Beautiful Terror (Burn It All Down Duet #2)

97. Seeing Clearly （& The View Isn’t Great）

CHAPTER 97

SEEING CLEARLY (& THE VIEW ISN’T GREAT)

MARGAUX

I glance at Timmy, his voice piercing the night as he continues to shriek at the police. “Lock her up! She deserves it! I am a victim of her abuse!”

For the first time, I truly see him.

He’s standing in nothing but a pair of tattered board shorts, his body covered in self-inflicted scratches and bruises.

One massive gouge stretches across his back—a trophy from when he threw himself into the ocean during a storm, letting the waves batter him against the reef to ‘punish’ me.

He looks filthy. His hair, matted and knotted, hangs around his unshaven face. The soles of his feet are black, as if he’s been trudging through soot. His eyes are glassy, his pupils unfocused, his movements erratic and jerky.

This isn’t the cute and charming, carefree surfer I first met.

That man, I now realize, never existed. That version of Timmy was an illusion, a carefully crafted act designed to lure me in. He had showered, brushed his hair, and smiled at me that day, convincing me he was someone else—someone worth loving. Someone I deserved.

Me:

I just saw him for the first time.

Really saw him.

And he looks awful, like he lives on the street.

Alice:

I know, hon. It takes a while.

Love is POWERFUL. It’s not just an emotion. It is a chemical and an emotion we don’t control.

It is being drugged without realizing.

Me:

I’ve actually been doing well.

Seeing a therapist, trying non-alcoholic drink options.

Taking a new antidepressant.

I have had drinks but nothing crazy.

He has apparently been recording my conversations, and I do get angry and call him a loser—because he is one.

But as far as I’m aware, words aren’t a crime.

Alice:

They aren’t.

Timmy’s tirade continues, his accusations growing more outlandish by the second.

“I recorded the things she was saying to me! My friend is a witness, too! She’s so fucking abusive! Lock her up!”

He storms toward the front door, only for an officer to block his path. “Give me my charger! I need my charger!” he screams, his desperation palpable.

The officer quirks an eyebrow. “Dude.”

I glance around, spot his charger, and unplug it from the wall. “Here,” I say, handing it to the officer, who passes it to Timmy.

“Fuck you!” he screams, his hatred cutting through me like shards of glass. “You stupid fucking abusive toxic bitch!”

“You need to stop,” the officer warns him, his tone sharp.

By now, my hands are trembling. My entire body feels like it’s vibrating from the stress.

“Ma’am, we’d like to take your statement,” one of the officers says.

My lawyer’s advice— shut the fuck up —echoes in my head.

“I’d prefer to wait for my lawyer,” I reply.

The officers nod, clearly understanding, and they leave.

Sabre—sensing my distress—approaches and snuggles against me, his purring a small comfort amid the chaos.

A while later, the door beeps. Timmy comes stomping inside, reeking of cigarettes and booze.

“This is such fucking bullshit ,” he mutters, his words slurred. “Cops need to do their fucking jobs.”

He pulls out his phone and dials 911 again. “Yes, I’d like to make a complaint. I need you to come back here, and she needs to be charged.” He pauses, then adds, “She’s laughing at me. You need to lock her up.”

I shake my head, incredulous. I’m not laughing, but even if I was…

Now laughing is a crime? If so, guilty as charged every day of my life.

When he doesn’t get the response he wants, he slams the phone down and starts yelling again. “Stupid fucking pussy cops. Pussy cops that won’t do their fucking job!” He turns to me, his eyes blazing with anger. “ Don’t talk to me. Don’t come in the back room. Don’t touch me.”

“Gladly,” I mutter under my breath. I have no interest in doing any of those things.

Instead, I ignore him, and observe as he grabs a hard seltzer from the fridge.

He turns to face me. “I’m fucking pressing charges on you!” he yells, then walks to the back room and slams the door behind him.

A few moments later, he returns from the back room. “I fucking hate you!” he screams, and retreats to the room once again, slamming the door.

A minute later he yells again. “Come into the back room!”

RSVP no to that one.

I continue to ignore him.

Minutes later, he storms back into the living room.

“I’m greasing the wheels to have you arrested,” he says, a smug grin spreading across his face. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

I refuse to engage, avoiding eye contact.

“I fucking hate you,” he growls, and a chill runs through me.

I continue to avoid eye contact and ignore.

He starts muttering unintelligible things under his breath.

I shiver.

How is this my life?

My phone buzzes with another message from an anonymous number:

Anonymous:

He’s cheated on multiple girlfriends.

He’s beaten up several and broken their bones.

Alice:

You NEED to find a way out.

It may involve moving and stranding him there.

Just independently find a way out.

Me:

I will. Luckily, he hasn’t completely eroded my savings yet.

Alice:

Cut him off from every resource he has access to. You’ll need it all.

Me:

I have a ton of items coming in for my PR boxes that will be arriving soon.

Worth about a grand.

I don’t want to leave it here, but I will if I have to.

Alice:

I can inquire about places here that could potentially host a person and a cat.

Me:

He sucks me back in, but he’s gone way too far this time.

It sucks because I felt like things were finally turning a corner, and he was doing much better.

I didn’t think I’d be figuring out where to live. Especially away from the Cay.

Thank you and I will let you know.

I’m so confused.

Alice:

I know. But it’s either decide where to live or wait to die there.

Me:

Yeah. Sad.

Definitely not dying bc of this loser.

I’m so mad. Sad.

All the things.

Alice:

I know.

I’m sorry I don’t have more enriching things to say.

Me:

Like, who takes someone’s aging health issues and makes it about them?

A psycho narcissist.

Alice:

Exactly. Nobody worth spending time with.

That’s gross.

Me:

I’m going to try to get some sleep.

If he approaches me and I need to go, I will.

Alice:

Good. I’m here for you in all the ways I can be.

Timmy emerges from the back room again, trying to grab my phone.

I switch windows before he can see anything.

He pulls out his own phone, making it a point to show he’s messaging someone. As if to say, See, I have friends too! Take that!

Pathetic.

I shake my head, utterly drained.

How did I get here? And, more importantly, how do I get out?