22. Luna
Luna
Age Twenty Two
“You better have this place cleaned up by the time I get home.”
The door slams.
The walls tremble from its force, a cruel echo that rattles through my bones. My breath catches in my throat, but I don’t move. I don’t flinch. I don’t cry.
Not anymore.
Because everything hurts.
547.5 days.
13,140 hours.
788,400 minutes.
That’s how much time has passed since my father was killed.
That’s how much time has passed since my husband’s true colors started bleeding through the cracks of his carefully crafted mask.
We were high school sweethearts. Four years apart, it didn’t matter that he was a senior and I was a freshman. He was charming and kind—my family adored him. They were thrilled when I told them I was leaving for the military so we could always be together.
I thought I had my fairytale.
But fairytales don’t exist.
365 days.
8,760 hours.
525,600 minutes.
That’s how long it’s been since my husband first backhanded me so hard my nose broke.
Before that, he made a point to avoid my face. So, no one would notice. So, no one would ask questions.
“Why don’t you just leave?” It’s everyone’s solution.
Like, gee, thanks—why didn’t I think of that?
The first time he laid hands on me, I grabbed Nova and stayed at a friend’s house.
He found me within hours.
He cried when he begged for my forgiveness. He said it was because he was stressed from burying my father before his deployment that he hadn’t fully grieved yet.
I forgave him.
I was twenty. Naive.
Wrong.
I was so wrong.
Not even two months later, he hit me again.
243.36 days.
5,841 hours.
350,460 minutes.
That’s how long it’s been since he came home drunk, beat me within an inch of my life, and then raped me.
“You can’t rape your wife. The law doesn’t allow it,” he told me. He was so proud of himself when he said it like he’d cracked some code.
"I own you, Luna."
Those words became my prison.
Then it was weeks.
Then days.
Then hours.
The time between his wrath became shorter and shorter.
I tried to leave two more times.
Both times, he found me. Both times, he punished me.
He told me if I ever tried again, he’d ruin me.
He said he’d tell everyone I was a cheating whore.
It wasn’t true.
But fear makes lies feel real.
Even if I wanted to leave, I couldn’t.
We were stationed at the same base.
He controlled our bank accounts, our house, my phone.
He controlled everything.
But I found a way out.
People will call me selfish.
People will call me a coward.
“Why didn’t she get help?”
“Why didn’t she tell us?”
“Why would she leave her family behind?”
“She took the easy way out.”
Easy?
I grew up in the Bible Belt. Suicide is a sin.
But I’m already in hell.
I’d rather my soul suffer for all eternity than spend one more second on this earth while that monster is still breathing.
I limp to the bathroom, my ribs aching, my vision hazy.
Nova sits outside the door, whining.
I fill the tub with scalding water.
I read online that if you slit your wrists and submerge them, it speeds up the process.
I’m halfway through the first wrist when I hear scratching at the door.
Nova.
In my letter, I left instructions for my mom to take her. She loves her like she’s her own.
She’ll be okay.
But I can’t let her see me like this.
That’s why I locked her out.
I finish the first wrist.
Blood seeps into the water. It coils like ink, swirling, twisting, spreading.
I press the wound to my chest, my other hand shaking as it grips the shard.
That’s when the door bursts open.
A woman stands there. Tall. Strong.
She’s dressed in all-black tactical gear, her stormy gray hair pulled back.
Behind her, Nova sits, wagging her tail.
“Luna, you don’t want to do that.” Her voice is calm. Commanding.
She looks at me like I’m some wild animal, poised to strike—or flee.
I keep my wrist pressed to my chest, my other hand shaking as it grips the shard.
“Who are you, and how do you know my name?” I demand, voice raw.
She steps forward. Unshaken.
"My name is Isabella Holmes," she says steadily.
“GET OUT!”
She doesn’t.
She takes another step forward, hands raised.
Then, she raises her voice. “And I help people like you, Luna.”
“Help?” My voice cracks as I glare at her, clutching the shard of glass tighter. “No one can help me from that monster, so I’m helping myself!” I sound like a banshee, but I don’t care anymore. The words pour out of me, fueled by pain and exhaustion.
Isabella steps forward cautiously. Her eyes are calm but sharp and unwavering in their focus on me. “Luna, if I can get you away from your husband and this situation, will you continue to fight?”
Her words catch me off guard, and I feel my grip on the glass falter. My shoulders tremble as I shake my head. “I have been fighting! For over a year, I’ve fought, and I—” my voice breaks, sobs wracking my chest, “I am tired.”
