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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.
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