I wasn’t going to share this, but I’ve come to realise that writing can be healing. Sometimes, we need to shed light on the darkness and carve out room for the painful stories that change us. Hence, this is my ordeal, my horrifying encounter, an ostensibly ordinary night turned nightmare. The day notorious burglar Carlos Moreno shattered my sanctuary in Ireland’s province of Connaught, in the heart-stirring beauty of Galway.
Galway, a small city etched on Ireland’s west coast resonates with warmth, craic and sublime music, coupled with its cobblestoned streets. However, behind its unassuming charm, lurked a darker side- often hidden beneath the undulating tunes of its famous street performers and magnificent view of the Atlantic.
Let’s plunge into the past. Into that dreaded night I wished never happened – Wednesday, February 20th. The air was icy cold as winter loomed over the city’s emerald landscapes and cosy households. It started as an incredibly mundane day – wake up, rush to work at ‘GMIT’, return home late evening, brew a cup of tea and then dive into the realm of a good mystery novel. Who would’ve thought that reality itself would spin a tale far more ominous than my book ever could?
Sometime close to midnight while I was caught in between dreaming and waking: I heard it. The atmospheric silence ruptured by something alien – a prolonged creaking sound travelling towards me — growing louder with each heartbeat. Struggling through my sleep-induced haze, I pinned it to the wind or probably some stray cat disturbing the bins outside my kitchen.
In retrospect, I wish I had acted quicker.
Slowly subsiding back into the sheets, a sudden new sound pushed me upright. The chillingly familiar sound of my living room window sliding open caused me cold perspiration. Desperately praying for it to be my imagination, I tiptoed towards the door bracing myself for whatever that awaited on the other side.
In the milky glow of the moonlight, I saw him – Carlos Moreno. His image as haunting as those in the wanted posters. A malicious silhouette imprinted against my household decors, his eyes darting around as if he owned the place!
The sight of him gripping onto my grandmother’s precious vase, a memento from her days at Bunratty Castle extracted a terrified gasp from me- ultimately revealing my presence. Like a beast locked onto its prey, he turned towards me. For a minute that stretched agonisingly long, we stood there frozen in silent confrontation, our eyes locked – fear in mine mirrored by a certain depravity in his.
And then it happened – with an unnerving speed that belied his lanky frame, he flew at me. His hands clasped around my throat like iron cuffs as my knees buckled under fear and fleshly weakness. But it was not the choking grasp that petrified me – but the icy gaze on his face, drained of any human emotion.
I struggled, fought like my life depended on it — because it did. Yet, being ensnared beneath this beast didn’t break me — it awakened a newfound resilience within me. Perhaps it was the thought of losing my grandmother’s precious memento or the sheer will to survive: I kneed him and broke free from his dreadful clutch.
Snatching up the nearest weapon – an old bronze figurine sitting atop my bookcase — I lunged at him. In no time he scampered off as suddenly as he had barged in, leaving behind more than just an unsteady living room; a shaken faith.
The aftermath was deafening silence. Oblivious to the chaos minutes ago, serene tranquillity resumed its reign outside maintaining stark contrast to my chaotic interior. That night by no means, heralded end to the terror rather marked the beginning of a lasting trauma- one that altered life’s tone from warmth and security to insecurity and anxiety.
The day Carlos Moreno burglarized my home wasn’t simply about stealing materialistic belongings or invasion of privacy; it was an exceedingly violent storm in the quiet ocean of existence. It’s strange, shocking even, how your own home can transform from being a place of safety into a horrifying crime scene within mere moments.
Echoes of that night are still prevalent; they continue to haunt every corner of my home and each beat of my heart. Yet amidst this stripped reality, I hope to find strength once again — for trauma may wound our hearts, but it cannot define us.