copyright©2025
Lethargy
copyright©2025
Jack drove from town to town, hands steady on the wheel, eyes fixed on the road ahead, focused on the next client, the next contract, the next obligation that dictated our days. 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 lives. I watched quietly, noting the patterns of each street, the faces of strangers, the rhythm of life that carried on around us, oblivious to our presence. 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. In New Ross, the Kennedy family home reminded me that history could brush close enough to touch, its quiet presence echoing with stories of power and ambition. Far from there, at Hook Head, a lighthouse rose from the water like a sentinel, perched among jagged stones where waves threatened anyone daring to stand at the edge, wild and untamed. The weight of history and the force of nature collided in these moments, rare flashes of illumination punctuating the dull scroll of our travels.
Kilmore Quay offered one of those rare, fleeting moments when the world seemed to soften. A statue of two lovers in eternal embrace gazed across the infinite horizon, and for a few hours, everything else fell away. 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.
After waiting for what felt like hours, searching for the right moment to address the matter that weighed heavily on my mind, I finally retreated to the fragile sanctuary of my room. I tried to carve a line between us, but 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—he delivered them like a polished performance, so fluid and convincing that even I sometimes doubted my own memory. He could twist events, shift blame, and make his version of the story feel like the only truth. When he realized that Caoimhe knew, or at least suspected, I never heard exactly what he told her—but I was certain he spun a new story for her, painting me as unstable, fragile, imagining it all. It was terrifying to watch how easily he could persuade others, how quickly their sympathy could shift from me to him.
Every escape route began to feel like a trap. Friends turned distant, conversations grew guarded, and I found myself rehearsing my own version of events just to stay anchored in reality. Fear became a constant companion, whispering that there was nowhere to run, no one to trust—that even if I fled, he would find me, and no one would believe me when he did.
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.
One night, when he didn’t come home, panic clawed at me. I grabbed a bag and fled to the city center, booking a hostel for the night. I told myself I was taking control, naively imagining he would search for me—that in this small act, I could claim some power, some revenge. But the absence of any call cut deeper than I expected, a hollow echo of his disregard.
By dawn, the frantic ringing began—and by then, I was already heading back, a mix of dread and defiance in my chest. When I asked where he had been, he offered a ridiculous excuse: stuck in a field, waiting for a tractor. Every word rang hollow; I didn’t need proof of his betrayal. The audacity alone—his lies, his deceit, his brazen indifference—pierced me like a knife. The certainty of what he had done settled in my chest, heavy and inescapable, leaving no room for doubt or comfort.
Stephanie later reached out, blunt and cruel. She claimed they had made love, sending a recording of heavy breathing. Whether it was true or manufactured for humiliation, the effect was the same: sharp, invasive, and suffocating. She even described the inside of our house—but got the details wrong. I corrected her once—and then she vanished. Rage and disgust burned through me. I refused to be terrorized, either by her or by Jack’s infidelity, refusing to let them claim even an ounce of my dignity.
Right after this, new troubles emerged—or so I believed. For days, someone pounded on our windows, but I wasn’t sure if it was the landlord or the police. When I asked Jack, he was evasive, his answers vague, leaving me only with growing unease. He decreed that the curtains must remain drawn at all times, and we moved through the house like ghosts, silent and invisible. By then, I was drained, my will to resist sapped by months of fear and vigilance. Every step felt heavy, every thought sluggish, as though life itself had been slowed to a crawl.
Amid this oppressive haze, Jack suddenly suggested a two-day trip. I had no choice but to follow, numb and obedient. We traveled through backroads and dusty country shortcuts, winding past silent fields and empty villages, avoiding any eyes that might be watching him, anyone who could be chasing him.
The Clayton Whites hotel in Wexford was opulent, a cruel contrast to our frozen, threadbare home. The polished floors gleamed under soft lighting, and the gentle scent of flowered pillows and blankets lingered in the air. We stayed in a spotless apartment; Jack spent his evenings alone in the lobby. I perched by the window, not looking out at the streets, but onto the flat rooftop covered with white gravel. Several times, I climbed out onto that stretch of roof, walking across unnoticed, a fleeting sense of freedom in the midst of anxiety and exhaustion. Loneliness wrapped around me like a cloak, and I no longer even tried to fight back, my energy spent merely surviving the next moment.
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, my regular weekly taxi driver to the lessons, became a small lifeline. Tall, sturdy, with a bold shaved head, he carried a presence that was both calm and reassuring. Always friendly, never intrusive, he offered a quiet steadiness that grounded me amid the chaos.
The classes were full of women, with only one other man besides the instructor, and the energy was contagious. We danced in lines, moving in perfect—or delightfully imperfect—sync, stepping, turning, and sliding together across the floor. With every beat, I felt a little more alive, a little more myself. My body learned to trust its own rhythm, my movements becoming sharper, freer, bolder. Laughter bubbled out of me unexpectedly, a sound I hadn’t heard in months. Each session was a small triumph: a space where I could forget fear, forget Jack, and feel light again. Hours of music, laughter, and motion became salvation. I lost weight, gained strength, felt joy—even if fleeting.
JJack despised it.
“You have no boobs,” 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. As we pulled up, I glanced at Jack’s face, looming in the dark window above. He was furious. I faced his rage with indifference. This time, I did not cry. I met the storm with quiet, stubborn pride. My newfound resilience enraged him. 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. 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.
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