The Luna's Justice

I had a nagging feeling all day, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it. When I looked in the mirror, my reflection showed a small, tired face with dull, hazel eyes lacking their usual sparkle. Leaning closer, I noticed how lifeless my hair fell around me and how my cheekbones protruded from my gaunt face. My body felt like it was carrying the weight of the world, but I clung to hope and whispered words of encouragement in the mirror. My German Shepherd Ella entered the bathroom and pressed against me, sensing my stress. I stroked her and tugged gently at her ear, finding comfort in her presence. As we checked the doors and windows together, Ella's collar jingled loudly. We then made our way to the children's room for our nightly routine. Our little white dog, Peter, was sleeping beside Rosemary who let out a gentle puff of air in her sleep. Rosemary was a beautiful child with dark curly hair and heavily freckled skin. Despite her size, she had a fierce spirit and was wise beyond her 10 years. She was also my best friend and rock - always standing up for what she believed in with courage and grace. I caressed Peter's head with a soft stroke before tucking away Rosemary's curly hair from her face. She always complained about her curls, but I loved them. They bounced in every direction, giving her the nickname "poof." As she slept peacefully, I smiled to myself. "You're such a good boy, keeping those nightmare monsters away," I whispered to Peter. He let out a little snort and nuzzled his face under Rosemary's chin. I turned to look at my son Alexander, who seemed so small and fragile in his blankets. Like his sister and me, he also had freckles sprinkled across his face. His wispy brown hair had hints of auburn, just like mine. With his long eyelashes and angelic appearance, any woman would be envious. I thanked God every day that he didn't look like his father. Even in his sleep, Alexander's bony hands were clenched into fists, a sign of the trauma he had endured alongside his sister and me. He was my little cannonball from hell. In the middle of his sleep, Alexander kicked the wall with surprising force for someone so small. Ella, our dog, rushed over with her bushy tail high in the air. She sniffed him and nudged him gently to make sure he was okay before circling back to me. Sitting down next to me, she looked up at me for approval. I petted her head and her bushy tail thumped against the ground in appreciation. She was proud of herself for keeping watch over her tiny humans while they slept. Alexander grunted and thrashed in his sleep, kicking off his blankets once again. I shook my head and covered him back up, smiling as he let out a snore followed by a little grunt. It's hard to believe he is still by my side. A year ago, his father- my ex-husband Terry- attacked him. Fortunately, a police officer arrived in time to take photos and file a report, leading to Terry's arrest. He was 5'10 and weighed 175 pounds, but his anger and control issues made him seem much larger. Despite never drinking or doing drugs, he had a terrible temper that manifested in violent outbursts. His pitch-black hair and beady eyes always burned with rage, and the birthmark between his eyebrows would turn a deep purplish red when he became enraged. No one was safe around him. I lost count of how many times we endured his screaming fits, destroyed property, and physical abuse. He treated our son Alexander like a toy to be tossed around. Whenever I tried to intervene, he gave me two options: either Alexander would suffer even worse punishment because I had stepped out of line, or I would end up severely injured for standing up against him. He took pleasure in this twisted power dynamic, knowing I wouldn't choose either option willingly. I stood there helplessly, choking back tears and trembling as Rosemary clung to me from behind. After punishing Alexander for being a normal child or interrupting Terry's "me time," it was my turn to face his wrath. I was punished for not raising perfect, silent children who obeyed his every command without question. If the kids didn't fear him, then they didn't respect him. His favorite saying was "Fear equals respect," and he made sure we all feared him one way or another. Trying to reason with him about what real respect meant was pointless; in his mind, he could do no wrong. While Terry didn't physically harm our daughter, Rosemary, he treated her like a servant instead of his child. No matter how much I cleaned or tried to make things perfect, it was never enough for him. I reported his abuse, but no one believed me. They called me a liar and attention-seeker while praising him as a charming and kind man. He could manipulate anyone with his smooth tongue and convince them to do whatever he wanted. It made my stomach churn. The worst part was that he would apologize to others for my "crazy" behavior due to my supposed diagnoses of schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, and other mental health issues. In reality, I had none of these conditions- they were all lies fabricated by Terry himself. Whenever I saw a doctor, he insisted on being there to speak for me and dictate my treatment. Looking back, I realize how naive I was to believe him when he promised to protect me from any kind of harm. Before we got married and started a family, he knew about the physical and s****l abuse I endured as a child