IRISH LOVESTORY - I didn´t know My Own Strenght

 

 copyright©2025

I didn´t know My Own Strenght 

The house we moved to was only across the street, yet it belonged to a different agency, one that knew nothing of us, nothing of our shame, nothing of the slow unraveling that had brought us here. The hallway hit me first, a nauseating mix of stale beer, sweat, and the sharp, acidic sting of men who had staggered home from the pub and urinated where they stood. The apartment itself was a shrine to neglect: ugly, cold, and heavy with a bad energy that seemed to seep into my bones. I longed for my old apartment, pristine and warm, the one that had felt like my own skin. Instead, I was trapped in this place, consumed by the relentless itch of eczema and the dizzying awareness of how far I had fallen.

I stopped leaving. The world became a blur outside my four walls. Work, once a tether to normalcy, fell away—first because of a broken leg, then completely, as my skin betrayed me. The state offered a pitiful consolation of two hundred euros a week, not nearly enough to buy dignity or courage. I avoided human eyes, hiding behind the dark rings of eczema that framed my eyes like some grotesque mask. My days were spent in sterile, distant clinics, where a doctor examined me with a mixture of clinical curiosity and thinly veiled pity.

“I sent photos of your eczema to specialists in Dublin,” he said once, his voice tight with concern. “Honestly, I’ve never seen such an aggressive type of eczema in my life.”

He gave me a massive injection, a chemical lullaby that sent me into oblivion for the rest of the day. I woke in a haze, moving through the apartment like a tiny, fragile insect, a creature barely clinging to life. By then, Jack and I had stopped being intimate, and I felt an unexpected relief, a freedom I hadn’t realized I was starving for.

Distance became a lens through which I finally saw him clearly. The charming facade, once suffocating and inescapable, melted away. My feelings evaporated, quick and hot, like steam from a boiling pot. Separation brought clarity, a hard-edged sobriety I had never known. For the first time, he could not touch me, could not torment me, could not take what little I had left. In that cruel withdrawal, I found sanctuary.

Months later, Jack announced another move. He had secured an apartment, he said—a state-subsidized haven for himself and his son. We returned to Riverdell, the place we had fled, yet this time the apartment faced the opposite side of the building, looking out over the agency. It was new, pristine, orderly, a layout similar to the old one: a bedroom, a smaller room, and a living area with a kitchenette that opened onto a balcony. For the first time in months, everything was functional, untouched, and mine to inhabit.

I no longer shared a bedroom with him. He took the larger room, while I claimed the smaller one beside him. Across the hall was my bathroom, my small but impenetrable fortress. That room became my sanctuary, a place where I could breathe without fear. And because my eczema made me undesirable to him, he did not touch me. In that moment, in that quiet, I discovered a salvation I had never anticipated: a glimpse of peace, of autonomy, of survival.

One evening, when he didn’t come home and I saw from the window that he had wandered into the pub on the square, a restless, suffocating urge gripped me. I walked toward the flooded river near the rowing club, where I had often watched men sweat and strain, oars slicing the water in perfect rhythm. But now, I was too raw, too exhausted by Jack, by my skin, by the relentless hopelessness pressing down on me. I sat on the riverbank, my ankles submerged in icy water, and let my mind drift to the dark thought that maybe the river could take it all away—my pain, my fear, the endless weight of everything. I cried until my phone rang, breaking the fragile spell. Jack found me eventually, scolding me in his cold, clipped way, and dragged me home. I knew, with bitter clarity, that concern was the last thing motivating him.

Those weeks seemed to stretch like thick taffy, slow and oppressive. I began visiting Ewa’s apartment, where some of her friends gathered. Edita and Ewa’s boyfriend were often there, and we would listen to music, letting the sound fill the gaps left by my silent despair. Jack ignored me during those visits, and the absence of his scrutiny felt strange and almost luxurious. For once, he had turned off the radar that always seemed trained on me. Maybe, I thought with a faint, ironic smile, he had finally learned to trust me. I didn’t truly believe it for a single moment, but it was a small, illicit comfort.

That month, I traveled alone to Kilkenny for a minor cosmetic procedure, spending my afternoons at Ewa’s. Jack knew where she lived; once, he even accompanied me there. For a while, things were calm, almost bearably so. There were no major arguments, no physical outbursts. I allowed myself to enjoy it. The quiet was a rare, fragile treasure I hadn’t known in years.

Then, one evening, he snapped. I cannot remember why—likely some trivial provocation—but the eruption was violent. His voice became a roar, and I ran to hide in my small room, heart hammering. The door, sturdy and resolute, became my only ally as he pounded against it, shaking the walls. A picture crashed to the floor, glass shattering under the weight of his fury. Jack pressed himself against the opposite wall, kicking, straining, desperate to break through. Minutes dragged. He finally gave up only when he realized the hole he had created in the wall. When he finally left for the pub, I emerged slowly, surveying the damage. Fear clung to me like a second skin. Memories I thought I had buried rose up, raw and unyielding. And in that moment, I understood something terrible and undeniable: nothing had changed. Nothing ever would. The last straw had broken, and I could feel it deep in my bones.

During that time, I found solace in messages to Roger, a friend of Tamara’s I had never met in person. He knew my situation and, without judgment, listened to every confession I poured out. Those evenings, while the apartment was empty and the walls seemed to close in, I wrote to him. He became my lifeline, a quiet voice of faith in a world that had stripped me of hope. For the first time in months, I felt someone believed in me. Someone believed I could survive.

A few weeks later, I met the girls in a quiet café, the kind of place where the world felt muted and safe for just a little while. Ewa and Edita stared at me as I recounted the latest horrors, their eyes sharp, attentive, filled with a mixture of disbelief and concern.

“I don’t want to tell you what to do,” Ewa said, her voice calm but deadly serious. “But I want you to know I’m willing to help. In two weeks, we’re leaving to Poland for good. You have one chance to change it. Think about it.”

For a moment, fear wrapped itself around me like a heavy shroud. The old, familiar paralysis—of indecision, of cowardice—rose up, whispering that I should give up, that I should simply wave a resigned hand over my own life and accept whatever came next. My throat tightened, my heart trembled, but I nodded, murmuring my thanks. “I’ll think about it,” I said. But as the days slipped by, I realized the window of opportunity was shrinking. Time was running out.

Then, one evening, I found myself watching American Idol. Something as ordinary as television became extraordinary in that moment. That year, a contestant named Danyl Johnson performed a song that seemed to reach into the marrow of my being: “I Didn’t Know My Own Strength.” The lyrics, the music, resonated so deeply that tears sprang unbidden to my eyes. Later, when I learned of Whitney Houston’s own story—how she had escaped Bobby Brown—I cried again, hard, finally acknowledging the depth of my own pain. In that raw, aching connection, I felt a flicker of courage, a spark of the strength I had thought lost forever. For years, I had prayed silently for an angel, for someone—anyone—up there to help me find the courage to escape. For the first time, I sensed that answer.

I typed quickly, my hands trembling:
“Ewa. I’m taking your help.”

Her reply came almost immediately:
“Great. When you leave, tell me, and Michal and I will pick you up at the back entrance.”

The truth was, I had already packed my suitcases after the last attack. Nothing had changed, except that now, the choice was real. The problem was Jack—he often worked from home, watching everything, always alert to the slightest disturbance. I moved slowly, cautiously, rehearsing every step in my mind. I remembered the warning from the woman at the Women’s Aid center: abused women often return to their abuser ten times before finally escaping, but the greatest danger came when they revealed their plans. Most didn’t survive that final step.

That knowledge shadowed me, heavy and constant, making each movement feel like a gamble with my life. I went to the library, organizing a shipping company online. I couldn’t take everything—my books, my treasures—but I refused to abandon the things that mattered most. Carefully, deliberately, I packed only what I could not live without, leaving the rest behind to avoid suspicion. Books were returned to the library, personal items discreetly stowed.

Later, I went to the Country Kitchen to see Joan, my hands shaking, my chest tight with fear and anticipation. I confided in her, tears slipping freely as I spoke, finally letting someone see the full weight of my despair and my tentative hope.

“Joan, the leg… when I broke it,” I said, my voice trembling, my heart hammering in my chest. “I didn’t break it by accident.”

Joan’s eyes sharpened, inquisitive, and then she drew a slow breath. “I suspected,” she said quietly. “I’ve never liked Jack. Don’t cry.”

I swallowed hard, shame burning my cheeks. “I need money… for a vacation I wasn’t reimbursed for. I need to buy a plane ticket… home,” I admitted, my words stumbling out.

