Luna
I hit ‘end’ on my livestream, and I drop my head into my hands.
I rub my temples, trying to ease the stress headache that’s forming behind them.
“I hate putting on a fake smile.” I crack my neck and stand from my computer chair.
I walk from my bedroom to the bathroom and take a hard look at myself in the mirror.
Deep, dark circles around my eyes and dull, lackluster skin stare back at me.
The person I’m looking at looks like a hollowed-out shell of someone who used to be there.
“It’s all that fucking piece of shit, Greg’s fault,” I mumble to myself, opening up my medicine cabinet a little too hard to get my sleeping pills.
I met Greg Russo a year and a half ago at a corporate job in Las Vegas, where I grew up.
He became my boss after our company merged with a competitor, and I got to know him through our constant communication about the project I was working on.
He was exceptionally handsome and charming, especially to everyone in the workplace, which immediately caught my eye.
It was only then that he showed me who he truly was.
I toss my sleeping pills into my mouth, taking a drink from the faucet to wash them down. I grip the sink, my tears sting my eyes, as I swallow the pills down. I stare back at the shell of a person in the mirror, wiping the tears from my eyes.
When I discuss my past with my therapist, quitting my job is my ultimate regret in our relationship.
My therapist has told me to forgive myself, but I just can’t.
I should have known better and never let anyone control my money.
I made that mistake once before and clawed my way out from the bottom up—doing things I thought I’d never do just to feel safe.
But with Greg, it was easy to love him. He let me fall so hard that when I came to him with a vision of our future together, he let me have it.
Once I quit my job, Greg got what he wanted, and all his love-bombing disappeared.
It was like a switch had been turned off, and any emotion he held for me disappeared when I set the last of my things in his living room when I moved in.
I sensed it immediately, but convinced myself I was making it up.
After several weeks of feeling anxious about the growing tension between us, I brought it up at dinner one night.
That’s when he hit me for the first time.
Greg pinned me against the wall and told me I was nothing. That I would always be nothing because he would make sure to keep it that way. That I was a plague on anyone that I came in contact with, and that’s why my parents died, and all the awful things that happened to me were my fault.
I tremble from the memory of that night, and I take a breath, reminding myself that he isn’t here and that I’m safe.
From that point on, nothing I did made Greg happy again—I made him angry whenever I spoke, so I just stopped talking altogether. It was safer that way, and after several months, I was the most miserable I had ever been in my entire life.
I was trapped.
Greg wouldn’t let me leave the house most of the time out of fear that I would leave him or run to the police whenever he left bruises on me, which he did often.
Every bruise he left was followed by an “I’m sorry.
” “I’ll never do it again.” “Please don’t go to the cops.
” “I love you.” Greg’s warped view of love was the only love I’d known in a very long time, and in a fucked up way I was too afraid to let go.
Too scared to be alone again.
My parents died when I was young. I had just turned eighteen, and my mother and father were on their way to a friend's for a dinner party when they were struck by a drunk driver going eighty in a forty-five. My father died instantly on impact, and my mother died shortly after in the hospital from her extensive list of injuries. My father, David, was a Romanian immigrant with no family here or back home, and I never knew anything about my mother, Gwendyln’s, family other than her maiden name.
I tried to look up relatives over the years, but it’s hard when you don’t know where to start.
It was always just us, growing up.
We lived in a small apartment outside of the strip, and it was—perfect.
I had a normal life and a warm home filled with laughter and love, but everything I had was gone in an instant when they died.
My parents had no living will. The moment they left this earth, I had no money, no home, no family, nothing.
I ended up in a homeless shelter after being tossed around to foster families for a year, until I turned nineteen and they could legally kick me from the program, and that’s when I met Anita.
Anita Varley volunteered at the homeless shelter, helping girls in similar situations find employment.
She got me a “once in a lifetime” audition for an exotic dancer spot at a local club called Dollies.
Anita talked up the club and made it sound respectable.
It sounded too good to be true, but I was so young and hungry I didn’t care to see the red flags.
