124. Spirituality Is Not A Contest, Bruh
CHAPTER 124
SPIRITUALITY IS NOT A CONTEST, brUH
DEX
I watch from afar, the feed of Margaux’s life playing out in a maddening mix of heartbreak and fury. The edges of my vision blur as the details sharpen, my jaw tightening with each new piece of evidence of Timmy’s cruelty.
The bastard knows exactly how to manipulate her—to push her to the brink and then reel her back in with hollow promises and superficial gestures.
I’ve seen it all before, and yet every new low he sinks to somehow surprises me.
The moment he lunges at her, shouting “BOO!” with that smug, malicious grin, my blood boils.
Her startled scream is the kind of sound you don’t forget. It’s raw, primal, a direct manifestation of the trauma she’s worked so hard to manage.
And Timmy? He shrugs it off, as though her fear is just a passing inconvenience.
On the surface, it’s a vindictive act of revenge.
But revenge for what?
For being woken up accidentally?
For living with a woman who’s trying—desperately—to make things work despite his unrelenting sabotage?
I grip the edge of my desk, knuckles white. I’d like to show him what revenge really looks like. The kind that doesn’t just startle you, but leaves a lasting impression—preferably on his thick skull.
Later, he apologizes, but even through the screen, I can see it for what it is—a performance. Just like when he took the truck creep’s football outside with solemn compassion, only to return with it moments later to torment her with.
Margaux calls him out on it, her words laced with sarcasm that cuts like a knife. I can’t help but feel a twisted sense of pride. She sees through him, even if she’s not ready to act on it.
But his reaction—the darkening of his eyes, the tightening of his jaw—tells me everything I need to know. He’s calculating, planning his next move.
The apology isn’t about making amends—it’s about resetting the scoreboard so he can hurt her again without guilt. It’s a cycle I’ve seen too many times, and each repetition leaves her more broken.
Margaux’s attempts to find peace are heartbreaking. The singing bowl, the smudging kit—they’re futile symbols of hope, of grasping for something tangible in a world that feels uncontrollable.
When Timmy takes the bowl, running the mallet around the rim and proclaiming himself ‘better’ at it, grinning like a child who’s just won a game, my hands curl into fists.
It’s not enough for him to let her have a moment of peace. He has to dominate, to turn it into a competition he always wins.
And she lets him.
Not because she’s weak, but because she’s tired. Too tired to fight over something so small, even though we both know it’s not about the singing bowl.
It’s about control.
I want to do more than smudge Timmy. I want to erase him from her life, to burn away every trace of his presence like sage over a festering wound.
But for now, all I can do is watch.
Margaux’s discovery of narcissistic personality disorder was like finding the Rosetta Stone for understanding Timmy. Every article, every checklist—it’s like someone followed him around with a clipboard, taking notes on his every move.
But my pride in her findings are tempered by the weight of its implications.
“This is who he is,” she mutters to herself as she reads through the research. “This is what you’re dealing with.”
And Timmy, of course, twists it. When Margaux tells him he might be a narcissist— ignoring the advice never to do this, typical stubborn Margaux—he flips the script faster than I thought possible. “You’re the narcissist,” he declares, his voice dripping with smug satisfaction.
The audacity of it makes me want to throw something. He doesn’t even believe it. He doesn’t understand narcissistic personality disorder in the slightest, and only partially read one article about it.
He just needs to win.
It’s a game to him, a contest of egos where the only rule is that he can’t lose.
And the worst part? For a moment, Margaux doubts herself. His manipulation is that effective.
The night he pisses on her in bed, my rage reaches a boiling point.
He calls it an accident at first, his voice tinged with disbelief.
But when he smirks and says, “That’s the only leverage I had against you,” something in me snaps.
This isn’t just abuse.
It’s degradation.
It’s a calculated attempt to strip her of her dignity, and to remind her that she’s beneath him in his twisted hierarchy.
And then he laughs about it. Laughs.
I want to scream, to reach through the screen and grab him by the throat. To make him understand—really understand—what it feels like to be powerless. Chop his dick off so he can never piss on anybody ever again.
But all I can do is sit here, helpless, as he turns her pain into a punchline.
Timmy’s use of DEARMAN against her is perhaps the cruelest twist of all.
He introduced her to it as a tool for healthy communication, a way to navigate conflicts with respect and understanding. Now he weaponizes it, turning her own words against her, twisting the framework into a tool for gaslighting.
“ You’re the one who doesn’t stick to DEARMAN,” he accuses, his voice laced with condescension.
It’s infuriating to watch. She’s trying to engage with him, to have a real conversation, and he’s using the very method she learned from him to derail it. Every argument becomes a maze with no exit, a loop designed to exhaust her into submission.
By the time the fight escalates to tears, my anger is a storm, roiling and unrelenting. He mocks her for crying, his voice high-pitched and cruel. “Oh boo hoo, I’m so sad. Shut the fuck up. ”
I don’t know how she survives it. How she doesn’t break completely.
Because I’m breaking just watching it unfold.
Margaux deserves so much more. She deserves peace, stability, and love that doesn’t hurt.
But Timmy? He’ll never give her that. He’s incapable of it. And the longer she stays, the more he takes from her.
One day, he’ll push too far. One day, she’ll wake up and realize she’s done.
And when that day comes, I’ll be there.
To remind her of who she is—who she’s always been, beneath the weight of his cruelty.
Until then, I wait. And I watch.
And I rage.