“Of course,” she said without hesitation, her voice firm but gentle. “You’ll get it. Don’t worry. Wait here a moment.” She left the room, and I sat with my chest tight, hands clasped, heart beating as if trying to escape. When she returned with an envelope of money, it felt like the first tangible piece of hope I had held in years.

“Promise me you’ll write as soon as you get home,” Joan said, smiling softly, her eyes holding mine with an earnestness that made my throat ache.

“I promise, Joan,” I whispered.

I tucked the money away, hiding it along with my passport. If Jack discovered it, everything—my plan, my escape, my chance at freedom—would be destroyed.

The only person I confided in about returning home was my father. I needed him. My mother had been out of reach for a year, and I was too afraid to ask her for help. I also exchanged a few words with Roger, explaining my plans. He believed in me completely and waited, ready to act if I were in danger.

The shipping company was scheduled for a specific date, but until then, my mind was consumed with preparation. That week, I barely ate. My nerves were frayed to the breaking point. My hands shook incessantly, and I had to lie down on the bed to hide my fear from Jack, who wandered the apartment, leaving only for cigarettes. He seemed oblivious to the storm building quietly in the corners of my life.

Then, the morning came when everything threatened to unravel. The phone rang, slicing through the silence.

“Hello?” I whispered, my voice barely audible, as Jack occupied the other room.

“This is TOPTRANS. We’re here for your items,” a man’s voice said, crisp and unfamiliar.

“No… no, it wasn’t supposed to be today. This must be a mistake. I gave a different date,” I stammered, panic rising like bile in my throat.

The man on the other end of the line paused, as if glancing somewhere for confirmation, then spoke again, confusion threading his voice. “Ah, yes. But you probably filled it out wrong. So… we’re not coming? Only on the next date?”

“YES! Please, yes!” I blurted, my voice tight with panic. “I… I can’t talk. I’m in a situation where I simply… can’t speak. Please, come on the second date.” My words stumbled over each other as if my own fear were pushing them out. I prayed Jack wasn’t watching me, that he didn’t notice the wild tremor in my hands or the sweat prickling along my neck. I had likely made two reservations and somehow entered the wrong date. The thought of him discovering my intentions made my stomach twist violently. He must never, ever know.

Immediately, I grabbed my phone and messaged Ewa, who had been waiting for my updates like a lifeline.

“Ewa, the movers will come in a week. They messed up the date. I’ll try to get out with the suitcases myself tonight and will let you know when I’m out. J. is still home; it’s going to be hard,” I typed, my fingers trembling with the weight of the words.

Jack seemed to sense something, hovering at home like a shadow. Then, finally, he left for cigarettes. My heart leapt. This was my chance. If it worked, Ewa would be waiting to take me away, and everything would fall into place.

Yet instinct screamed at me to be cautious. Every muscle in my body was taut with tension. It was getting dark outside, and a gnawing sense of being watched settled over me like cold fog. What if he was waiting on the street, hidden in the shadows until the lights went out? I lingered near the window, staring at the dimly lit street, my pulse hammering. Half an hour passed. Still no sign of him. Fifteen more minutes crawled by. My throat tightened into a painful lump, and fear made my hands shake uncontrollably.

Then a thought—sharp, clear, lifesaving—cut through the haze: I could leave without the suitcases. Test my intuition first. If he was waiting, he would be downstairs, by the exit. I exhaled slowly, silencing the panic, and left everything inside. The apartment darkened as I turned off the lights. I took the elevator, each floor dragging endlessly, my heart hammering against my ribs.

When the doors opened, I nearly had a heart attack. There he was, standing like an apparition, every inch the predator I had lived under for so long.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, his tone casual, almost amused. Not shocked—he had clearly expected the suitcases with me. Relief surged through me. Thank God I hadn’t taken them.

“I’m going to the store for cigarettes. I ran out,” I said, forcing plausibility into my voice.

He studied me with those piercing, X-ray eyes, and then smiled.

“No worries, I got them!” He held up the pack triumphantly and pressed the elevator button. We rode up together, the silence between us heavy, suffocating. My escape had been stalled once again. That night, I knew—I would not get anywhere.

When later he insisted that we sit and talk, a chill crawled along my spine, freezing me from the inside out. I could not—would not—soften. Not a trace, not a whisper of the truth. That was the hardest part: pretending I was still his, pretending he could reach me at all. Over the years, he had trained me like a careful hunter trains its prey. He knew I feared him, knew I hated lying, knew I would rather crumble under the weight of his scrutiny than risk detection. His radar for deception was unmatched; the smallest flicker of hesitation, the slightest twitch of the lips, the subtle shift in breathing—he sensed it all. He was a cobra coiled in wait, savoring the trembling of his prey before striking. My fear fed him. My pain gave him strength. And yet, now, I was resolute. Not a shred of either would I offer him.

We sat side by side on the couch, a precarious intimacy stretching between us, charged with an uneasy, almost sad confession. He wanted me to tell him why I had been distant all week.

“Tell me what’s wrong? I can tell you’re different,” he said, eyes narrowing, voice smooth but sharp.

Oh God. He’s figured it out, I thought, panic prickling at my skin. He knows I’m planning something. No—no, he knows nothing. Bluff. Pretend you’re unwell. Act as if your body aches, not your mind. My thoughts raced in spirals, giving me commands I barely understood, trying to outmaneuver him with my own fear.

“I’m fine,” I said, voice trembling despite myself. “I just ate something bad… upset stomach for a few days. Nothing more.” My words wavered; I forced a casual shrug, hoping to convince both him and myself.

He studied me, quiet, patient, then leaned closer. “There’s more to it. Tell me everything.”

I had expected that. I had rehearsed for this. I braced myself, sinking into the feeling, letting just enough truth brush the surface while keeping the secret that mattered most.

“Jack… I don’t know. I feel like… you’ve hurt me so much that I can’t feel what I felt before. You’ve killed all the love I had in me.” My words cracked, and the tears came, warm and unrelenting.

He lowered his head onto my shoulder, for just a moment. Was it some fragment of him, sensing the storm I carried, recognizing the distance I had built? The better part that understood? Whatever it was, he left me there, silent, and did not probe further. A small measure of calm washed over me, but vigilance remained.

We retreated to our rooms. I gathered my phone, passport, and money, slipping them beneath my pillow with shaking hands. I went to the bathroom, brushing my teeeth, while he lay sprawling on the wide marital bed, the one he had claimed as his own these past months. I washed quietly, the tiles cold beneath my fingers, waiting for the storm I knew was coming. It was inevitable.

“You didn’t tell me everything, did you?” His voice cut the silence like a blade. “I saw those packed suitcases in the closet.”

For a moment, I froze, sensing the shift in the air. He had never smoked in his room before—but now, as he lit a cigarette on the edge of the bed, the acrid smoke curling upward, a warning bell rang in my chest. The cobra was ready to strike. And I could only hope I was ready, too.

Without hesitation, I bolted from the bathroom. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught him leaping from the bed, half-naked, moving like a predator closing in. It was probably only five steps, but each one seemed to stretch into eternity. He was precise, unrelenting. I slammed the door behind me and locked it with the reinforced key I had secretly prepared. Jack rattled the door, fury barely contained.

“Open immediately, or I’ll kick it down! The cops won’t let you cross the border. They’re already after you for giving false testimony!” he roared, pounding the door with frenzied blows.

I pressed myself into the far corner of the bed, small and invisible, praying he wouldn’t break through. Each kick reverberated through the apartment, each thud against the door a pulse in my chest. My hands shook uncontrollably, my breath came in ragged gasps. Then, the sound of him storming through the apartment—rifling drawers, shouting threats—made my stomach knot with fear.

“I had a special key made! I’ll get you!” he yelled, voice sharp and predatory.

I couldn’t wait to see what he would do next. The balcony, the windows—he could enter from anywhere. My hands trembling, I dialed the police. Tears blurred my vision, my nose ran.

“Hello, Carlow Police,” said a calm, male voice on the other end.

It was the first time in years I had called for help myself. That voice, steady and protective, felt like a lifeline thrown across a raging storm. I clung to it.

“Please help me. My boyfriend attacked me. I’m in the apartment, and he… he’s trying to break through the door. Please, I’m afraid he’ll kill me,” I sobbed, my chest heaving.

“Give the address and floor,” the voice said, firm but reassuring.

“Riverdell, fourth floor,” I managed to choke out.

Jack froze mid-kick. “Who are you talking to? You called the cops on me?!” he barked.

I didn’t answer. I clung to the voice of the officer, every word grounding me.

