Beautiful Terror (Burn It All Down Duet #2)

123. DEARMAN

CHAPTER 123

DEARMAN

MARGAUX

T immy’s words slice through the air, their cruelty hitting like dull blades designed to hurt but not kill.

“You’re a toxic, abusive cunt. You push my buttons just to make me upset. I ask you not to, because I don’t want to behave badly, but you push and push until you’re satisfied when I snap.”

He’d been punishing me with the silent treatment, sitting on the bed, facing away from me, for hours. The intention behind it was annoying, but I also enjoyed the silence. Clearly, he can’t hold his mean thoughts in any more.

I stare at him, incredulous. “That’s not how it is at all. Isn’t that exactly how you describe your ex?”

“She was like that, too.”

“Wow,” I say, crossing my arms. “You really have had an unlucky streak of ladies.”

“They like to take advantage of my kind nature,” he hisses. “ You included. You know I’m sensitive, and you get this sick satisfaction from seeing me fall apart. You make me violent.”

“I’m pretty sure you were violent and rageful well before you met me,” I say, my voice steady but icy.

“Well, not this bad. You really bring it out in me.”

The audacity of his words pulls a bitter laugh from my throat. “Then leave, Timmy. If I make you so unhappy, please … just go.”

He lets out a cruel laugh. “Oh believe me, I would love to. But where would I go?”

I shrug, letting the weight of his situation fall where it belongs—on his shoulders. “It’s not my problem you’ve driven all your friends away. Go to your dad. I’m just so sick of you telling me how shit I am, despite evidence to the contrary. This isn’t fair, and I don’t want to do it anymore.”

He leaves for a while, and I see him wandering around by the shore.

When he returns, his face has softened into what I now recognize as a well-practiced expression of regret. “I thought about what you said, and you’re right. Here, I picked you this beautiful shell.” He holds out a shell, its shimmering surface catching the light. “I want to treat you like you deserve. You deserve the world. I’m going to work harder, help you with your stuff. I’ll get up with you every day and work out, and we’ll go on hikes together. No more going down to the beach and hanging out with those guys. Just you and me. Team Ginger Shark, forever.”

“You’ve said this before,” I reply, exhaustion lacing my words. “You’ve said it and then gone and done all the same stuff again and again. I’d feel silly to believe you now. What’s different?”

He shrugs. “I just feel stronger now. I’ve been going to therapy. I feel like every time we’ve gotten closer, and now I’m ready to put my promises into action.”

His words are like honey, but I’ve learned they’re the kind that turns bitter in your mouth.

Later, I watch him pace the room, his gaze flicking toward me every so often. I know he’s trying to bait me into a conversation, but I stay quiet, letting him stew.

Finally, I can’t hold it in any longer. “Do you see that when I say something you perceive as mean, it’s because the thing I’m saying is true? For example, I said you have basically no friends, because everyone in your life except for me has distanced themselves from you. And now people are distancing themselves from me because of you. I’m not saying it to be mean—I’m saying it so you can look at your own behavior and why that might be the case.”

“Fuck you,” he spits, angry at hearing another truth.

But I’m not done.

“ You , on the other hand, will just make something up. You’ll say that something that happened didn’t, or something that didn’t happen did. The way events played out will change each time you retell the story, or remake the accusation. I feel a bit like Alice in Wonderland, never knowing if up is down or down is up.”

“Nah, fuck you. You’re full of shit,” he shakes his head. “You think you’re so fucking clever with your smart little brain.”

Once again, Timmy insults me for being… intelligent?

I feel so beaten down by trying to fight and rationalize, even when I know I’m one hundred percent right. And I’m beginning to doubt myself for even the smallest things.

Maybe I misremembered.

Maybe there’s a nuance I’m missing.

Part of me knows that this is all part of his sick, twisted game. But that part of me is getting smaller by the day.

He’s immune to logic. He’s immune to evidence—hell, I can show him something and he just refuses to look at it.

“Here’s a video of how scary you were being last night.” He’s lurching and stumbling with reptilian eyes.

“Fuck you for videoing me,” he replies, missing the point. “I’m going to video you when you’re being a bitch.”

Won’t look at himself. Refuses to see himself looking ugly and unhinged.

Puts it back on me.

I’m tired, and I’m disgusted with myself for letting this go on for so long.

But always, there’s part of me that wishes he will change. That sees his potential, and wants him to realize it so both of us can be happy.

But it’s a losing battle, and one where I’m the only one who’s losing.

“You drink too much,” he yells, his voice already teetering on the edge of rage. Then his mouth curls into a cruel smirk. “And remember when you fucked up real bad and crashed the truck into the fence? Everyone’s gonna know about it.”

The comment lands like a slap, but I try to hold my ground. “DEARMAN!” I yell back, invoking the very communication method he introduced to me. “You taught it to me. Stick to the one issue!”

He shakes his head, feigning exasperation. “No, no— you are the one who doesn’t stick to DEARMAN!”

I feel the frustration rising in me like a flood. He really should apply for a job in a movie theater because he’s fucking fantastic at projection. “You literally just brought up something that happened months ago when I’m trying to talk to you about something that happened in the past five minutes .”

“You’re so fucking sick,” he sneers, his tone dripping with disdain. “You and your stupid reality TV shows. No wonder you want to fight all the time.”

My pulse races, my body vibrating with the effort to remain calm. But his accusations swirl in my head, twisting and turning until I can’t make sense of them. I try to focus on my breathing, but the weight of his words presses down on me.

Automatically, I gulp in air, and the hiccups come.

“ See , you’re drunk,” he says with that awful smirk. “You dumb fucking cunt.”

The tears well up in my eyes before I can stop them.

He mocks me immediately, his tone taunting and high-pitched. “Oh boo hoo, I’m so sad. Shut the fuck up.”

I try to stop crying, but the effort just makes the tears come faster.

“Oh, fuck you. You’re so fucking stupid,” he spits, his words sharp and venomous. He stands, unsteady on his feet, towering over me. His shadow falls across me as I cower instinctively. He smirks, satisfied, then turns and stomps to the door. The door swooshes open, and the beep of the lock feels like a hammer driving into my skull.

I sit in the quiet, trembling as the adrenaline courses through me. My limbs tingle with the aftershocks, and the tears keep coming.

Eventually, I calm enough to take a deep breath. At least now I can watch something on TV without him complaining.

But can I, really? If he comes back and sees that I’ve watched something he doesn’t like, that could spark another argument.

Even when he’s not here, I feel his presence like a prison guard, controlling my choices, dictating my actions

I am a captive, even in the moments when he’s gone.