The Luna's Justice

The Sequel To The Luna’s Justice is now out!! The Title Is The Luna’s Legacy!!! Something seemed off all day, and I couldn't put my finger on it. I looked at myself in the mirror; my small, freckled face reflected my exhaustion. Dull hazel eyes looked back at me with no sparkle. I placed my hands on the counter and leaned in; my hair fell lifelessly around me. My collarbone was sticking out, and my cheekbones were extremely noticeable. My small frame was holding the weight of the world on its shoulders, but somehow it clung to life, to a small fragment of hope. Leaning closer to the mirror, my pale full pink lips whispered to my reflection in the mirror. "You have gone this far and are doing this for them. You are their world, and they need you. You know the truth. You got this," I didn't believe the words that came out of my mouth, but I figured telling myself this would help me continue this battle. My German Sheppard, Ella, walked into the bathroom, pressing against me. She knew I was stressed. I stroked and gently tugged her ear. "I know, I know," I muttered. She shook her giant body, collar jingling loudly, and walked towards my kid's room. I followed her to finish our nightly routine. We always checked on the locks for the doors and windows together. Then we would check up on my children. My world, my reason for fighting. I left the bathroom and made my way into my kid's bedroom. My little white dog, Peter, was asleep beside my daughter. He looked up, yawning sleepily. He was such a little potato loaf. A gentle puff of air escaped Rosemary's perfect little mouth. She was so beautiful. Her dark curly hair spilled all around her heavily freckled face. She had the cutest button nose. Rosemary was so small, reminding me of a cherub. So kind, gentle, patient, and funny. She was my rock, my best friend. A true warrior in the making. She would stand and voice her opinion whether you liked it or not. She was wise beyond her years and only 10 years of age. I greatly admired her courage. I gave Peter a gentle stroke on the head before gently brushing aside a pile of curls off Rosemary's face. She always complained about how she hated them. Her curls would always look like they were caught up in the wind, curls bouncing off in every direction. I nicknamed her poof. I smiled to myself while watching her sleep peacefully. "You're such a good boy. You keep those nightmare monsters away," I whispered to Peter. He made a little snorting sound, then tucked his face up under Rosemary's chin. I turned around to my son, Alexander. He was so small that his tiny little eight-year-old frame seemed to drown in his blankets. Like myself and his sister, he also had the trademark freckles. His hair was a wispy soft brown color with a hint of auburn, just like mine. He had long thick bushy eyelashes like a fawn, and it was enough to make any woman jealous. Alexander was very angelic looking. I thanked God he did not resemble his father. His tiny bony hands balled up into tight fists while he slept. He was a force to be reckoned with while awake. I called him my cannonball from Hell. This kid has been through hell and back with my daughter and me. He had a lot of trauma inside him, something no child should have to live with. Alexander kicked the wall in his sleep like he did a dozen times throughout the night, his tiny foot packing a punch. Ella rushed over, her bushy tail upright as she sniffed him. She nudged him to make sure he was OK. She watched him sleep quietly for a minute before walking away, circling me before sitting down and looking up at me for approval. I reached down and rubbed her head. Her bushy tail gently thumped the ground in appreciation. She was proud to watch her tiny humans sleep safely under her watch. She was proud to watch her tiny humans sleep safely under her watch. Alexander grunted in his sleep, thrashing the other way, kicking his blankets off. I shook my head as I covered him back up. He let out a snore followed by a grunt. His little lips made a little "pop" sound as he breathed out. It's hard to believe he is still with me. A year ago, to this day, his father, my ex-husband Terry, assaulted him. Only this time around, he was caught, thanks to a police officer who came in time to take photos and a report. Terry was 5'10, a hundred and seventy-five pounds of pure rage. He never drank or did drugs, but the man had a horrible temper and control issues for days. His pitch-black hair and beady eyes were always filled with rage. Black like pools of tar. You knew his anger was building up when the birthmark between his big black eyebrows would turn a deep purplish red. No one was safe around him. I can't tell you how many times he would scream at us, punch holes in the walls and throw things at me, causing massive welts. He treated Alexander like a rag doll. Every time I tried to step in, he would give me two options. Option A, Alexander would get punished worse because I did not know my place, or option B, Alexander would no longer have a mother capable of walking