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Death in the Freezer
There were beautiful moments too—moments threaded with tenderness, laughter, and a joy so rare it felt almost sacred. Jack, the man I had fallen in love with, could still make me feel as if the world had narrowed to the warmth of his presence alone. His mischievous laugh, sometimes at someone else’s expense, was a treasure when it landed on me. To see him carefree was a rare gift, and I clung to it, cherishing each fleeting moment. I loved him more than my own life and tried to show it every day. The nicknames he gave me—“donkey,” sometimes “tulip,” or “goofey”—stuck like soft markers of intimacy. I laughed with him at my own missteps, at clumsy jokes that fell flat, and in those shared giggles, I found sanctuary. Even when shadows lurked behind his eyes, humor became our fragile shield.
I remember the first real conflict over Julian. I had shown Jack my Tarot cards, though only the pictures—I didn’t know how to explain their meanings.
“Alice complained that you showed Julian the Tarot cards,” he said a few days later.
“Yes, only the pictures. Nothing more,” I insisted.
Then Alice and her boyfriend Niall expressed a desire to visit. I was nervous at first, bracing for judgment, but soon realized they were simply curious, warm people. Alice was kind and gentle, nothing like the stern portrait Jack had painted. Niall was easygoing, affable, and sincere. We spent the evening watching The Phantom of the Opera, drinking wine, and I demonstrated how we entertained guests back in the Czech Republic, preparing sandwiches with quiet pride.
Later, Alice invited us to her home in Thomastown. I never mentioned our brief encounter from years past. The visit was a delight: we stayed overnight, laughed, and even went to a pub for a disco, dancing with abandon among her friends. We never became inseparable, but I was grateful for her tolerance, her ease around me. I was surprised when Jack admitted that Alice had once tried to kiss him during a rough patch with Niall and had sent messages attempting to lure him back. I felt only pity for her, no trace of jealousy.
Working at the children’s boutique with Irish girls became increasingly fraught. One colleague, Jacinta, seemed to project every insecurity she carried onto me. Just before closing one day, a customer left with a bag I had sold her—but I had forgotten to remove a security tag. The alarm blared. Jacinta attacked mercilessly.
“Are you kidding me? Do you know what could happen if she claimed we made her a thief? The boss would send you home in a coffin!” she snapped.
I remained silent, knowing a fight would serve no purpose. My experiences at Roosters had prepared me for such cruelty. Still, a cold knot of unease settled in my chest, lingering for months.
As Christmas approached, the shop became busier. I was soon assigned the cash register, counting and reporting every cent meticulously. Then one day, Lisa told us the bosses needed to check the cameras: money had gone missing. Panic rose in me—I was supposed to visit Jack’s family for Christmas. When he called, I explained.
“Come home. Don’t talk to them. They can’t keep you by force,” he said, his voice tense with controlled anger.
After an hour, I gave up and left, telling the staff firmly: “I have to go. I didn’t take the money. I don’t know what happened, but I’m leaving.”
Jack was waiting when I arrived. Tears spilled as soon as I sat down.
“Tell me what happened,” he said, taking my hand.
“They think I stole money from the register. I was there… they’ll probably fire me!” I sobbed.
He grabbed his coat and ran into the night. “Don’t worry. I won’t let anyone make a thief out of you!” he shouted, disappearing into the cold.
No accusation followed. Later, Jack confronted Jacinta, making it clear I would not return. Losing the job seemed trivial compared to the security of his support—but a quiet knot of dread remained in my stomach.
We spent Christmas with his family in a small village house, twelve of us squeezed together. Julian was absent, celebrating elsewhere. The warmth of family surrounded us: conversations flowed, punctuated by bursts of laughter. Dinner was simple—boiled ham, Brussels sprouts, mashed potatoes, stewed carrots, thick gravy. Jack’s father orchestrated it all with quiet authority, and I felt a rare sense of belonging. Acceptance into his family reassured me that I had not erred in loving him, yet beneath the surface, subtle tension hummed, unspoken but palpable.
The next day, we exchanged gifts. I had written small poems for each family member and gifted Jack’s father my favorite book, Angela’s Ashes. His frozen expression startled me; I had to explain the plot. Later, Jack laughed:
“You gave Dad a book?”
“Yes. Didn’t he like it?”
“Oh, he liked it… kind of. I forgot to tell you—Dad can’t read.”
I was stunned. He had never learned, working in factories and fields, relying on his wife, yet he was clever and resourceful. That revelation made me admire him even more.
Jack played a little on the piano afterward. There was still so much I did not know about him. He was a good man, despite the shadows that sometimes touched his temper. I wanted to love him, support him, and help guide him out of darkness. I had no idea what I had taken on.
I needed a new job. Jack rarely contributed, and his money was fleeting, enough only for small purchases. But at twenty, I did not seek security or stability; I sought love and believed in reciprocity. I thought if he understood the depth of my devotion, he would treat me as I deserved.
I took a job at Abrakebabra but hated it instantly—night shifts, heat, fumes, constant stress. Eventually, I found administrative work in a family-owned bistro. Jack helped, using his connections to improve the electricity rates. I monitored cameras, tracked hours, managed inventory, and sometimes worked the counter, juggling orders for fifty hungry, drunken customers. Writing orders down was forbidden—it “looked unprofessional.” Jack occasionally drove me home, sparing me a long train ride.
One day, while opening the Kilkenny bistro for inventory, I accidentally locked myself inside the massive freezer. The cold was unbearable. Panic surged. The light flickered, the air smelled faintly of bleach and frozen bread, and I imagined the darkness swallowing me. My heart pounded, my breath came in frantic bursts. My phone sat just outside my reach. I kicked, screamed, imagining I might die encased in ice among frozen goods.
In a final, desperate attempt, my foot struck a red rubber knob—the manual release. The door clicked open. I staggered into the warmer air, shivering violently, laughter bubbling from relief, though fear still clung to my chest. Ordinary spaces, I realized, could become traps in an instant.
Later, I learned another colleague had been trapped for fifteen minutes. The freezer was more than a workplace feature—it was a silent threat, patiently waiting.
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