Beautiful Terror (Burn It All Down Duet #2)

135. Aftermath

CHAPTER 135

AFTERMATH

MARGAUX

I feel so alone. Empty. Numb. But also… free.

There’s so much to process.

For the next few days, I binge-listen to podcasts and YouTube channels aimed at survivors of narcissistic and toxic relationships— Dimming the Gaslight , Why She Stayed , Dr. Ramani.

It’s compulsive.

I need the validation, the reinforcement, to keep me grounded in my decision. Every story I hear emboldens me. It reminds me that it wasn’t just me. That I wasn’t deserving of Timmy’s treatment.

And Timmy? Timmy was very much the problem. Him and his awful father.

I sit with my thoughts, and it feels like peeling back the layers of an onion, each one stinging more than the last.

The worst part isn’t the fractured skull, or the so-called ‘not real’ black eyes—which are both real AF. Real as the pain that gnaws at my chest when I think of the person I was before him. The physical injuries, terrible as they were, aren’t the most devastating part of all this.

No, the worst part is this idea I had of love, that I wanted and needed and craved. And which he dangled in front of me. He gave it to me, or at least the illusion of it, but never consistently, and always with strings attached.

Was it real? Did he love me at all, or was he just so obsessed with what I could provide for him that he faked it all?

The thought lodges in my throat like a stone.

Am I not worthy of love? Am I not beautiful enough, not kind enough?

His words—the biting cruelty of them—make me shrink into myself.

Maybe I’m just ordinary. Maybe a love like his is all I deserve.

I’ve had to weigh the highest highs against the lowest lows, and I’ve figured out one thing— I don’t want to die .

I made the right decision leaving. There’s no doubt about that.

But what if that was it—the highest high of love that I ever get to feel?

What if I never feel love like that again?

What if the soul-expanding, life-altering love I long for doesn’t exist?

Or worse, what if it does, but I’m not enough to deserve it?

I don’t know if I’m going to be able to trust anybody again who shows me what appears to be genuine love—because this whole experience has made me feel like maybe that type of love doesn’t really exist.

I know people care for me. My friends, my chosen family—they love me and think highly of me in their own ways.

But the kind of adoration I dream about? It feels fake, like a shot of artificial sugar that spurs a dopamine rush. Sweet, but hollow.

And I want real.

But maybe real means I’m just… mediocre. Maybe real means settling for a man who spends his days drooling into his beer while yelling at extremist news.

Maybe that’s my fate.

I’m at war with myself. One part of me believes in my worth. The other whispers doubts, feeding on the lies Timmy planted in me.

I blame my mother.

I blame Timmy.

I blame the universe. And yet, I feel like the universe is guiding me in the right direction. Slowly, though. Too slowly. I crave instant progress, but life doesn’t work that way.

I want an infomercial with a shortcut to cure my life, to wipe away these feelings. But it doesn’t exist.

The only way out is through.

Feeling every emotion, confronting every memory, no matter how raw. And it’s agonizing. But it’s the only way I’ll make it through this.

I’m proud of myself for leaving, but Timmy’s father’s voice echoes in my head.

“He’s a really nice guy.”

“ You’re a liar.”

“You’re a whole volcano of pain.”

It’s infuriating. It hurts. And it’s wrong .

I rage, because even if I had pulled Timmy’s hair—so what?

I didn’t fracture his skull.

I didn’t give him black eyes or lower his self-esteem.

I didn’t chip away at his sense of self until he doubted his worth. I boosted him up.

No—I gave him a life he could never have achieved on his own. I did it because I loved him.

And what did I get in return? A torrent of abuse. A chorus of ‘You’re a cunt’ and other insults and blame from him and his enablers.

All I can believe is that his father treated his mother the same way, and Timmy learned by example. I feel pity for her. She seems kind, just beaten down by the men in her life—the one she married and some of the ones she raised.

And I’m resentful. Resentful that no one ever said, “Timmy, you’re fucking up. This isn’t how you treat a woman.”

Instead, they coddled him.

Poor, sweet Timmy. So misunderstood.

Never mind that he’s had six restraining orders filed against him. Six . I can understand one in extenuating circumstances, maybe even two—maybe. But six? That’s not bad luck. That’s a pattern.

Bruh, that’s on you.

And yet, through all this, there have been glimmers of light.

Friends—people who I didn’t necessarily expect—who stepped in and stood with me and held space for me and were just there .

I’m sure I drove them all nuts at times—for not just leaving.

But at the same time, they understood, and they all played a part in helping me to leave. Alice, Josephine, Stacey and so many more—reaching out when I needed it most.

I’m forever grateful.

I don’t know who sent those anonymous messages of encouragement, but they buoyed me. Someone out there saw my struggle and cared enough to reach out.

Was it a friend?

A stranger?

I don’t know, but their words carried me forward when I wanted to collapse.

They reminded me that I’m not alone. That I’m worthy of more.

I’ve started journaling again. Every page feels like a battle, forcing me to confront the memories, the lies, the manipulation.

But it’s helping.

Slowly.

I’m stitching myself back together, piece by painful piece.

One day, I’ll be whole again.

And when that day comes, Timmy’s voice will be nothing more than a distant echo, lost in the void of the sad excuse for a man that he’s always been.

A monster who couldn’t destroy me, no matter how hard he tried.