or talking. Terry would grin at me, knowing I did not want either choice. I would stand there choking on tears and shaking. Rosemary stood behind me, clinging onto me as we watched helplessly. After Alexander was punished for being a little boy or interrupting Terry's game time or screen time in general, it would be my turn to be punished. I was punished for not raising perfect, quiet, obedient children. To not be seen and to not be heard. If the children did not fear him, then they did not respect him. Terry's exact words he would spit at me were, "fear is respect, and I will get my respect one way or another," Arguing with him about how that's not how respect worked was pointless. In his world, he was never wrong. Terry didn't physically abuse little Rosemary, but he would treat her like his little child slave. Terry didn't physically abuse little Rosemary, but he would treat her like his little child slave. It didn't matter how much I cleaned the house, how hard I tried to make things perfect, it was never good enough for him. I would report his abuse, but no one listened. They called me a husband basher, crazy, and an attention seeker. He would be so charming, and everyone worshipped him. At least, that's what it felt like. He was a smooth talker and could convince someone to eat dog s**t out of his hand. It made me sick. He made me SICK. He would apologize to people about his crazy wife's stories because I was schizophrenic and bipolar, among other mental health issues. In reality, I was none of those things. These were all his diagnoses. Terry even had the doctors believing his fabricated stories about me and my mental health. I was never able to see a doctor alone. He was always there, watching and talking for me. He dictated my health and treatment. The sad part is before we got married and had kids, he knew how abused I was as a child. My father molested me, and my mother beat me regularly. It's like they would tag-team me. Terry promised never to let anyone hurt me like that again. I remember how he held me in his arms, sniffling in my ear, tears in his eyes. My dumb ass believed him. By the time any social workers came by, the holes would be repaired, painted, and our bruises gone. We would never speak during the visits. He would do all the talking and have the social workers laughing like it was social hour. Terry would even indirectly insult me as if I wasn't there. My kids and I sat with our heads down, knowing we would be punished for these stupid, worthless workers coming to investigate. They would always leave closing the case as there was no solid evidence of abuse. He was a great husband to a mentally ill wide and dedicated father. They never put in the effort. Something always seemed off. The door would close, and I would have the kids go to their room as I braced myself for his wrath. The physical pain was horrible but welcomed compared to the amount of verbal abuse and gaslighting he would dish out. How dare I make a fool out of him. I would take my punishment along with my kid's punishment. I would do whatever I could to take their punishments. He would ignore them for days as punishment. He would have Rosemary serve him food and rub his back. Because of this odd special treatment, I questioned his intentions with her and always kept a close eye. This man was sick in many ways. I was alone. We were alone. The world only existed between the three of us. We were not allowed to have friends. My kids would go to school and come straight home. It was the only free time they had from the abuse. It made me happy to know they at least had that escape. After being violently raped unexpectedly one day, I knew without a doubt that I had to leave. Not that s****l assault wasn't a regular thing for me. This rape incident left me bleeding and bruised. My soul that barely hung onto hope shattered. I meant nothing to him. That was obvious. I planned my escape while I healed as he slept on my slowly perishing body. I was wasting away; this was not how I wanted my life or my kids' lives to end. His weight was heavy on my bones that stuck out. His hot cigarette breath would wash over my face making me gag. Repulsive. If I didn't get out, I would die or watch my children be killed in front of me. My chest ached as I choked on the anguish that filled my chest. I needed to get out, I needed to survive, I needed to break free and break the cycle. I had finally managed to leave him after ten long years. This was after three failed attempts. I managed to find a job as a server. It was a s**t job and the boss, Darren, was a royal class A pig. This man would have f****d anything on two legs to boost his pathetic ego. I kept my mouth shut and did my job. I wasn't good at it, but it was a paycheck. I took my kids with me when I left Terry. We moved into a small house hidden in the woods outside of town. This, however, was no easy task. The police would try to convince me to let him see the kids. The social workers would be constantly on my case, suffocating me with their legal bullshit that