133. James Bond Situation x Schrodingers Cat
CHAPTER 133
JAMES BOND SITUATION X SCHRODINGER'S CAT
MARGAUX
W hen Sabre and I get home, clutching the freshly signed temporary restraining order, I’m greeted by an eerie silence. The apartment is still empty.
For a moment, I let myself hope. Maybe this is it—maybe he’s already gone, maybe he’s decided to leave me in peace.
Then I hear it. The beep. The swish of the door.
Timmy steps inside.
The air feels heavier immediately, the atmosphere suffocating. My hands tremble as I instinctively grab my phone and dial 911.
“What are you doing? Where were you?” His voice is accusatory, already teetering on the edge of fury.
The operator comes on. “Police, fire, or ambulance?”
“Police,” I whisper.
Timmy’s eyes narrow. “Who were you with?”
“What are you talking about?” I ask, trying to stall.
“There are two cans of sparkling water in the truck!” His voice rises, each word laced with venom. “Who were you driving around with? Who were you on a date with?”
“Police, state your emergency,” the dispatcher says.
“I need to have someone come and serve a TRO,” I manage, keeping my voice as low as possible.
Timmy doesn’t seem to process what I’m doing. Instead, he barrels on with his accusations. “You were on a date!”
“I wasn’t on a date,” I snap, my voice steadier than I feel. “I was at the courthouse. Getting a restraining order .”
“I can’t believe you,” he says, his voice now low.
I can’t bear to look him in the eye, and he notices.
“Look me in the eye! Do me the courtesy of looking me in the eye!”
I glance up, and the sight of him makes my mouth tremble.
“Fuck you,” he says, his voice now low. “There she is. That’s who you really are.”
Great. He thinks I’m laughing at him. Last time he thought that, he broke my skull.
“My mouth is trembling because I’m scared of you, Timmy. That’s why.”
He shakes his head. “I should’ve known you would do this,” he says. “You’re such an abusive cunt. How could you?” His voice is haunting, hollow. He freezes, his face shifting from anger to disbelief. “How could you do this to me ?”
As he rants and rambles, my mind tries to map out escape routes.
It won’t be easy to get out of here, especially with Saber.
Timmy is between me and the front door, leaving the sliding door at the front as the only option. I start mentally preparing to leap to the door, unlock it and escape.
Before I can respond, there’s a knock at the door. “POLICE!” a voice booms.
Timmy backs down the hallway as I open the door to see four officers, including the female cop with the pink handcuffs.
I hand over the paperwork, and they serve Timmy with the TRO.
He looks stunned. “But… I live here. My stuff is here.”
“You’ll have one opportunity to come back with a police escort to grab essentials,” one of the officers explains. “But you can’t come back here alone.”
“I need clothes, shoes, my medication—” He’s panicking now, his voice cracking in disbelief.
“Grab what you need for right now,” another officer cuts him off.
Timmy moves sluggishly, clearly reluctant, but he gathers a shirt, his flip-flops, and a few other items. Then, escorted by two of the officers, he’s gone.
Heart pounding, I thank the others, and they leave.
I did it. The TRO has been served. And for now, the apartment is quiet.
An hour later, I’m still hyper-aware of every sound. Every creak in the building feels like a harbinger of doom.
I know better than to think a piece of paper will keep Timmy away.
When the knock comes, it’s softer this time. “Police,” a voice calls.
I open the door to find Timmy standing with two officers.
“He’s here for an escorted visit to pick up some essentials,” the officer explains.
“I need to get all my stuff,” Timmy argues, his face a mask of exaggerated sadness.
“No,” the officer replies firmly. “This visit is to grab essentials —clothing, medication, chargers. Not everything .”
“But it’s all my stuff,” Timmy whines, gesturing around the apartment as if he’s leaving behind untold riches.
The reality? His ‘stuff’ amounts to a sad list:
- tattered clothing
- mattresses he’s ruined by peeing on them while he was drunk
- a broken surfboard
- a couple of tools that he didn’t give away to his meth friends the day before
- a small amount of medication
- the cheap TV he inherited from Skank Face.
That’s it. The totality of Timmy.
Everything else—the appliances, furniture, and electronics—is mine.
An officer hurries him along. Reluctantly, he picks up a few more items of clothing and is escorted out again.
Then they leave.
But I have a feeling this won’t be the last time I see him.
Nerves frayed, I call Jo, and update her. She’s kind and supportive, and very relieved to hear the TRO has been served.
We talk through next steps—how I’m going to leave this apartment, what I need to do in preparation for the permanent restraining order hearing, and so on.
It’s nice to hear a friendly voice on the other end of the phone, a stark reminder of how I’ve been unable to speak often with anyone other than Timmy for the past seventeen months.
When darkness falls, I try to relax, forcing myself to watch TV. I’m feeling drained, exhausted, and yet still on edge, and sleep doesn’t come easily.
I drift off eventually, only to be woken around 230AM by an intense, gnawing feeling of unease.
I feel like Timmy is near.
By 330AM, my worst fear materializes.
The door beeps as he enters the code. He shouldn’t be able to get in, because I’ve locked the bottom lock, and he doesn’t have a key.
But then I hear the unmistakable swoosh of the door opening.
My blood turns to ice . Timmy is inside.
His eyes lock with mine. I see something in them that I can’t quite put my finger on.
Hands shaking, and heart about to bounce out of my chest, I dial 911.
“Please, Margaux,” he says, his voice low and shaky. “I just need to sleep in the back room. The meth heads on the beach told me they’re going to snap my neck the moment I fall asleep.”
His words are desperate, but I’m not falling for it. He’s told me time and again how much nicer the meth heads are than me.
If they’re turning on him, that’s not my problem.
I refuse to be his caregiver and guardian any longer.
He can call his daddy to come and save him.
“I can’t help you, Timmy,” I say, as a dispatcher answers and I request police. My hands are trembling so badly I nearly drop the phone.
The officers arrive quickly, but by the time they get here, Timmy is long gone.
The violation is noted, and I lock every door and window with a renewed sense of urgency.
A few days later, I receive texts from Timmy. It’s yet another TRO violation. I call the police, and they come over to take a report.
While one officer goes to his vehicle to retrieve a document, the other stands in the living room with me. Sabre keeps trying to escape, darting toward the door every time it opens. I scoop him up and shut him in the bathroom temporarily.
When the officer returns, he looks around, confused. “Wait… wasn’t there a cat? I could have sworn there was a cat.”
“Yes,” I reply, smirking. “He’s safely in the bathroom for now.”
The officer with the aggressive mustache listens as I explain that Timmy somehow knew I was at the courthouse.
“Well,” he says, eyeing my wrist. “Do you have an Apple Watch?”
“Yes,” I reply, holding it up.
“Go into your settings,” he instructs.
I do, and to my shock, I see that my watch is still tracking my location independently of my phone.
Relief washes over me—it’s not some elaborate tracking device Timmy planted—it’s just a setting I overlooked.
“This isn’t some James Bond situation,” the officer quips, breaking into laughter.
Despite everything, I find myself laughing too. It feels good to laugh, even if just for a moment.
It reminds me that I’m still here, still standing.
And I’m going to keep standing, no matter what.