m a small, unattractive person.

Alice:

You’re extremely hot. Gaslighting has a wild way of making your flame feel small by being extra large.

Me:

You’re the best. I love you and I feel the same way about you.

Alice:

I’m sorry he gets to you like that. You don’t deserve it. You deserve so much more.

Me:

He makes me feel gross. But he makes me feel less gross than other guys, so I’ve tolerated it.

Alice:

Unacceptable. You need someone who makes you feel beautiful when you feel gross, not the other way around.

Timmy storms over and tries to grab my laptop. I manage to hold on to it.

“You’re an ugly crusty Ron Weasley!” he yells, his face twisted with rage.

I quirk a brow at him. What a curious thing to say.

I tell Alice.

Alice:

Unacceptable.

Electric chair.

He doesn’t exactly have the greatest leg to stand on there.

He looks like every guitarist in a Baltimore metal band.

Me:

Using that for sure.

I repeat what she sent me. “Timmy, you look like every guitarist in a Baltimore metal band.”

He recoils as if I’ve physically slapped him, and storms out of the room.

God forbid someone mirrors even a fraction of his toxic energy back at him.

Timmy is a one-way street with a dead end.

When he returns, his insults have only sharpened. “You’re such a cunt,” he spits.

How original.

“Well, you’re ugly and fat if we’re going there,” I snap back. I know it’s mean, and I hate resorting to his level. But he’s poked and prodded me past my breaking point.

He looks like he’s about to cry, and I feel a flicker of guilt. But the exhaustion is greater.

He’s going lower and lower. I tried to go higher, but now I’m going subterranean.

Two can play this toxic game.

Alice:

Just ignore him. Which sucks. But stonewall him.

Me:

I wouldn’t normally comment on people’s appearance, but I’m feeling mean at this point. Yes, I’ll stonewall him.

Alice:

Good. Ignoring people sucks but sometimes it’s the only way to get past things.

But it’s easier said than done.

“You said a mean thing,” says Timmy, as if he hadn’t said 1,234,567,890 far meaner things to get me to this point. “You’re so fucking gross.”

“ You’re so fucking gross, Timmy. Look at yourself,” I snap back. “The drug people want you because you’re a loser who walks around with your ass hanging out of your pants.”

My insults are back to being truthful.

I keep going.

“You should really be with someone less intelligent than you, but it would be a small pool.”

He glares at me and looks as if he’s about to cry.

A few minutes later, he’s offering me food.

Did I neutralize him with my barbs? For whatever reason, he appears to be offering me a peace offering.

I sigh. This is exhausting.

I message Alice again.

Me:

I’ve been thinking about it.

He behaves like this, but he gets all the smart ladies and nobody knows why.

Alice:

Charisma.

Society tells women that they must settle inherently.

And are conditioned to often accept any man who shows affection.

Me:

Yeah. I think… you know, I don’t have a family, really.

And this guy says all the right things when he wants to and has charisma, as you say.

But he’s a flawed fuck and nobody knows why I’m with him.

But it’s hard having nobody.

And I thought I was strong, but maybe I’m really actually weak and felt like I needed someone and picked the wrong one.

Timmy notices me typing furiously and storms over, trying to peek at my screen.

I switch windows, shielding my conversation with Alice.

As if to retaliate, he pulls out his phone and starts messaging someone on Instagram, holding the phone at an angle that makes sure I notice.

It’s petty, juvenile, and pathetic. But that’s Timmy in a nutshell.

I’m getting tired of playing these games.

Something has to give. And soon.