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.
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