at the hands of my father while my mother turned a blind eye. But in the end, he ended up being just like them- or perhaps even worse. Whenever social workers would visit, the holes in the walls would be patched up and painted over, and our bruises would miraculously disappear. During these visits, we were forbidden from speaking; he made sure to do all the talking, charming the social workers and indirectly insulting me as if I didn't exist. My children and I sat with our heads down, fully aware that we would face consequences for these unnecessary investigations. And every time, they left without finding any solid evidence of abuse. He was a perfect husband, taking care of his mentally ill wife and being a dedicated father to our kids. But they never put in the effort to see beyond the façade. There was always something off about the whole situation. As soon as the door closed behind the social workers, I would send my children to their room and brace myself for his inevitable anger. The physical pain from his beatings was unbearable, but the emotional abuse and gaslighting he inflicted on us were far worse. How dare I make him look like a fool? And so, I endured my punishment alongside my children's, which meant he would ignore them for days. But in a sick way, I preferred that to him hurting them again. He would have Rosemary serve him food and rub his back, giving her special treatment that made me question his true intentions toward her. This man was twisted in more ways than one. We were isolated from the world; it was just the three of us. We weren't allowed to have friends or any kind of social life. My kids went straight from school to home; it was their only escape from the abuse, and it brought me some comfort knowing they had at least that much. But after one particularly violent rape, I knew I couldn't take it anymore. s****l assault had become a regular occurrence in my life, but this time left me bleeding and bruised. And as he slept, oblivious to my pain, my soul shattered into a million pieces. I realized then that I meant nothing to him; I was just an object to satisfy his sick desires. And in that moment, I made a plan to escape while I slowly healed from his abuse. I couldn't let my life or my children's lives end like this. His weight on top of me felt suffocating, and his foul breath filled the room as he slept, making me gag. If I didn't get out, I knew I would either die or watch my children be killed before my eyes. My chest ached with the pain of knowing what had become of my life. But despite the fear and anguish filling me, I was determined to break free from him and break the cycle of abuse. After three failed attempts, we finally managed to leave after ten long years. It wasn't easy; I found a job as a server at a shitty restaurant with an even shittier boss, Darren. This man would do anything to boost his fragile ego, including sleeping with any woman who crossed his path. But I kept my head down and did my job; it wasn't great, but at least it was a paycheck. We found a small house hidden in the woods just outside of town. It was a difficult move, with the police trying to convince me to let him see the kids and social workers constantly monitoring my actions. Terry was relentless in his stalking, showing up at their school even when they just wanted to be left alone. Legally, there was nothing I could do and financially, I struggled to make ends meet. Eventually, he filed for divorce and continued his stage show of portraying himself as an amazing father. In court, it felt like no one cared about what I had gone through. My lawyer, who was working pro bono, didn't put much effort into the case. Terry's lawyer argued that marital rape did not exist within marriage, denying any accusations of abuse or assault. My body trembled as I sat in the courtroom, unable to eat or keep any food down. My instincts screamed at me to run away from this man, but everyone else seemed blind to his manipulative facade. They all sat there with smug grins on their faces, fueling my anger. I felt like a joke to them, a waste of their time and energy. They were getting paid regardless of the outcome, so what did they care? It was like they thrived off my misery and taunted me in the courtroom, calling me "oblivious" or "unaware." Tears streamed down my face as I hung my head, always the victim of their mockery. My evidence was dismissed without a second glance, my voice unheard and my children's fate already decided. The judge slammed his gavel and declared a 50/50 custody arrangement with negligible child support payments. It was all a cruel joke to them. Losing material possessions and money meant nothing compared to losing my children to that monster. The judge had handed them over without a second thought, while the Guardian Ad Litem smiled in triumph. And let's not forget that Terry's attorney happened to be best friends with the GAL. With her scrawny frame and wild red hair, she looked like a meth-addicted scarecrow. But in reality, she was just a witch who relished destroying families like mine. In my mind, I cursed these women with every name in the book but I always maintained a respectful demeanor when face to face with them, even though they were tearing apart the worlds of two innocent children. Custody exchanges were filled with horror stories from my kids. My son would come home covered in bruises and marks. They would cry, scream, and