The club's owners loved that I was nineteen—“fresh,” as they called it—and hired me on the spot. Anita set me up in a one-bedroom apartment that her “cousin” Jeff owned. Jeff just so happened to be a partner at the club and told me my rent would be deducted from my club check to make it easy on me. It wasn’t until later, when I tried to leave for the first time, that I realized I had been sex trafficked, and Anita wasn’t my friend, or someone just looking out for me; she sold me to men for a check and left me there.
It was a big scheme I fell for, and I spent ten years clawing my way out of it.
Auditioning at Dollies was a colossal mistake, in hindsight, but it fueled my desire to do better for myself.
When I landed my corporate job, I finally felt like I was getting somewhere—but a measly four years later?
I was wiping blood from my mouth, and stuck in another shit situation because I couldn’t see the glaring red flags in front of me.
Greg tried to make my life a living hell, and he succeeded for a while.
I felt so alone, more alone than I had ever been.
When I worked at Dollies, at least I had the other girls at the club to talk to, but Greg turned everyone I knew at the time against me.
He fed them lies about me and broke off relationships with anyone I was remotely close to to keep me locked up.
I didn’t have anyone anymore. I was desperate for human interaction, so I decided to try the only place I knew Greg wouldn’t find me and ruin it.
The internet.
On a random night, after Greg threw a fit over dinner being served too late, I locked myself in our room and pulled out my phone, typing “Apps to talk to people?” into the App Store search bar, then downloaded the first one that popped up.
It’s a social media app called VidTok, where people make funny videos and skits.
I spent hours on the app, chuckling at the funny videos on my feed.
It was a relief to know that I could still laugh, or at least cope with what I had going on.
But one day, while doom-scrolling, I came across an account advertising a dark romance book about two serial killers falling in love and killing together.
I instantly became obsessed after reading it and downloaded thirty more dark romance books that night.
These books were my lifeline back to reality.
Book after book, I read stories of women in shit situations like mine, and each time, they got back up.
They did so on their own, reclaiming their power.
I wanted to get back up.
That night, my first book, Vera’s Vengeance, was born.
I had no background in English or writing, but I knew I wanted to write a story that would make women proud.
I discreetly signed up for online writing classes and started writing my book.
After researching how to publish my book, I discovered I could self-publish, all without Greg's knowledge.
I created a pen name, Luna Stirling. Luna, for my father; he used to call me “Mica mea lun?”, which means “My little moon" in Romanian, and Stirling was my mother's maiden name. I set up my author account soon after and began formatting and writing the book in four months. I marketed the book on VidTok, which exploded overnight. Vera’s Vengeance was an instant hit with dark romance readers, and I made enough money to escape Greg secretly.
I left in the middle of the night with a small bag of essentials, got on a plane, and flew across the country to Boston.
It’s been several months since I left him, and I haven't heard from him. I thought moving to a big city, with a new name, would be the best option for hiding from your abusive ex, and it seems to have worked. I wasn’t too worried he would try to find or come after me, though.
Greg was broke when I left him; his gambling addiction spiraled out of control, and the company we worked for went under over a bad deal he made.
He blamed me, saying it’s because I’m a plague, and I infected him.
He was so drunk, I don’t think he was in his right mind anymore.
I had to leave before it got worse, before he killed me.
Greg has likely moved on to another girl, another victim, and it breaks my heart every time I think about it.
Sally, my therapist, has told me that I should let go of that guilt because it’s not mine to carry, but the dark parts of my brain won’t let me. Some poor, defenseless woman will suffer at Greg's hands because I’m too weak to do anything about it.
Too weak to go to the cops.
Too weak to fight back.
I leave the bathroom, feeling sick, and I no longer want to look at myself.
When I lie down, silent tears hit my pillow, and I wipe them, trying to calm myself.
“Tomorrow is a new day,” I say, wiping the last tears away.
“Greg was just another guy, but I’m Luna, fucking, Stirling.
I get back up and push on. It’s all I’ve ever done, and I’m not about to fall to pieces now.
” I sniff, shifting on my side, settling into my bed, my eyes growing heavy now that my sleeping pills are kicking in.
If I give up now, I know there will be no turning back—but I’m so tired.
So very tired.