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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.
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