never made sense. Terry would stalk us constantly. He would visit the kids at school when they just wanted to be left alone. There was nothing I could do legally. I could barely afford our bills and food. Eventually, he filed for a divorce. Part one of his need to control and start his stage show on " how amazing he was" or, as the judge said, "A great father." I couldn't decide whether the court was absurd or didn't care. I would sit in the courtroom with my sorry excuse for an attorney. He was doing it for free, so why would he care if he put effort into it? Terry's attorney would argue marital rape did not exist. We were married, and it was my duty as a wife to gratify him whether I liked it or not sexually. Domestic abuse had nothing to do with the placement of the kids. They would say how there was a long history with our family. But it always seemed to come down to my claims being false accusations. After all, what terrible man would take on all the debt and let me walk away debt-free? I walked away penniless but debt-free. This man had money, and he played the broken Saint card well. What a mockery. I would sit in the courtroom trembling, fighting back waves of hot bile that tried to escape my throat. I had never eaten before a court appearance. That was why I could never keep weight on; my body would try to abort everything inside of me. My body would scream at me to get away from him. Everyone would be sitting there with their s**t-eating grins. Their calm demeanor enraged me. I was a joke to them, a waste of their time. But they got paid either way, so why the f**k would they complain? It's like they fed off my misery. They would insult me in the courtroom, call me oblivious to this or that. I hung my head as tears burned my face, always the laughingstock. All my evidence was tossed aside, not even looked at or acknowledged. My voice was not heard, and my kid's fate was sealed. The decision was completed after a long, heated court battle. The worst the judge has ever seen, as he would always say to the courtroom. This man needed to eat s**t. What a disgusting excuse of a man who was supposed to use the law to protect those who needed it. He would sit upon his pedestal, as I called it, rocking back and forth, rolling his eyes at every word I had to say, tossing his glasses onto his desk now and then to cause a scene of frustration. I also think he enjoyed making me jump from the sudden noises. Terry would sit back smiling with his hands behind his head, soaking in the glory. The judge slammed his hammer. 50/50 custody, twenty-seven dollars in child support for both kids once a week. What a f*****g joke. The money didn't mean anything. Losing all my belongings didn't bother me. It was the fact my kids were now completely vulnerable to this monster! The judge just handed my kids over!! The Guardian Ad Litem smiled in her triumphant victory. Did I mention Terry's attorney was best friends with the GAL? Her little rat face and red hair made her look like a methed-out scarecrow. Terry's attorney looked like a witch you would see in a horror movie. She was a witch! I called these women every name under the sun in my mind but always paid them respect, even though they were destroying two little people's worlds. Custody exchanges went on as my kids would tell me horror stories. My son would come home to me covered in marks. They would scream at me, cry and beg for their abuser to die. Rosemary would sob long after Alexander would fall asleep. His little body shook from crying his soul out. Rosemary would pound the couch cushion in frustration, hot tears staining her beautiful, freckled face. Her curls would droop in her anger and frustration, her tiny body shaking from the fury deep inside her. All I could do was hang my head in shame, wiping my tears angrily away with my sleeve. It burned, but I didn't care. I was a failure as their mother. I deserved every punishment under the sun. It didn't matter how often I would call, begging the social workers to save them. Why did I keep bothering?! I'd have better luck screaming at a wall. I begged them to look at their bruises, to talk to them. TO LISTEN TO THEM. It also didn't matter with the forensics interviews. According to the social workers, they were just children and were too young to know what they wanted. Eventually, my kids stopped talking because they feared the punishment. I was failing as their mother, loathed myself, and made myself sick. I hated myself for ever allowing myself to be with this man. What a stupid piece of s**t I was. My dogs would pace the floor. Peter would wag his little curly tail, gently licking Rosemary's tears away. He was such a good boy, so tiny but gentle and kind. His big brown eyes were always shining at us. Then there was Ella, the big gentle giant Shephard. She would lean on me and be there for me after the kids fell asleep. My world would collapse, and she would let me lay on her, sobbing into her fur. How patient and loving she was. Her cloudy eyes would look at me with pain, knowing how deep my