“What’s your boyfriend’s name? Have we been there before?”

“Jack Kennedy. Yes, a few times,” I whispered, trembling.

“Don’t hang up. A unit is on its way. Open the door for them,” the officer instructed.

Minutes later, a loud knock shook the apartment door. I held my breath as Jack spoke to someone in a calm, measured tone, trying to regain control. When I heard a stranger’s voice, I cracked the door open just a fraction. Through tear-blurred eyes, I saw two uniformed officers and Jack, standing half-naked, arms crossed, tense.

The younger female officer beckoned me out. I handed over the belongings I could carry, and her colleague helped me gather the rest. I pointed out the hole in the wall from his previous attack to prove I wasn’t lying.

They escorted me to the elevator, down to the ground floor.

“Can I ask what he told you? Did he admit to attacking me?” I asked, anxiety twisting my stomach.

“He told us you made it all up,” the female officer replied. “But don’t worry, we don’t believe him. Jack Kennedy has a reputation,” she added, raising her eyebrows.

They drove me to the Seven Oaks Hotel, making arrangements to keep me hidden. I was given a suite. That night, I collapsed onto the soft, wide bed and slept as if I had never slept before. For the first time in years, the boulder crushing my chest lifted, even if only for a while.

The greatest challenge remained: leaving the city without being noticed. Jack knew everyone, and any of his contacts could betray me. Only Ewa and Ken knew where I was. Ewa brought me a toothbrush and ran into the city to secure my plane ticket. Ken arrived, hugged me, and offered words of support. Bittersweet farewells followed. I loved the city despite the darkness woven into it, but I had to leave. Jack could not find me.

“He was snooping around yesterday,” Ewa told me over tea in the hotel lobby. “He came to my house, asking if you were there. I told him we hadn’t seen you for days.”

Michael had taken my suitcases to his home—TOPTRANS would arrive days later, by which time I would be long gone.

“Tomorrow, my flight is early. I’ll need to take the night bus in Carlow, and Jack could be lurking,” I fretted.

“We’ll take you to the airport,” Ewa reassured me.

Early the next morning, I paid my symbolic bill of twenty euros and was driven to the airport with only a carry-on. The streets were dark and silent, a perfect cloak. At the airport, hugs were exchanged, tears shed, and then I walked through the hall alone. The moving walkway carried me forward, and with each step, fear fell away.

Tears streamed from my eyes, not of sorrow, but of triumph. My heart pounded with pride and relief. I had severed the chains that had strangled me for so long.

She wanted nothing more

than to be free again

to breathe once more

to love herself

Within herself, she discovered a strength she had never known—unyielding, radiant, unbreakable.

IRISH LOVESTORY - Eviction

 copyright©2025

Eviction

That was the precise moment when I forgave Jack—utterly, recklessly, against every instinct and shred of reason. A moment when I decided, with a foolish, dangerous certainty, to fight for him once more, even though he had nearly destroyed me. He knew exactly which chords to strike, which old wounds to press until I surrendered.

I let him back into my home, into the fragile sanctuary I had built around me, so we could unravel the threads of what had happened. I confessed everything—how John had sought me out in secret, desperate to control the story, rehearsing my words like an actor drilling lines for a play.

“I wanted to say he lunged at you, shoved you through the door,” I said, trembling. “But John corrected me. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Don’t say that. Say I came and pushed him, but not that I lunged.’”

Jack listened without a flicker of emotion, unreadable as ever.

“I want you to go to the police,” he said finally, voice low and grave, “and change your testimony.”

I laughed bitterly. “Forget it. I won’t. Perjury would ruin me, not you. And besides, the difference is just a shade of meaning.”

He didn’t argue further, letting the matter dissolve into the air between us. But he never left ashes untended. Slowly, deliberately, he wove his spell again—resurrecting the aching tenderness I still carried for him. He promised, with practiced charm, that if we returned to each other, he would attend therapy with me, lay himself bare to a counselor, ensure the past would never repeat.

His explanations poured forth like poisoned wine: his anger born of whiskey, Alice’s venom, the police, the merciless world itself. He spoke for hours of the terror he had felt when his neck broke—the suffocating fear of death. Even in sleep, he wore the cervical brace, head locked upright like a prisoner in chains. Slowly, I began to pity him again. Pity—the one drug he always knew would work on me.

“I’ll find you a new job,” he murmured one evening. “You can’t keep working for those villains, for the man who nearly finished your boyfriend off.”

His words lit a spark of rebellion. “I don’t want another job. I don’t want to leave O’Briens,” I protested, heart lurching. To leave would have meant vanishing into shadows, crawling through the underbelly of the city, hiding from everyone who knew. Returning to him marked me as a fool, stubborn, blinded by the past.

But Jack’s persuasion was relentless, as inevitable as gravity. So he returned quietly at first, like a ghost living in my walls, hidden in plain sight.

It wasn’t long before he guided me—softly, inexorably—back to the police station. This time, I was to testify that John had attacked him. He waited in the car down the street, a shadow no one could see. Inside, the officer’s questions struck like blows: Are you sure no one influenced you? I bit my lip, swallowing the truth, shame burning like acid. And yet, I convinced myself I was doing the right thing.

Jack rewarded my silence with a new job at Country Kitchen. Gone was O’Briens’ hum and laughter, replaced by the dull clatter of cutlery and blank stares. I was invisible, a body behind the counter. Resentment festered: I had left the place I loved because of him.

My father’s surgery loomed over me, his heart under the surgeon’s knife. I clung to the phone, listening to every word, living in constant anxiety. Every glance in the street felt like judgment: she returned to her tormentor.

At Country Kitchen, salvation came in the form of Ewa and Edita, two Polish women who became my only friends. I visited Edita at her small house by the river, finding fleeting moments of normalcy, hidden from Jack’s prying eyes. Karolina, though, remained untouchable, a ghost I could no longer reach. Whenever she tried to reconnect, Jack ensured it failed.

One evening, she sat on my couch, and we spoke quietly. When Jack arrived, she fled.

“I know what you two talked about,” he said afterward, cold and precise.

I laughed brittlely. “And how could you possibly know?”

“I bugged the couch,” he said, voice flat. “Every word.”

Fear gnawed at me despite my defiance. From then on, I dared not bring anyone into the orbit of our poisoned intimacy. No one else would endure the relentless interrogations, the cross-examinations that left me hollow, broken, teetering on the edge. That was his victory—to watch me undone.

Our boss, Joan, prepared to leave on holiday, handing out wages in envelopes. I hid mine in a small safe beneath my wardrobe, silent, careful, knowing Jack’s eyes were always hungry for what he could claim. Each evening I checked the envelopes, reassured by their quiet weight.

But one afternoon, I returned to find one envelope empty.

“Where’s my money?! Give it back!” I screamed.

Jack sat motionless at first, then muttered, too casually, “Sorry. I needed it. Desperately. And you should be grateful—I used it for things we needed.”

A few scraps of food, worth ten euros. The rest, gone. My fury met his calm indifference.

Soon I learned he had stopped paying child support for Julian. Alice pursued him relentlessly, while he wrapped himself in self-pity, railing against the world, painting himself as the victim. The illusion cracked. Lies had always been his armor.

His darkness began manifesting in madness. A mirror I had hauled home, once a proud possession, was shattered. Blue wine glasses I had chosen, treasures of joy, smashed in an instant. He wept to old songs, but abandoned responsibility for Julian. My heart ached for the boy; my only gift was fragile peace when he visited. Soon even that ceased.

One night, after yet another argument, I fled toward the door. He caught me, heavy, relentless, a prison of flesh and bone. By morning, my right leg was swollen, bruised. Pain shot through me with every attempt to stand.

Jack drove me to Kilkenny. X-rays revealed a broken metatarsus. Plaster stretched to my knee, crutches like chains. Three months of enforced stillness.

He seized the injury as a gift, summoning an insurance agent to rewrite the story, promising me money—two thousand euros—but every euro went to him. My body immobilized, my mind restless, he savored the power.

Day after day, I lay staring at the ceiling, body captive, mind restless. My eczema flared, red, weeping, consuming flesh as if my body itself screamed to flee. Cortisone could not silence it.

Outside, spring mirrored the chaos inside. Streets flooded, the river devouring gardens, neighbors stranded, voices lost in the roar of the waters.

When I could walk again, the mailbox offered a new horror: a stamped note—precise, cruel:

PLEASE VACATE THE APARTMENT IMMEDIATELY. FAILURE TO DO SO WILL RESULT IN POLICE ACTION.