plead for their abuser's death. Rosemary would continue crying long after Alexander fell asleep, her tiny body shaking from the weight of her sobs. She would pound the couch cushion in frustration, tears staining her beautiful freckled face. Her once bouncy curls now drooping in anger and frustration. And all I could do was hang my head in shame, angrily wiping away my tears with my sleeve. It burned but I didn't care; I felt like a failure as their mother and deserved every punishment under the sun. No matter how many times I begged and pleaded with social workers to step in and save my children, nothing ever changed. It seemed like talking to a brick wall would have been more effective. I showed them the bruises on my kids' bodies and begged them to listen to what they had to say. But the forensics interviews meant nothing to them; according to the social workers, my children were too young to understand or know what they wanted. Eventually, my kids stopped speaking out of fear of punishment. And all I could do was hate myself for ever being with such an abusive man. I was a worthless piece of s**t for letting this happen to my children. My dogs would pace the floor, sensing my distress. Peter, a small but gentle and kind dog, would wag his curly tail and try to comfort me with licks to my tears. His big brown eyes were always shining with love. And then there was Ella, a large and gentle German Shepherd who would lean on me for support once the kids were asleep. She patiently let me cry into her fur as my world fell apart. Her cloudy eyes showed empathy for my pain, and her soft fur carried a comforting scent of fresh air, grass, and just a hint of corn chips. I had adopted these dogs from the local shelter, knowing how it felt to be unloved and abused. They were like us - damaged goods that no one else wanted. But I poured all my love into them, and they returned it with undying loyalty. They even sulked with me when I had to hand the kids over to their father. We would always greet the kids with a chaotic display of barking, kisses, and shedding fur, making brief moments of laughter in our otherwise tense week. Speaking of fur, if there was one thing my dogs were good at, it was shedding an impressive amount of it. One evening, Rosemary came home and told me about a terrifying incident involving Alexander. He had gotten in trouble at school and tried to lie to avoid punishment from Terry. As he put his face down in shame while telling the lie, Terry snapped and lunged toward him, pinning him to the floor by his throat. Rosemary screamed and tried to intervene, only to be flung off. She continued to plead with him as Alexander looked on in terror from underneath his father's grip "He was shaking, mom. He was so scared he wet himself." Terry was forced to let go in disgust. Rosemary immediately pulled Alexander close, knowing Terry wouldn't harm her. Alexander was crying and coughing, clearly traumatized by the ordeal. Terry demanded that Rosemary clean up Alexander and put him to bed, or else he would kill him. I called the police right away. An officer arrived and took my statement. He then spoke to Rosemary and examined Alexander. It was horrifying to see the injuries on his shoulder blades from being thrown to the floor, as well as bruises around his collarbone and neck. The officer took photos and made a report. That was the last time Terry was allowed to see the children, as he was charged with felony child abuse. However, despite this charge, the courts and Child Protective Services still granted him visitation rights. I fought long and hard to protect my children, but it seemed like no one cared about their well-being. Finally, we were able to get an emergency restraining order for both of them with the help of a new Guardian Ad Litem. As things started going our way, Terry's true colors began to show; his fake persona crumbled under pressure. My children were safe with me for good now, and Terry was facing prison time with only himself for company. People who were too scared to speak up before started coming forward with their own stories of Terry's abuse. The officer who responded to my phone call became a hero in my eyes; watching him confidently stand up to Terry gave me hope and joy. He didn't fear Terry at all, and I will always be grateful for him. Terry disappeared after losing his battle. I have no idea what he's been up to or where he is now. It was the court's turn to do something. I quit my job. I wanted to spend more time with my children and support them through this difficult time. I wanted them to know I would do anything to keep them safe. We were going to be okay. We were finally free. I shook myself out of my deep thoughts and tucked Alexander and Rosemary in bed one last time, whispering, "I love you so much." As their soft breathing filled the room, the nagging feeling grew stronger inside me. It was like cold hands gripping my shoulders, filling me with fear. I shuddered and felt nauseous as if a weight had been placed on my chest. Maybe it was just exhaustion from everything I had been dealing with and my PTSD being triggered. I changed into a loose pink nightdress and crawled under the covers. But even as I closed my eyes and drifted off to sleep, something still didn't feel right. Eventually, exhaustion overtook me like a warm summer breeze. But even in my dreams, there was a lingering unease that I couldn't shake off completely.