copyright©2025
Lethargy
copyright©2025
Jack drove through towns as though tracing invisible lines on a map, his hands steady, eyes fixed. I often rode with him, claiming curiosity, though in truth I sought only the illusion of movement—a temporary escape from the heavy, dull monotony that clung to our days. Most towns blurred together: beige walls, half-empty cafés, the occasional dusty storefront. Jack would park, stride away to meet a client, sign a contract, and return, leaving me to sip lukewarm coffee, unnoticed by the passersby whose lives seemed to flow in a parallel world.
Yet Ireland occasionally broke its pattern. New Ross, with the Kennedy family home, reminded me that history could brush close enough to touch. Hook Head rose from the water like a sentinel, a lighthouse perched among jagged stones, where waves threatened 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 in eternal embrace gazed 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 between my toes; wind tugged at our hair. On a rocky embankment, Jack’s fingers brushed against 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 if 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 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. My lungs screamed for air, but his grip tightened. 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. My vision tunneled, heartbeat hammering like a drum. When he finally released me, he slumped back, sweat on his brow, chest heaving. Disgust colored his retreat. I lay on the floor, trembling, broken. 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.
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.
The winter that followed was merciless. The oil for heating our house mysteriously vanished. A new tank cost a fortune. All through December, January, and February, we walked around in sweaters, slept under layers of blankets. Each morning, I would wake to see my breath rising into the frigid air. I went to the bathroom just to warm myself under hot water, so I wouldn’t freeze. If there was such a thing as hitting rock bottom, that was it. And yet, somehow, we still pulled together, despite everything collapsing around us.
I hardened myself with resolve—not so much out of love for him, but sheer survival instinct. Somewhere inside, plans of escape began to form—plans of freedom. And still, it was as if I waited for something even worse to come. With every new attack, I grew numb to the next level of violence.
I once confided in a friend: “I don’t know if I’m so strong that I don’t leave him, or so weak that I no longer can.” Leaving felt impossible. Something bound me there, invisible chains coiling tighter with every heartbeat. Panic-stricken fear paralyzed me, stripping away the ability to decide. I was afraid even to breathe, let alone escape.
For the longest time, I couldn’t name it—I couldn’t call it abuse, couldn’t admit that the man I had loved was exactly what he was: an abuser.
Stephanie kept striking at our relationship, relentless and uncompromising. By then, I no longer blamed her; I blamed him. He was weak—a coward and a fool.
One night, when he didn’t come home, I packed a bag and fled to the city center, booking a hostel for the night. Naively, I thought he would search for me, that I could punish him, at least in this small way.
He didn’t call once that night. Only at dawn did the frantic ringing begin—by then I was already on my way back. When I asked where he had been, he claimed he had gotten stuck in a field, waiting for a tractor. I knew he had been with Stephanie. Whether intimacy occurred was irrelevant. The betrayal, the audacity, was enough.
Stephanie later contacted me bluntly, claiming they had made love, sending a recording of heavy breathing. Whether it was true or fabricated for humiliation, it cut deep. She even described the inside of our house—but got the details wrong. I simply corrected her and she disappeared. I refused to be terrorized by her or by Jack’s infidelity.
New troubles emerged with the landlord, or so I thought. For days, someone pounded on our windows. Jack decreed that curtains must remain drawn at all times, and we moved through the house like ghosts. Amid this harassment, he suddenly suggested a two-day trip. I had no choice but to follow.
The Clayton Whites was opulent, a stark contrast to our frozen, threadbare home. We stayed in a spotless apartment; Jack spent evenings alone in the lobby. I sat by the window, sick with anxiety, waiting for whatever came next.
Life at Jack’s side had worn me thin. His lies, deceptions, and evasions repulsed me. Even the physical violence—the choking—had begun to feel almost mundane. What haunted me more were the psychological assaults: interrogations, manipulations, fabrications of reality.
I briefly sought freedom. I signed up for salsa classes at the Talbot Hotel—a rare escape. Tony, steady and kind, became a small lifeline. Hours of music, laughter, and motion became salvation. I lost weight, gained strength, felt joy—even if fleeting.
Jack despised it.
“You have no breasts,” he sneered, disgusted by my slim figure. He crushed my joy, turning my hard-won progress into a source of humiliation.
Jealousy flared again one evening when Tony dropped me home. I faced Jack’s rage with indifference. This time, I did not cry. I faced the storm with quiet, stubborn pride. My newfound resilience enraged him, and he knew it was time to tighten his grip.
Jack’s fury simmered, a slow, dangerous fire that could ignite without warning. Each day, I learned to navigate his moods, stepping lightly through a minefield of invisible rules. Every glance, every word, every hesitation was scrutinized, cataloged, weaponized against me. Even my breathing seemed to betray me.
The psychological torment became relentless. He questioned my every move, dissected my thoughts with surgical precision, and twisted my reality until I no longer trusted my own perceptions.
Yet even in the darkest hours, there were moments that cut through the gray: a laugh in the salsa studio, the warmth of sunlight on my skin, the rare taste of autonomy. Slowly, my body and spirit changed. I realized that even in submission, I retained a fragment of self that he could not touch. And in that fragment, I found a spark of hope—a promise that one day, I would reclaim the life he had stolen.
The pattern of abuse, the manipulation, the constant surveillance—it was a prison, yes, but it was also a teacher. I became fluent in fear, in anticipation, in quiet rebellion. I waited. Not helplessly, not passively, but with a calculated, quiet vigilance. Every act of cruelty, every lie, every attempt to bend me, became a piece of the map I would one day follow out of that dark labyrinth.
Because in the end, I understood the unshakable truth: no matter how tightly he tried to bind me, no matter how relentless the storm, there would come a day when I would walk away. And when that day arrived, it would not be with tears or fear—but with the steady, unyielding rhythm of someone who had survived.
Even lethargy, even despair, could not extinguish the ember of hope. And though the journey was long, though the nights were endless, I began to realize: I was still myself, still human, still capable of freedom.
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