For a heartbeat, I thought it a nightmare. Eviction? But we had been paying rent—or so I believed.

At the agency, months later, the truth emerged: six months unpaid. The floor pitched beneath me. I confronted Jack.

“I know nothing,” he said, calm as ice.

“Don’t lie! You hid the letters, didn’t pay! Where is the money?”

“Don’t worry,” he replied, smooth, silk and menace. “I have a plan. Tonight we leave. There’s a place across the street. We take what we can carry and go.”

Horror surged through me. “You’re insane! I’m not going anywhere!”

But even as I spoke, I knew: the battle had been lost long ago. Hollowed by months, by years, my strength drained, I packed silently. When night fell, we slipped from the apartment I had once loved, thieves in the shadows, tethered still to the man who had ruined me.

IRISH LOVESTORY - Caught in the Trap

 

 copyright©2025

Caught in the Trap

I had spent months mostly alone, rebuilding myself piece by piece—mind, body, heart. Each step forward felt precarious, like walking barefoot over shattered glass: cautious, aware of every sharp edge, every potential cut.

One evening, craving a fragment of normalcy, I stepped into Barracks, our local pub, the one that had always been a faint refuge. The air was thick with chatter and laughter, mingling with the sharp tang of spilled beer. At the entrance, I almost collided with John, Barry’s brother, flanked by two friends.

Teri, is that you? His eyes widened, surprise and something unreadable flickering in their depths.

“Yeah, it’s me. You usually see me in uniform, but… I’m fairly normal otherwise,” I said, laughing softly, tentative.

Nights like this—when I could exist without the armor of routine, without the shield of work, without the careful construction of invisibility—were rare. My hair fell loose over my shoulders, skin bare under dim light. Exposed, yes, but liberated.

“You look amazing,” John said, a glint in his gaze I couldn’t read, dangerous and protective at once. He gestured toward their table. “Come, have a beer with us.”

Introductions followed: Tom, another friend whose name I did not catch. Around us, the pub buzzed, live music throbbing, bartenders moving like clockwork, chaos held in rhythm. I told John about the restraining order, my voice steadier than I felt.

Then I saw him—Jack—out of the corner of my eye. My chest constricted, pulse spiking. He stood at the bar, predator-like, savoring the hunt. I turned away, heart hammering. John noticed.

“What’s wrong? Are you okay?” he asked, voice gentle, steadying me with the brush of his shoulder.

“He’s at the bar… watching me,” I whispered, voice tight.

John nodded, silent but alert, his presence a shield. I needed distance, a moment’s escape.

“Excuse me, I need the restroom,” I said, slipping through the swinging doors into the narrow corridor.

A chill ran down my spine. The door swung open—and there he was. Jack, blocking the path, calm, unnervingly composed.

Teri, we need to talk. Please, just give me a chance.

I didn’t flinch. Leave me alone! Fear and fury sharpened my voice into steel.

Before I could react further, John appeared like a storm unleashed, ripping Jack down the hallway toward the smoking room. Relief surged through me, tangled with a flicker of something darker. His protective rage was undeniable—but had it gone too far?

Jack disappeared from my life again that night. Months passed in uneasy quiet. John and I built a cautious friendship, careful dances over coffee, measured words, wary trust. He urged me to report the incident. In the shadows of his prison work, he knew the minds capable of violence. I followed his guidance, gave a statement, took steps to hold Jack accountable.

Witnesses were gathered—Lynn, another woman who had helped me escape. Jack’s lawyer delayed, citing medical excuses. Frustration gnawed, and eventually, I dismissed the case, deciding to close the chapter and leave Ireland behind. My life no longer belonged there.

A month before departure, I felt compelled to confront the past, to tie loose ends. I found Jack in a quiet pub at the edge of town, alone in the garden. Warm air carried the faint scent of flowers; distant conversations drifted across the space. He sat calm—too calm—eyes unreadable, fixed.

“I came to say goodbye. I’m leaving soon. I thought we should bury the hatchet. I also withdrew the original complaint—I want peace,” I said, voice steady despite tension coiling in my stomach.

Jack’s smile curved, sly, dark. “You don’t know why I missed the court, do you?”

“The lawyer said you were hospitalized… something about a bruised neck,” I replied, pulse steadying.

His eyes flickered with shadow. “If only it had been just a bruise.” He pulled out his phone, images that made my fingers tighten around my cup—his head trapped in a metal contraption, screws protruding, hospital gown stained with antiseptic.

“What… what is this?” I whispered, cold creeping into my bones.

“That’s your dear friend John,” Jack said, voice deadly calm. “He broke my neck.”

Shock slammed into me. “How… how could he?”

“You remember the day he threw me across Barracks?” Jack’s gaze pierced me. “He knew exactly what he was doing. I woke up unable to move. Tom had to call an ambulance. They had to fix my neck to my skull. He broke it with precision.”

A storm of emotion—anger, fear, disbelief, an odd thrill of forbidden curiosity—flooded me. The friend I trusted, who claimed to protect me, harbored a darkness I had never suspected. I had been a pawn in a game far more intricate than I had realized, manipulated beyond comprehension.

“This… isn’t right,” I said, voice trembling yet firm, steel threading through fear. “Something has to be done.”

Jack’s eyes glimmered, savoring my resolve. In that moment, a fire ignited within me—fierce, unrelenting. Determination to unearth the truth, confront danger, reclaim my life.

IRISH LOVESTORY - The Raid

 

 copyright©2025

The Raid

The plan had seemed harmless enough. Karolina and I would spend the evening at her flat. I told Jack where I was going—not to seek permission, but to stave off the explosion I knew would follow. His silence had been misleading, a pause that I mistook for acquiescence. Usually, his gaze—or that of his watchers—followed me everywhere. Stepping outside that orbit felt surreal, a quiet rebellion.

Karolina lived on the other side of town with Lukas, in one of those identical terraced houses that vanish into the streetscape like ghosts. But inside, it was a sanctuary. The afternoon unraveled slowly, like a melody, faint and delicate: Toto videos flickering across the screen, the aroma of cooking mingling with laughter, the unguarded warmth of friends. For the first time in weeks, I felt my shoulders unclench. Everything felt normal. Safe.

Until the messages began. Jack’s words stormed across my phone, relentless, impossible to ignore.

“You must come home immediately! I forgot my keys and can’t get in!”

I knew instantly it was a lie. A pulse of defiance surged. Karolina’s calm presence, the haze of a few drinks, gave me courage.

“I’ll come when I come. Don’t try to manipulate me with the keys,” I typed, fingers steady despite the heat in my chest.

By 10 p.m., we parted. The taxi ride home was quiet, but each meter crawled with dread. And then the apartment door swung open. The kitchen light spilled across the floor, glinting off shards of broken glass. The bedroom remained dark. Jack lay there, stretched out, silent, the keys in his hand the whole time. Every word, every lie, every manipulation—a trap I had walked into.

The moment I realized, he moved. Fast. I hit the floor. Air ripped from my lungs. He straddled me, fist arcing toward my face. Darkness swallowed me for seconds that stretched like hours. A waking nightmare, cruel and precise.

When I surfaced, the ceiling spun above me. Jack loomed, inhuman, shouting. I begged, pleaded, but he would not relent. Blood ran freely from my eye, cut by his ring, and he did not care.

“Let me see in the mirror! Something’s wrong with my eye!” I screamed, hysteria raw in my voice. But he blocked me. I ran; he tackled me again, weight pressing, obsession crushing.

“Don’t you know how much I love you?!” he roared.

“How can you love me?!” I gasped. “You say one thing and do another! Let me go immediately!”

“I need you! Do you understand?!”

“I don’t need you!” I screamed, exhaustion bleeding into defiance. Somehow, I slipped free, dashed to the kitchen. He followed, relentless.

Finally, I glimpsed myself in the mirror. The reflection was alien: bruised, battered, broken. Fear knotted with fury. I demanded an ambulance. He lit a cigarette, indifferent, advancing.

Panic erupted, instinct kicked in. I seized a large kitchen knife, hands shaking, pressed it toward him.

“One more step and I’ll kill you, you bastard!” My voice trembled, sharp.

A thousand scenarios flashed: death, retaliation, endless cycles. Something inside me stopped my hand. I bolted toward the balcony, knife in hand. He shoved me out, slammed the door, lock clicking like a gunshot. Trapped. Chest heaving, knife trembling, pressed against cold glass.

And then I saw him—face close to the window, eyes wild, twisted amusement on his lips. He was safe, behind the glass, mocking my terror.

Defiance ignited. Fear exploded into action.

