IRISH LOVESTORY - A Thousand Years

 

  copyright©2025

A Thousand Years

It was midnight when Jack finally retreated upstairs to sleep. I remained behind in the living room, the soft glow of the TV illuminating the floor as Queen played. The music wrapped around me like a fragile shield. Then—the sudden, heavy thud of footsteps on the stairs froze me in place. My breath caught, each pulse hammering in my ears. I had no idea what was coming.

Jack burst into the room, wordless, yanked the DVD player from the outlet, and stormed back upstairs. I muttered curses under my breath, shaken but trying to steady myself. I moved to the kitchen, hoping a cup of tea might reclaim some sense of calm. The water began to boil, and then—the thudding returned. Fear prickled along my skin. I grabbed a knife from the chopping block, hiding it behind my back as instinct surged.

He appeared in the doorway. My heart pounded. I didn’t want to use it, but the primal need to survive flared. Moments flashed—then, before I could react, he snatched the knife from my hand, twisting it violently.

“You’ve got this for me?!” he roared, and without waiting for an answer, slammed me to the floor. The kettle toppled, spilling boiling water over my legs. I lay drenched, shaking, helpless. Towering over me, he grabbed my legs, dragging me through the scalding puddle for a few terrifying seconds, before leaving me there, soaked and trembling. Even now, I cannot say what provoked him—perhaps the audacity of music, or the simple act of existing outside his control. He was jealous, even of the dead.

Weeks later, Jack introduced me to David, a friend he planned to rent a small room to on the ground floor—a space we had only used for clutter. I had no objections; our house was large enough, and I clung to the hope that another person’s presence might curb Jack’s violent outbursts, if not stop them entirely. Jack hated witnesses. I prayed David would settle quickly.

At first, it seemed promising. The three of us were in the kitchen; David and I discovered shared interests. Clash of the Titans—every plot point, every character dissected with enthusiasm. Jack stood in a corner, whiskey in hand, draining it with a predator’s pace. The electricity of his gaze sliced through the room. I stifled my excitement, retreating into silence.

It was too late. I saw him crush the glass in his hand, leap from the counter, and sit at the table where I had been talking. David, startled, excused himself quietly, retreating to the living room. I prayed he wouldn’t leave entirely. Fear radiated from Jack like a living, tangible thing.

“What do you think you’re doing?!” he bellowed.

Words failed me. He wasn’t asking; he was asserting dominance. I bolted upstairs, hoping the presence of a stranger might restrain him. I was wrong.

Jack cornered me in Julian’s little room, pinning me to the bed. His weight pressed down, my hands trapped above my head. I kicked, over and over, finally managing to wriggle free after what felt like a hundred attempts. He was like lead, relentless, unstoppable. I screamed for help—David would come, surely—but no one came.

“You won’t do this to me! I’ve known you for a thousand years!” he shouted, trembling, eyes wild. The terror radiating from him mirrored something I had known before, but darker, more consuming. The comfort of my own home offered no protection.

Then, abruptly, as if a switch had been flipped, he collapsed beside me and slept. I rose slowly, careful not to wake him, staggering into the lit living room. David sat on the couch, calm, silent.

“You didn’t hear me calling?” I asked, voice trembling, brushing tangled hair from my face.

“I heard… something. But I didn’t want to interrupt. I thought maybe… you were just arguing,” he said, though it rang hollow.

I told him everything. Words could do little, could offer no real protection—only the warmth of recognition. Hours passed. By morning, we had ordered a box of cigarettes by taxi. I was still trembling, the night’s terror lodged in my chest. Jack, undaunted, acted as if nothing had happened, accusing me of sleeping with David while he slept upstairs. That was the breaking point.

I called Tamara, my long-time friend and one of the few who could anchor me. Jack feared her. He never dared raise his voice or isolate me from her. She was my only ally.

We agreed she would accompany me home. Jack stood at the doorway, arms spread wide, determined not to let me leave. Tamara stood firm on the other side, her voice steady, pleading as though speaking to someone teetering over a cliff. After tense minutes, he relented.

I grabbed my few belongings. We fled. I contacted Jack’s parents, explaining his violence. They arrived at Tamara’s house, silent, perhaps unwilling to fully accept what their son had done, and helped move my things to temporary safety. Jack pleaded, desperate, lost, begging me not to leave.

“It was a mistake! It’ll never happen again, I swear!”

Only his father’s presence protected me, scolding him as a parent might a wayward child.

“Jack, this isn’t acceptable!”

Jack tried to downplay everything, but my resolve solidified. I packed up my life, leaving him behind, never to return. That day, a weight lifted as his father drove me to Tamara’s house.

And yet, the memory lingered—the smell of the kitchen, the echo of his footsteps, the shadow of his rage. A thousand years might pass, yet the fear etched into those nights would never fade.