117. Shaky Foot, Shakier Ground
CHAPTER 117
SHAKY FOOT, SHAKIER GROUND
MARGAUX
T he foot shaking isn’t new. It’s been happening more frequently—always when I need to focus, always when I’m pushing myself to meet a deadline or maintain some semblance of productivity. It feels calculated, just like everything else about Timmy.
He shakes his leg deliberately, sending vibrations through the mattress and into my body. It’s not just a restless tic—it’s purposeful. A constant disruption, ensuring I can’t find peace, can’t settle into the flow of work, can’t sleep.
The moans are another layer, a sonic assault that frays my nerves.
When the shaking starts, I try to ignore it, but it’s like water torture. Each tremor is a droplet, eroding my patience and resolve.
He knows what he’s doing.
It’s not just physical. It’s psychological warfare.
Sleep deprivation is a tool—one that strips away clarity, patience, and strength. It’s not the overt aggression of a scream or a fist—it’s subtle, insidious.
A steady erosion of my ability to function.
It’s another day, and Timmy’s still lying in bed well until mid-morning. I can’t help but glare at him from the other side of the bed as my frustration builds.
I try to pull myself back into focus, but the weight of the morning presses on me. I take a breath. “Are you going to do any design work or marketing today, Timmy?” I ask, trying to keep my tone neutral. “It’s getting late. You said you’d get up earlier today.”
“Well, can you blame me for sleeping in?” he fires back. “At least when I’m asleep, I don’t have to deal with…” he gestures vaguely at me, “ this. ”
His words sting, but I push forward. “Timmy, we wouldn’t fight so much if you just woke up at a reasonable time and had a productive day. I feel resentful when I’m the only one working, paying the bills, and burning through my savings.”
He glares at me. “Well, we all know what happens when I get a job. You lose it for me.”
I clench my fists, resisting the urge to scream. He’s had three jobs since we met. Two ended for reasons that had nothing to do with me. The third? A stretch at best. But in his mind, I’m the scapegoat for all his failures.
“That’s unfair, Timmy,” I say quietly. “Please, can you at least focus on your art? That’s something you can control. You’re your own boss there, and I’m here to support you. But you need to start making progress.”
“Stop telling me what to do!” he snaps. “You say that all the fucking time. I know what I need to do.”
“But you don’t do it,” I plead. “You need to make some money. This is serious, Timmy. You need to start?—”
“—selling some art.” He finishes my sentence. “I know. All you care about is fucking money. It’s disgusting,” he spits, shaking his head. His expression is a mix of pity and loathing, as if I’m the worst person he’s ever met.
“You’d care about money too, in my situation,” I reply, my voice trembling with restrained frustration. “This doesn’t feel equal, Timmy. I’m trying to make this work, but you’re not meeting me halfway.”
“You’re making me feel guilty for being alive,” he says, his tone dripping with condescension. “I’ve helped people before, let them stay at my house when they needed it. I’d never make them feel like this. Guilty for going through a rough spot, for existing.”
The guilt floods in, overwhelming and suffocating.
He’s turned the tables again, making me question myself, making me wonder if I’m the problem.
It’s my fault he moved away from easier job opportunities, at least according to him, even though it was his unsolicited idea.
I did cause a scene that made its way back to his boss—I never should have chased him and smacked him with the drumsticks—I should have just let him take yet another piece of my property.
I shouldn’t have Pete Davidson’d the fence while looking for him.
I shouldn’t have brought up anything remotely bothering me.
I should have just kept the peace, even when my boundaries were bulldozed over repeatedly, and incessant insults hurled at me.
If it weren’t for my attitude, he wouldn’t have felt the need to run away.
Maybe I am the issue. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I’m not a nice person.
Maybe this is all on me.
When he finally leaves the room, the silence is deafening. I sit on the bed, staring at my laptop, but I still can’t focus. The words blur together. My thoughts are muddied, tangled in the web of his manipulations.
I feel trapped—physically, emotionally, mentally. His constant disruptions, his cutting remarks, his relentless need to destabilize me—it’s all-consuming.
But the worst part is the isolation.
He’s turned me into someone who second-guesses everything, someone who’s afraid to speak up, someone who can’t even trust her own perception of reality.
And as the bed finally stills beneath me, the weight of it all presses down.
I’ve forgotten who I am.