“Help! Somebody! Please! He’s going to kill me!” My voice shredded the night. No one answered—but the scream was for me, for the part of me refusing to be caged.

Then, salvation: three figures appeared below.

“What’s going on? Do you need help?” A sharp, fearless voice.

“I’m trapped. My boyfriend beat me. Please help me!” My panic-laden words carried, raw.

Through a small window, I watched them—determined, unflinching, drawing near. Soon, medics arrived. Calm hands guided me from the balcony, knife surrendered, safety restored. Relief surged, mingled with disbelief.

The paramedics tended to my injuries. My eye swollen shut, blood running freely, bandages applied. Shivering, shock seeping in, but their calm anchored me.

“We need to take you to Kilkenny for further treatment. You’re lucky; your eye isn’t permanently damaged,” one said. I nodded, numb, panic creeping as I realized my apartment was inaccessible, my belongings trapped inside, my phone gone.

Only one place came to mind—Karolina. Miracle remembered. A short ride later, medics knocked, and Karolina opened the door. Wide-eyed, she ushered me inside, guided me to the guest room, tended to the bleeding, stayed by my side. I did not sleep. Morning found a bloody puddle on the pillow, yet she remained calm, unwavering.

Despite the ordeal, she insisted on accompanying me to work. Sunglasses hiding my battered face, we entered O’Briens. Barry’s expression shifted immediately, disbelief cracking into protective resolve.

“Grab your things and come with me. Don’t ask questions,” he said, firm, paternal.

He drove me to the police station. Fluorescent lights hummed, sharp shadows slicing the corridor. Barry’s presence grounded me, steadying my panic. Nigel, calm, authoritative, examined my injuries, photographed my battered eye, and recorded the events. The officers, armed and vigilant, fanned out. Every step, every sound, the tension of imminent confrontation pressed in.

Barry led, police flanking, rifles ready. Streets under dim lights felt unreal. Heart hammering, I clutched my jacket, haunted by Jack’s face. At the edge of Riverdell, officers moved cautiously. Listening devices confirmed his presence. Breach attempts began, doors tested, locked, barricaded, immovable.

Seconds stretched into eternity. Jack’s silence was a knife twisting in the chest. Officers called out, voices firm, reasoning. I stepped forward, trembling.

“Jack? Open the door. Police are here. Cooperate. Nothing will happen.” No answer.

Order given. I was moved out of view. Then came the force, boots battering the door, splintering wood, dust hanging in the air. Chaos contained. Officers subdued him. The apartment, prison and battlefield, emptied of terror. Relief poured through me, mingled disbelief.

Barry remained my shield. He drove me to the doctor, where nurses and physicians tended to bruised flesh with clinical precision and quiet care, aware of the trauma beneath.

A week later, sitting at O’Briens with sunglasses, Barry’s brother John slid into the seat opposite me. Light jokes, cautious concern.

“What happened?” he asked, surprise genuine.

“My ex,” I said, bitter smile tugging at my lips.

He stiffened, processed, and offered gentle words, careful not to pry. Some wounds are not for casual conversation.

On my way home, Tony, a taxi driver who had seen me countless times, stopped midstreet, shock and anger in his eyes.

“Don’t tell me that bastard did this to you! I’ll smash his face!” Protective fury flared, but I shook my head. The bitter cup was mine alone to drink.

Days later, at Carlow Women’s Aid, the small town refuge for battered women, I found structured care. Forms completed, options explained—reporting, barring orders, court protection. In theory, Jack could no longer attack me at home. Reality remained uncertain. Still, a fragile shield existed—a promise that, in some small way, I was no longer completely defenseless.

IRISH LOVESTORY - Johny Vegas

 

Johny Vegas

I remember that night with brutal clarity. We had argued—though now, in the shadowed corners of memory, I cannot recall why. I stood on the balustrade in nothing but my nightgown, trembling, heart hammering against my ribs. The narrow veranda felt impossibly exposed. Neighbors loomed like silent witnesses, and I clung to the hope that if he struck me, someone might intervene.

He seized my phone and hurled it into the darkness. It shattered two floors below, shards scattering like tiny stars. Pain and fear coursed through me, but he did not hesitate. He tried to drag me back inside. I gripped every pillar, scraped my nails across cold stone, my mind screaming that behind closed doors, I was defenseless. His strength was overwhelming. He forced me into the apartment.

At the doorway, I slipped. My head struck the floor, pain lancing through my skull, stars exploding behind my eyes. He did not pause. He handed me a bag of frozen vegetables—a cruel, inadequate salve. No apology, no hesitation. Just the continuation of control.

Moments later, frantic knocking erupted at the door. Voices urgent, sharp, unyielding:

“Open up, you bastard! We saw everything! Open it, or we’ll break it down!”

Two young men, half-dressed from sleep, had been drawn by my cries. Jack froze, torn, eyes darting between the door and us. After a tense pause, he opened it. Behind the threshold, they stood, breath ragged, determined. One immediately wrapped me in a protective embrace, guiding me toward safety. The other confronted Jack without flinching.

“We called the police. Don’t you dare touch her again,” he said.

Jack muttered that we had only argued, but they did not falter. Minutes later, the police arrived, a fragile barrier between law and chaos. Jack remained technically untouchable, yet I understood: the danger had not vanished.

I thanked the boys, voice shaking, gratitude mingled with lingering fear. Without a phone, I was stranded. One of them brought me to his apartment with his girlfriend, Lynn. There, in her quiet warmth, I found a fleeting sense of safety—a fragile ember of security in a night stretched with terror.

But Jack returned. That night, he waited outside my door, relentless. Morning brought no reprieve. He confronted me again, demanding what I could not give. His persistence eroded my will, threading insidiously into every thought. I felt trapped in a web he had spun, each strand tightening, every escape route blocked.

Then there was Johny—Johny Vegas, as Jack mockingly named him. Fragile, undernourished, adrift in his own world, yet tender at heart. He smoked, perhaps used drugs, though I never confirmed. His apartment, a few blocks away, became a sanctuary. He spoke of ghosts, shifting objects, whispering warnings. I believed a fraction, dismissed the rest, but his quiet presence offered refuge.

One night, we went to Med’s Bar on Tullow Street. Johny and I shared a fascination with the supernatural, with true crime; Jack cared only for control, for mockery. When I offered Johny advice about girls, Jack erupted, flinging half-drunk beer into my lap, humiliating me before the world. Elaine, the bar owner, quickly expelled us. Outside, alone in the dark, tears mixed with rain, my sobs swallowed by night. Johny’s empathy, Lynn’s kindness, became threads holding me from collapse.

That year, I avoided my mother, ashamed to admit I had once again fallen into Jack’s orbit. Letters to my father traveled monthly, a quiet tether, but the rest of my family remained distant. I could not burden them with fear, could not confess the humiliation of entanglement with someone I had once loved. Protection was a luxury I did not possess.

Johny became my refuge. Lynn became my anchor. Their presence reminded me that human warmth still existed, that connection could survive despite the shadows Jack cast across my life. I clung to these fragile bonds, small proofs that survival was possible.

Through it all, I endured. Each tremor of fear, each shiver of anxiety became a mark of existence beyond his control. Each act of kindness, each moment of protection, reminded me that I could reclaim the life he tried to steal.

Even under the oppressive weight of that darkness, a quiet, unwavering fire grew within me. Strength I had not known, courage I had not recognized, began to assert itself. The terror was real. The threat was ongoing. But step by trembling step, I rose from the shadow, fragile yet unbroken, discovering that survival itself could be a kind of triumph.

IRISH LOVESTORY - Like a Rollercoaster

 

 copyright©2025

Like a Rollercoaster 

When I saw him again, it was like a photograph had stepped off the page. Smooth-shaven, lightly scented, perfectly dressed—he smiled at me, that same disarming, effortless smile, and my knees betrayed me. In that instant, a spark ignited deep within—a dangerous, magnetic mixture of hope and desire. I knew, immediately, that I was already in trouble.

We had so much to say, so much left unsaid. A small, foolish part of me clung to the hope that time had softened him, reshaped him, made him realize what he had lost. He seemed genuinely thrilled to see me, his eyes bright with eagerness. And just like that, we were together again. He moved into my new flat in Riverdell, speaking of his pain with a raw honesty that left my chest aching.

“It was the worst period of my life,” he admitted, voice trembling. “When you left… I hit rock bottom. I drank for weeks, saw things… demons.”

I understood. I had faced those same shadows myself. I did not know the full depth of his torment, but now, he seemed intact—or at least, he had exorcised the worst of it.