suffering was. Her only way to comfort me was to be there to take my tears. Her Sable fur would be soaked in my tears. Her fur was so soft and smelled like fresh air, grass with a hint of corn chips. This was always a soothing smell. Peter smelled like a bag of popcorn with a hint of a lingering puppy smell. I adopted these dogs from the local shelter. They were like us, abused, tossed aside as damaged goods. No one wanted them. I knew how it felt to be unloved and abused. I poured my love into these dogs, and they returned my affection with undying loyalty. They loved my kids and always sulked with me when I had to hand them over to HIM. They kept me company, and they kept me sane. We would always tackle the kids when they returned home, smothering them with kisses. We would try to make the best of our little time together during the week. For brief moments, the house would be full of shrieks of laughter, complaints about the dog's smelly breath, and exploding clouds of fur. If there was anything they were good at, it was shedding a glorious amount of fur. One evening, Rosemary came home telling me about a horrific event that had taken place. She had explained how Alexander had gotten in trouble at school and tried to lie about it to avoid a violent spanking. She went on to say how Alexander put his face down in shame, telling a lie, which made Terry snap. Terry lunged toward Alexander, grabbing him by the throat and slamming him to the floor, causing Alexander's head to hit the floor with a loud crack. Rosemary said she started screaming, crying, and banging her fists on Terry's back. He would fling her off with one hand, but she would get back up and continue trying to save Alexander. Terry had Alexander pinned to the floor by the throat. She screamed at how terrified Alexander looked. "He was shaking, mom. He was so scared he wet himself," Good thing he did because it caused Terry to let go in disgust. Rosemary grabbed Alexander, pulling him closer, knowing Terry wouldn't strike her. Alexander was coughing and crying. She said Terry demanded she get Alexander washed up and put him to bed, or he would kill him. I immediately called the police. An officer came over and listened to me. He asked to talk to Rosemary, then asked to look at Alexander. I had to cover my mouth, biting my hand from what I saw. Alexander had healed cuts on his shoulder blades from impacting the floor, bruises around his collar bone, and faint bruising around his neck. Photos were taken along with a report. That was the last time Terry saw the kids. He was being charged with a felony of Child Abuse, but even so, the courts and Child Protective Services demanded Terry have visitation with his children. I fought long and hard. It didn't make sense why this man was allowed to re-victimize my children, who wanted nothing to do with him. Over time, Rosemary and Alexander stood their ground, demanding that all visits be terminated. They no longer wished to be abused, live in fear, or have adults tell them it was OK to see their abuser's face. They had had enough. I filed for an emergency restraining order for both of my children, which was a fight. I had a new GAL, and everything was finally going well. The more it went our way, the more it enraged Terry, and his fake persona crumbled. The kids were with me for GOOD, and all Terry had ahead of him was prison time with his favorite person, himself. His reign of terror was crumbling faster than he could build it back up. People who were too terrified in the beginning started to come forward. The officer on the scene saved us with his testimony. Watching this confident man talk down to Terry made my heart soar and screamed with joy. He did not fear Terry one bit. I will never forget him. Terry disappeared after he lost that battle. I don't know what he has been doing or where he was anymore. It was the court's turn to do something. I quit my job. I wanted to be with my kids more to help them get through this. I wanted them to be reassured I would do anything to keep them safe... We were going to be OK. We were finally free... I snapped back from my deep thoughts, tucking Alexander and Rosemary in one more time, whispering "I love you so much," I looked over my shoulder as their little sleeping sounds filled the air. And that's when the nagging feeling of something wasn't right got worse. It felt like someone had put their cold hands on my shoulders, breathing fear into my lungs. I shuddered, the feeling of nausea taking over. It almost felt impossible to walk, like I had gained 100 pounds. I figured maybe I was just too tired and that thinking about everything just caused some PTSD. I got undressed, put on my loose pink spaghetti strap nightdress, and crawled into bed. My gut was still nagging a weird anxious pull and churn. I took a deep breath and let it out, looking at my clock. It was only 8:30 pm, but I was exhausted. I lay back, closing my eyes, feeling sleep slowly swim over me like warm bathwater. Something still seemed off... Maybe sleep would help me feel better.