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The Raid
The plan had seemed harmless enough. Karolina and I would spend the evening at her flat. I told Jack where I was going—not to seek permission, but to stave off the explosion I knew would follow. His silence had been misleading, a pause that I mistook for acquiescence. Usually, his gaze—or that of his watchers—followed me everywhere. Stepping outside that orbit felt surreal, a quiet rebellion.
Karolina lived on the other side of town with Lukas, in one of those identical terraced houses that vanish into the streetscape like ghosts. But inside, it was a sanctuary. The afternoon unraveled slowly, like a melody, faint and delicate: Toto videos flickering across the screen, the aroma of cooking mingling with laughter, the unguarded warmth of friends. For the first time in weeks, I felt my shoulders unclench. Everything felt normal. Safe.
Until the messages began. Jack’s words stormed across my phone, relentless, impossible to ignore.
“You must come home immediately! I forgot my keys and can’t get in!”
I knew instantly it was a lie. A pulse of defiance surged. Karolina’s calm presence, the haze of a few drinks, gave me courage.
“I’ll come when I come. Don’t try to manipulate me with the keys,” I typed, fingers steady despite the heat in my chest.
By 10 p.m., we parted. The taxi ride home was quiet, but each meter crawled with dread. And then the apartment door swung open. The kitchen light spilled across the floor, glinting off shards of broken glass. The bedroom remained dark. Jack lay there, stretched out, silent, the keys in his hand the whole time. Every word, every lie, every manipulation—a trap I had walked into.
The moment I realized, he moved. Fast. I hit the floor. Air ripped from my lungs. He straddled me, fist arcing toward my face. Darkness swallowed me for seconds that stretched like hours. A waking nightmare, cruel and precise.
When I surfaced, the ceiling spun above me. Jack loomed, inhuman, shouting. I begged, pleaded, but he would not relent. Blood ran freely from my eye, cut by his ring, and he did not care.
“Let me see in the mirror! Something’s wrong with my eye!” I screamed, hysteria raw in my voice. But he blocked me. I ran; he tackled me again, weight pressing, obsession crushing.
“Don’t you know how much I love you?!” he roared.
“How can you love me?!” I gasped. “You say one thing and do another! Let me go immediately!”
“I need you! Do you understand?!”
“I don’t need you!” I screamed, exhaustion bleeding into defiance. Somehow, I slipped free, dashed to the kitchen. He followed, relentless.
Finally, I glimpsed myself in the mirror. The reflection was alien: bruised, battered, broken. Fear knotted with fury. I demanded an ambulance. He lit a cigarette, indifferent, advancing.
Panic erupted, instinct kicked in. I seized a large kitchen knife, hands shaking, pressed it toward him.
“One more step and I’ll kill you, you bastard!” My voice trembled, sharp.
A thousand scenarios flashed: death, retaliation, endless cycles. Something inside me stopped my hand. I bolted toward the balcony, knife in hand. He shoved me out, slammed the door, lock clicking like a gunshot. Trapped. Chest heaving, knife trembling, pressed against cold glass.
And then I saw him—face close to the window, eyes wild, twisted amusement on his lips. He was safe, behind the glass, mocking my terror.
Defiance ignited. Fear exploded into action.
“Help! Somebody! Please! He’s going to kill me!” My voice shredded the night. No one answered—but the scream was for me, for the part of me refusing to be caged.
Then, salvation: three figures appeared below.
“What’s going on? Do you need help?” A sharp, fearless voice.
“I’m trapped. My boyfriend beat me. Please help me!” My panic-laden words carried, raw.
Through a small window, I watched them—determined, unflinching, drawing near. Soon, medics arrived. Calm hands guided me from the balcony, knife surrendered, safety restored. Relief surged, mingled with disbelief.
The paramedics tended to my injuries. My eye swollen shut, blood running freely, bandages applied. Shivering, shock seeping in, but their calm anchored me.
“We need to take you to Kilkenny for further treatment. You’re lucky; your eye isn’t permanently damaged,” one said. I nodded, numb, panic creeping as I realized my apartment was inaccessible, my belongings trapped inside, my phone gone.
Only one place came to mind—Karolina. Miracle remembered. A short ride later, medics knocked, and Karolina opened the door. Wide-eyed, she ushered me inside, guided me to the guest room, tended to the bleeding, stayed by my side. I did not sleep. Morning found a bloody puddle on the pillow, yet she remained calm, unwavering.
Despite the ordeal, she insisted on accompanying me to work. Sunglasses hiding my battered face, we entered O’Briens. Barry’s expression shifted immediately, disbelief cracking into protective resolve.
“Grab your things and come with me. Don’t ask questions,” he said, firm, paternal.
He drove me to the police station. Fluorescent lights hummed, sharp shadows slicing the corridor. Barry’s presence grounded me, steadying my panic. Nigel, calm, authoritative, examined my injuries, photographed my battered eye, and recorded the events. The officers, armed and vigilant, fanned out. Every step, every sound, the tension of imminent confrontation pressed in.
Barry led, police flanking, rifles ready. Streets under dim lights felt unreal. Heart hammering, I clutched my jacket, haunted by Jack’s face. At the edge of Riverdell, officers moved cautiously. Listening devices confirmed his presence. Breach attempts began, doors tested, locked, barricaded, immovable.
Seconds stretched into eternity. Jack’s silence was a knife twisting in the chest. Officers called out, voices firm, reasoning. I stepped forward, trembling.
“Jack? Open the door. Police are here. Cooperate. Nothing will happen.” No answer.
Order given. I was moved out of view. Then came the force, boots battering the door, splintering wood, dust hanging in the air. Chaos contained. Officers subdued him. The apartment, prison and battlefield, emptied of terror. Relief poured through me, mingled disbelief.
Barry remained my shield. He drove me to the doctor, where nurses and physicians tended to bruised flesh with clinical precision and quiet care, aware of the trauma beneath.
A week later, sitting at O’Briens with sunglasses, Barry’s brother John slid into the seat opposite me. Light jokes, cautious concern.
“What happened?” he asked, surprise genuine.
“My ex,” I said, bitter smile tugging at my lips.
He stiffened, processed, and offered gentle words, careful not to pry. Some wounds are not for casual conversation.
On my way home, Tony, a taxi driver who had seen me countless times, stopped midstreet, shock and anger in his eyes.
“Don’t tell me that bastard did this to you! I’ll smash his face!” Protective fury flared, but I shook my head. The bitter cup was mine alone to drink.
Days later, at Carlow Women’s Aid, the small town refuge for battered women, I found structured care. Forms completed, options explained—reporting, barring orders, court protection. In theory, Jack could no longer attack me at home. Reality remained uncertain. Still, a fragile shield existed—a promise that, in some small way, I was no longer completely defenseless.
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