At first, it was intoxicating. We fell into the familiar rhythm of love, heady and effortless. For a few blissful days, I allowed myself to believe in happiness. But as quickly as the novelty arrived, it faltered. After a week, his questions began—about my fidelity during our time apart. I confessed, driven by some stubborn honesty.

“I missed you,” I whispered, shame curling my voice, “and I sought… a substitute.”

I expected understanding. Instead, he stiffened, a whine creeping into his tone. Unfair, he said, that he had remained faithful while I had not.

“You know what?” I said, calm but firm. “Go ahead—sleep with someone else, even the score. I won’t justify that we were apart, that I thought we might never reunite. If you can’t handle that, you know where the door is.”

He froze. For once, I held the upper hand. The argument ended there.

Riverdell became our shared territory again. Rent split evenly as always, though the lease was in my name this time. I managed the flat, coordinated bills, measured his presence alongside mine, a delicate dance I had come to master.

Summer arrived, bringing with it the rare, unpaid week off from work—a luxury I had never known. Seven years of labor without contracts, benefits, recognition. If Barry hadn’t granted leave, I had no choice but to remain silent. Jobs were scarce; survival demanded patience.

I suggested a short trip, anywhere within Ireland. Jack promised, but three days passed while work excuses bound him. Only a single day remained. I realized the trip would not happen. Frustrated, I made plans with Karolina—a day at the sea. Her face lit up. Together, we mapped the hours in eager detail.

That evening, I told Jack. He said nothing, disbelief flickering across his face.

The next morning, Karolina arrived, camera in hand, brimming with energy. Jack stepped forward, blocking the doorway.

“What the hell are you doing? I told you yesterday we’re going on a full-day trip!” I snapped.

I pushed past him, firm, fearless. “Let me go.”

He froze, stunned. He did not stop me—perhaps unwilling to humiliate himself in front of a witness. I felt a thrill: the intoxicating taste of freedom.

We took the train to Waterford, then a bus to Tramore. Karolina’s camera clicked endlessly, capturing the wild, uncontainable joy of escape. The Irish Sea stretched vast and untamed. On Tramore beach, the fair had gone, but it did not matter. We wandered along cliffs, waves smashing against jagged rocks below, laughter spilling over the edges of our voices.

Lunch came in a seaside pub, wind whipping hair and spirits alike. My phone buzzed incessantly. Jack wanted to know where I was, when I’d return. One calm text was insufficient. I typed firmly: I’ll be home when I’m home.

Later, we stumbled on an abandoned rollercoaster. Madness. At the top, a souvenir—a snapshot of two girls with wide, wild smiles, captured in a fleeting moment of freedom.

Evening returned me to Carlow, laughing, light, but the apartment bore scars: a gaping hole in the kitchen wall, a broken gift on the floor. He had not confronted me; he had simply gone to the pub, drowned in drink.

Life still offered small, sharp joys. Rare mornings along the river, mist hugging the town, past the cemetery, far beyond the edges of the familiar. Jack brought fishing lines—no rod—fumbling and muttering, and I laughed at his ridiculous persistence. He never caught a thing, yet somehow, it did not matter. Those ordinary moments, fragile and fleeting, were jewels in the storm of our days.

Jack’s gestures were grand, clumsy apologies: gifts, flowers, oversized cards, borrowed money stretched thin. The chaos he carried was undeniable, yet even amidst it, there were tiny, fleeting bursts of beauty. The tensions never left, though; beneath each romantic gesture lingered a quiet storm, waiting, ever-present.

My body spoke back to the turmoil my mind could not soothe. Eczema flared violently, angry red patches spreading across my back, legs, arms. Creams, baths, vitamins, ointments—all failed. My flesh had begun to mirror the unrest inside me. Each flare reflected the fracture beneath the laughter, beneath the fleeting joy.

And yet, moments of unbridled delight remained. Tramore, Karolina, wind whipping hair, waves thrashing cliffs, laughter spilling like sea spray—those were the hours I clung to, the moments when freedom felt real, however briefly.

Reality intruded, inevitably. Jack’s temper flared. Walls bore his frustrations. Jealousy shadowed every step. But I had grown stronger, bolder. Small victories—a day at the sea, a quiet walk past the cemetery, feeding swans along the misty river—became my proof of independence.

Life with Jack was a rollercoaster, not the glossy ride in magazines, but one that plunged into darkness, twisted violently, then soared unexpectedly into sunlight. Love, fear, joy, freedom, irritation, longing—all mingled, dizzying, exhausting. And still, I could not fully let go. There was something intoxicating in the chaos, something alive in the turbulence of our shared existence.

I learned to navigate it cautiously, to treasure fleeting moments of bliss, to brace for inevitable storms. Perhaps, in that strange, inexplicable way, it was enough.

IRISH LOVESTORY - Into The Same River

 

 copyright©2025

Into The Same River 

It was 2007, and the world felt off its hinges, as if the axis had tilted and I had finally fallen into the new alignment. Jack was gone—truly gone—and for the first time in years, I could breathe without the sharp edge of fear cutting through me. Tamara’s house was strict, every rule posted like a silent sentinel on the door. I was grateful for her sanctuary, yet even within that carefully ordered refuge, a restless hunger took hold. I needed more. My own space. My own life.

By chance—or perhaps by fate—I discovered a small flat by the River Barrow. A quiet new building, humming with possibility, walls freshly painted, floors unscuffed, a place that seemed to promise a life apart from shadows.

“Will you be living here alone?” the manager asked, her voice cautious, edged with curiosity. Her office faced the building, a constant watch over the tenants, a reminder of rules and oversight.

“Yes,” I said, feeling a thrill rise in my chest. “I work downtown. I can manage it myself.”

She laughed, a sharp, knowing sound. “Good. We don’t want any troublesome men here.” There was a trace of bitterness in her tone, the residue of experience hard-earned. I nodded, feeling neither threatened nor guilty. It didn’t concern me.

The rent was 165 euros a week—manageable on my 400-euro salary, leaving room for groceries, small joys, the quiet luxuries of life. I signed the contract, moved in, and let the flat enfold me. Solitude wrapped around me like a soft cloak, a protective shroud. I could step into the streets whenever I wished, return to silence, to peace. Freedom was intoxicating, almost dizzying in its novelty.

And yet… Jack lingered at the edges of my existence. First, a huge bouquet of roses appeared at work. Then Joyce arrived, a friend from his Melaleuca days, sent as a messenger from past to present. I pulled her aside, voice low, trembling with disbelief.

“Joyce,” I said, “would you go back to someone who tortures you—mentally, physically?”

She hesitated, then spoke, steady, unnervingly calm. “But he really loves you. He’s suffering. You should give him a chance.”

The words hit me like a fist to the chest. “You don’t understand,” I snapped. “I am not going back to a man who hurts me. I am not insane.” I let her leave, anger burning hot in my chest, though it ebbed slowly, leaving only the quiet hum of life continuing around me.

Christmas returned me to the Czech Republic, a brief reprieve among family. They noticed the weight loss but said nothing, their relief that I was alive louder than any words. I convinced them, and myself, that I would never return to Jack. Work, my flat, a life that looked steady, secure, complete—that was enough to anchor me, or so I thought.

Back in Ireland, I allowed myself a few small rebellions: brief affairs, fleeting moments that whispered of choice, of freedom. For years, Jack had accused me of betrayal, though I had been faithful. These flings brought little joy, only hollow ache and bitterness curling inside like smoke. I knew, then, that this was not the path to healing, not the way to forget.

Months passed. I built a life that glimmered on the surface: a steady job, friends who came and went, walls decorated with my choices. Yet at night, in the quiet hours, loneliness seeped through. Friends returned to their lives, casual acquaintances faded into indifference. The emptiness pressed down, and my thoughts, inexorably, turned to Jack. My mind screamed to resist, but my heart refused. He had known me in ways no one else had. Freedom felt hollow without him.

Memory became slippery in those hours. The cruelty, the fear, the horror—softened, rationalized, reshaped into shadows I could almost tolerate. In our small town, escape was impossible. Encounters were frequent; later, he admitted they were deliberate, carefully orchestrated, each appearance a bridge across the years we had been apart.

One day, we arranged to meet at Din Rí. I did not know what he intended, nor did I care. The meeting itself, fragile as glass, was enough—a tenuous crossing back into the river we had both once inhabited, where currents of the past lingered, threatening to sweep me under again.

IRISH LOVESTORY - A Thousand Years

 

  copyright©2025

A Thousand Years

It was midnight when Jack finally retreated upstairs to sleep. I remained behind in the living room, the soft glow of the TV illuminating the floor as Queen played. The music wrapped around me like a fragile shield. Then—the sudden, heavy thud of footsteps on the stairs froze me in place. My breath caught, each pulse hammering in my ears. I had no idea what was coming.

Jack burst into the room, wordless, yanked the DVD player from the outlet, and stormed back upstairs. I muttered curses under my breath, shaken but trying to steady myself. I moved to the kitchen, hoping a cup of tea might reclaim some sense of calm. The water began to boil, and then—the thudding returned. Fear prickled along my skin. I grabbed a knife from the chopping block, hiding it behind my back as instinct surged.

He appeared in the doorway. My heart pounded. I didn’t want to use it, but the primal need to survive flared. Moments flashed—then, before I could react, he snatched the knife from my hand, twisting it violently.

“You’ve got this for me?!” he roared, and without waiting for an answer, slammed me to the floor. The kettle toppled, spilling boiling water over my legs. I lay drenched, shaking, helpless. Towering over me, he grabbed my legs, dragging me through the scalding puddle for a few terrifying seconds, before leaving me there, soaked and trembling. Even now, I cannot say what provoked him—perhaps the audacity of music, or the simple act of existing outside his control. He was jealous, even of the dead.

Weeks later, Jack introduced me to David, a friend he planned to rent a small room to on the ground floor—a space we had only used for clutter. I had no objections; our house was large enough, and I clung to the hope that another person’s presence might curb Jack’s violent outbursts, if not stop them entirely. Jack hated witnesses. I prayed David would settle quickly.

At first, it seemed promising. The three of us were in the kitchen; David and I discovered shared interests. Clash of the Titans—every plot point, every character dissected with enthusiasm. Jack stood in a corner, whiskey in hand, draining it with a predator’s pace. The electricity of his gaze sliced through the room. I stifled my excitement, retreating into silence.

It was too late. I saw him crush the glass in his hand, leap from the counter, and sit at the table where I had been talking. David, startled, excused himself quietly, retreating to the living room. I prayed he wouldn’t leave entirely. Fear radiated from Jack like a living, tangible thing.

“What do you think you’re doing?!” he bellowed.

Words failed me. He wasn’t asking; he was asserting dominance. I bolted upstairs, hoping the presence of a stranger might restrain him. I was wrong.

Jack cornered me in Julian’s little room, pinning me to the bed. His weight pressed down, my hands trapped above my head. I kicked, over and over, finally managing to wriggle free after what felt like a hundred attempts. He was like lead, relentless, unstoppable. I screamed for help—David would come, surely—but no one came.

“You won’t do this to me! I’ve known you for a thousand years!” he shouted, trembling, eyes wild. The terror radiating from him mirrored something I had known before, but darker, more consuming. The comfort of my own home offered no protection.

Then, abruptly, as if a switch had been flipped, he collapsed beside me and slept. I rose slowly, careful not to wake him, staggering into the lit living room. David sat on the couch, calm, silent.

“You didn’t hear me calling?” I asked, voice trembling, brushing tangled hair from my face.

“I heard… something. But I didn’t want to interrupt. I thought maybe… you were just arguing,” he said, though it rang hollow.

I told him everything. Words could do little, could offer no real protection—only the warmth of recognition. Hours passed. By morning, we had ordered a box of cigarettes by taxi. I was still trembling, the night’s terror lodged in my chest. Jack, undaunted, acted as if nothing had happened, accusing me of sleeping with David while he slept upstairs. That was the breaking point.

I called Tamara, my long-time friend and one of the few who could anchor me. Jack feared her. He never dared raise his voice or isolate me from her. She was my only ally.

We agreed she would accompany me home. Jack stood at the doorway, arms spread wide, determined not to let me leave. Tamara stood firm on the other side, her voice steady, pleading as though speaking to someone teetering over a cliff. After tense minutes, he relented.

I grabbed my few belongings. We fled. I contacted Jack’s parents, explaining his violence. They arrived at Tamara’s house, silent, perhaps unwilling to fully accept what their son had done, and helped move my things to temporary safety. Jack pleaded, desperate, lost, begging me not to leave.

“It was a mistake! It’ll never happen again, I swear!”

Only his father’s presence protected me, scolding him as a parent might a wayward child.

“Jack, this isn’t acceptable!”

Jack tried to downplay everything, but my resolve solidified. I packed up my life, leaving him behind, never to return. That day, a weight lifted as his father drove me to Tamara’s house.

And yet, the memory lingered—the smell of the kitchen, the echo of his footsteps, the shadow of his rage. A thousand years might pass, yet the fear etched into those nights would never fade.

IRISH LOVESTORY - I Am From Prague

  copyright©2025

 I Am From Prague

One morning, a curious spectacle unfolded, entirely of Jack’s own making. In one of his whimsical moods, he had bought a Škoda Elegance on installments. Sleek, polished, impossible to ignore—a car that demanded attention, yet, of course, he did not have the funds to sustain it. He parked it a few blocks away, in a quiet row of townhouses, probably hoping the dealership wouldn’t notice, or perhaps simply to keep it from prying eyes.

That morning, he shook me awake.

“Go check the parking lot,” he said, eyes bright with something between excitement and doubt. “Make sure I’m not hallucinating.”

I frowned, half-asleep, bewildered by his need for verification. Still, I followed his instructions. And sure enough—the car was gone.

“Are you certain it’s not there?” he asked, suspicion flickering in his gaze. He hadn’t seen it himself; he needed a witness, someone sober, to confirm the truth. I nodded. The car had been towed. Later, I discovered he hadn’t even paid past the first installment.

Jack’s misadventures rarely ended there. One evening, Barry called me at home, his voice tight with irritation but tempered by concern. The topic: Grace. She had a habit of handing out free smoothie vouchers, flooding O’Briens with customers, overwhelming the staff. But this—this was graver.

“Do you know anything about the missing money?” he asked.

“I… what money? How much are we talking about?” I stammered.

“I saw the footage. Grace stole about fifty euros,” he said, disbelief lining his voice.

I blinked. “Seriously?”

Barry sighed, thanked me for confirming, and I could sense him already taking measures. Grace was fired in dramatic fashion, her mother in tow, screaming obscenities. Barry didn’t flinch. Calmly, he escorted them both out. And in that quiet, deliberate act, I felt it: sometimes karma arrives without warning, and it carries its own satisfaction.

Meanwhile, life in The Elms brought small victories. I picked up translation gigs through a Dublin agency seeking Czech interpreters. My first assignment: Social Services, interpreting for a worker interviewing a Czech couple hoping to adopt a boy. Questions pried into every corner—abuse, neglect, despair. I translated silently, observing, absorbing, my own life momentarily set aside.

The second assignment was in court, in Carlow. The agency neglected to tell me the details. Five minutes before the hearing, I met the defendant—a Slovak man in his thirties, whose car had been borrowed by a drunken friend and wrecked. The tension in the courtroom was palpable, the air thick with muted anxiety. The judge’s eyes fell on me.

“Hello, you back there. Where are you from?” she demanded.

“I’m from Prague,” I said, bewildered.

“I don’t mean your hometown—who sent you?”

Ah. Of course. I felt my knees weaken. “A translation agency in Dublin. I’m here to interpret,” I managed.

“Step forward!” she barked. I walked toward the bench, feeling as though I were entering a lion’s den.

At the Bible, I took an oath, my voice trembling slightly. The judge questioned the young man’s liability. I explained, as clearly as possible, that in our country, a license applies to the driver, not the owner. The verdict favored him, relief flooding the room. The young man hugged me, gratitude radiating in his eyes. But when he confessed to knowingly lending the car, my satisfaction curdled to disgust. Liars—they always find a way. I never worked for that agency again.

Jack and his family, meanwhile, were a study in contradictions. Though ashamed at times, they swooped in to patch up the chaos he created. Court hearings, debts, failures—they cleaned up the mess, always. His younger brother, a steady, reasonable man, once tried reasoning for hours, eventually offering help reluctantly, knowing it would never be repaid. Families like his, I realized, often create more havoc than they prevent.

Jack’s compulsive lying became a performance, almost comical to observe. Once he claimed to be shopping on Tullow Street; I followed discreetly and caught him dashing into a pub. Another time, he said he was at a shopping center; the echo on the phone betrayed him in a bathroom. He lied not out of necessity, but as an art, a signature of his chaos.

And yet, consequences occasionally landed back on him in comic justice. I once refused him twenty euros for cigarettes; in a fit of frustration, he kicked a table, likely breaking a bone in his foot, hobbling around like Quasimodo for weeks. Quietly, I savored the irony.

Jack was chaos incarnate—never accountable, always dramatic, endlessly fascinating. And in that, he left me both exasperated and oddly enthralled, trapped in a world where the absurd brushed against the terrifying, and every day promised a new, unpredictable performance.

IRISH LOVESTORY - Lethargy

 

  copyright©2025

Lethargy

Jack drove through towns like a man tracing invisible lines on a map. I often rode with him, claiming curiosity, though in truth I sought the illusion of movement—an escape, however fleeting, from the monotony that weighed on our days. Most towns blurred together: beige walls, half-empty cafés, the occasional storefront with dust-coated displays. Jack would park, stride off to meet a client, sign a contract, and return, leaving me to sip lukewarm coffee, unnoticed by the passersby whose lives seemed to flow apart from mine.

Yet Ireland occasionally broke its pattern. New Ross, with the Kennedy family home, reminded me that history sometimes brushed close enough to touch. Hook Head rose from the water like a sentinel, a lighthouse perched among jagged stones where waves threatened to swallow anyone daring to stand at the edge. Rare moments of illumination punctuated the dull scroll of our travels.

Kilmore Quay was one such moment. A statue of two lovers embraced, staring across the infinite horizon, and for a few hours, the world softened its edges. We ate calamari in a tiny pub, then wandered toward the water, silent companions to the sea’s endless churn. Sand pressed against our feet; wind tugged at our hair. On a rocky embankment, Jack’s fingers brushed a lost wallet wedged between stones. Inside: five hundred euros.

My instinct was immediate. Return it. But Jack’s gaze lingered on the money as though hypnotized.

“If you want to take it, fine,” I said cautiously, “but leave the wallet with the ID. Someone’s looking for it.”

He didn’t answer. He stuffed it into his pocket. Hours later, near a deserted riverbank outside Carlow, he tossed the IDs and the wallet into the current. The cash remained. I stopped arguing. Some choices were his—burdens he carried alone.

Later, in the fragile sanctuary of my room, I tried to carve a line between us. The words trembled on my tongue. Speaking directly was dangerous—I could never predict what he might do.

“Jack, I need to talk to you seriously,” I said, measured but tense.

He seemed in good spirits. “Go ahead,” he said, ears pricked, unaware.

“I… I think we should take a break. Not end things entirely—just… a break. To figure out what we feel for each other.” My words felt brittle, like a paper boat on turbulent water.

He stared, unblinking. I braced for fury, for the eruption that always followed defiance.

“Yeah… well, that doesn’t sound bad,” he muttered, almost detachedly. Relief flickered briefly—a candle in a gust.

“But… that would mean living apart?” he asked.

I nodded. Perhaps understanding could exist in this small, fragile space between us.

Then, suddenly, the air shifted. Jack lunged. His hands clamped around my neck with terrifying weight. I was lifted, dragged to the floor. Darkness crept at the edges of my vision; the ceiling spun. Fear gripped me like ice. This is it. This is how it ends.

I have no idea how long he held me. Seconds? An eternity folded into a single breath. When he finally released me, he looked as if he’d run a marathon, then turned away, disgust in his retreat. I was left shivering, broken, on the floor. That was his answer.

Shock lingered like a storm cloud. I wept for hours, paralyzed. Where could I go? Everyone knew me. No friends to hide with, no money to vanish. I was trapped—and he knew it.

Desperation drove me to his sister, Caoimhe—my only lifeline. With Jack absent, I dialed her number, hands shaking, voice trembling.

“Caoimhe. I need to tell you something.”

Her concern was immediate. “What happened?”

“Jack… he choked me yesterday. I don’t know what to do. I’m trapped. He’s… I’ve never seen this side of him before.” My sobs shattered the words.

“Leave him. Immediately. Seriously,” she said, without hesitation. Her certainty stunned me. Perhaps she had always known. Perhaps this darkness was not new to her.

Because Jack was always ready to rewrite reality. Apologies, regrets, explanations—they arrived in a seamless performance. And when I realized Caoimhe knew, Jack spun a new story for her, painting me as unstable, imagining it all. Every escape route collapsed. Fear chained me in place: I had nowhere to run, and he would find me wherever I went.

I was left with one truth: sometimes safety is a fragile illusion, and courage is a small, trembling ember.

IRISH LOVESTORY - Stephanie

 

  copyright©2025

Stephanie

My black dress, once just another piece of fabric hanging in the closet, became the target of Jack’s unrestrained fury. Months of simmering tension erupted in violent hands, reducing it to shreds. Every quarrel, every petty pretext, was never about the surface issue—it was about power, about reminding me who would always have the last word. If I caught him in a lie, retaliation was inevitable. This time was no different. He made certain I understood.

When he was too drunk, too volatile, or simply too dangerous to reason with, I retreated into my small room—a fragile sanctuary carved from fear. He never objected. Let me vanish behind the door, he did, abandoning me to whatever fate awaited. But one night, I awoke to an unfamiliar glow spilling into the hall. Shadows flickered against the walls, and there he was, looming over me. Rifling through my phone, reading messages and calls as if he had the right to know everything. My heart thundered, yet I feigned sleep, lashes pressed tight, lips sealed by terror.

Jack’s violence became a storm with no horizon, a time bomb ticking louder each day. Explosions came closer, sharper, often sparked by figments of his imagination. I learned to move like glass on the edge of shattering—silent, careful—but no precautions could shield me. I craved every hour away from home. Drink blurred the edges of reality, softened his blows, dulled my resistance into apathetic haze.

It was during this descent that Grace arrived at O’Briens. Young, rough around the edges, unrefined. In Ireland, people like her were called Tinkers—rootless, uncultured. Grace was nothing special, except that unlike Jacinta, she wasn’t my superior. I oversaw her shifts, treated her with fairness, hoping to preserve some peace.

One afternoon, in a brief lull between tasks, Grace mentioned her closest friend: Stephanie, Jack’s first love. The name rang a bell, spoken by Jack once with bitterness. He had loved her deeply—until she betrayed him with Stan, his supposed best friend. Their history lingered like poison: smiles for appearances, but contempt simmering beneath every word.

At first, Stephanie was just a shadow, a ghost from long ago. Until she ignited the fire that would consume what little remained.

The first spark came when Grace, changing in the staff locker room, crossed paths with me. My contacts had vanished—every one, even Jack’s. I could hardly believe Grace capable, yet I remained vigilant. Soon, Jack began receiving messages. Stephanie had reached out.

“So now I see why Grace needed my number,” I said, voice edged with anger.

“She only wanted to ask something,” Jack shrugged. “Don’t mind her. She’s a fool. If she bothers you, I’ll talk to her.”

And just like that, the matter was dismissed. But it wasn’t. Stephanie had found her opening and clung to it. She wrote incessantly, called nightly. His phone buzzed at all hours. He carried it everywhere—even to the bathroom. A lock code barred my view. One night, he left it unattended. I snatched her number, resolved to confront her myself.

A war of words began, hidden from Jack. Stephanie’s messages dripped venom. She mocked me, labeled me an outsider, ridiculed my presence. When I pleaded with her to stop, she only sneered: he was grown, he could choose. And she was right. Still, I pressed on. She wielded insults with brazen, unapologetic skill, coveting a man who was no longer hers. Every stolen cigarette break at O’Briens became another skirmish. Each encounter left me raw, exhausted, tilting at shadows.

One day, in desperate rage, I phoned her. My words were sharp, but they did nothing. Jack, meanwhile, seemed amused—his ego fed by our conflict. I begged him to intervene, to silence her. He refused.

“Then tell her to leave you alone! Be firm!” I screamed.

“I wouldn’t touch her with a ten-foot pole,” he said flatly. “Once, she was pretty. Not anymore. You’ve nothing to worry about.” And that was it. Indifference cutting deeper than any confession.

When it became unbearable, I obtained his call records from the operator. Each page confirmed my dread: long, intimate conversations, daily for months. I laid the evidence before him. He was startled at how I’d acquired it—his own carelessness had betrayed him. Yet even then, he chastised me for invading his privacy, never admitting the truth.

One evening, the weight of it all broke me. In the bathroom, I collapsed, sobbing. Jack approached, cupping my face. For a moment, a flicker of compassion softened his gaze.

“You see…” he murmured, almost moved, “…when you cry like this, it shows me just how much you love me.”

In that instant, clarity seared through me. My tears were his triumph. My suffering, his proof of power. From that day forward, I vowed: never again would I gift him the satisfaction of my tears.