Hot tears stream down my face, blurring my vision. The shard feels heavy in my hand, but not as heavy as the weight I’ve been carrying.
Isabella takes another step closer, her voice soft but steady. “I know you’re tired, Luna. I know how much it hurts. But you don’t have to do this alone anymore.”
Her words chip away at the walls I’ve built, but I don’t trust them. “What do you know about pain? About being trapped? You don’t know what living in constant fear is like!”
Isabella’s gaze sharpens, and she reaches for the hem of her shirt. In one fluid motion, she pulls it up just enough to reveal a long, jagged scar that runs across her abdomen.
“Do you see this?” she says, her voice low but fierce.
“This reminds me of the day I thought it was over for me. I was beaten, broken, and left to die by someone who said they loved me. But I survived, Luna. And I didn’t just survive—I became stronger.
I joined an organization that helped, trained, and gave me the tools to fight back—not just for myself, but for others like me. ”
I stare at the scar, the reality of her words sinking in like a slow tide. My breathing hitches as I lower the shard slightly.
“You’re not alone,” Isabella continues. “You’re not weak, Luna. You’re a survivor and have so much more strength inside you than you realize. If you let me, I’ll help you. I’ll train you. I’ll ensure you’re never at his or anyone else’s mercy again.”
My hands shake violently, the glass slipping from my grip and clattering to the floor. “I just want to be normal,” I whisper, my voice broken and raw. “I just want to stop hurting. I’ll do anything… anything to feel normal again.”
Isabella steps closer, kneeling by the tub so she’s at eye level with me.
“Being normal was never meant for strong women like us, Luna,” she says gently.
“We were meant to rise from the ashes, to become something greater. All I need from you is a leap of faith. Give me your wrist, and I promise you, everything will change.”
For a long moment, I sit frozen, her words swirling in my mind. Then, with trembling hands, I hold out my wrist to her.
As soon as my wrist is in her grasp, I collapse forward into her chest, sobbing uncontrollably. “I want help,” I choke out between gasps. “I don’t want to feel like this anymore. Please, help me.”
Isabella wraps her arms around me, holding me tightly.
The embrace is firm, grounding—like she’s physically pulling me back from the edge of oblivion.
Her voice is soft but unshakable as she whispers, “You’ve already taken the hardest step, Luna.
From now on, I’ll ensure you have the help you need. You’re not alone anymore.”
The words hit like a wrecking ball, shattering the suffocating weight pressing down on my chest. I exhale sharply, my body trembling as the fight drains out of me. For the first time in so long, I feel something other than fear and numbness.
Hope.
True to her word, Isabella got me transferred to a different base, severing the last chain and tethering me to my old life. My divorce was granted without a fight—I didn’t want a single thing from him—not the house, not the money, not even the photos that once meant something.
Let him keep it all. Let it rot with him.
He’s still alive—unfortunately—but he’s nothing now. He was dishonorably discharged when the truth of what he did to me came out. He was kicked out of the military in disgrace and discarded like the useless piece of filth he is: no rank, no purpose, no legacy.
Forgotten.
But I didn’t just move forward. I burned every bridge leading back to him.
It wasn’t until later that I learned how Isabella found me—how the EAO tracks and rescues women like me before they disappear into the statistics of "unfortunate accidents" and "isolated domestic disputes."
Their system is relentless, a network woven into places most people never think twice about—hospitals, urgent care clinics, police reports that vanish into bureaucratic limbo. They monitor patterns, anomalies, and the whispers beneath the surface of everyday life.
? Too many ER visits for "accidental falls."
? Too many "I ran into the doorway" excuses.
? Too many invisible bruises that only trained eyes know how to recognize.
They don’t wait for women to ask for help.
They hunt.
They dig.
They pull them out before it’s too late. Before they become just another name in a cold case file, another statistic buried in a system designed to fail them.
Isabella had seen the signs—the red flags I thought I had buried.
My medical records—the fractures, the bruises, the repeated hospital visits that never entirely lined up with my explanations. The silent calls to emergency services were always cut off before I could speak. The way my world had shrunk to the size of a cage.
Isabella found me before I disappeared completely.
The EAO has rules. Strict ones. It is against policy to personally go after our abusers. Looked too suspicious. Too emotional.
But something in me snapped the day she found me bleeding out in that bathtub.
It also awakened something dark.
Something dangerous.
I realized then—I didn’t just want to be saved.
I wanted to fight.
I wanted to burn the world and revel in its ashes.
I couldn’t go after my ex directly—not yet—but that didn’t stop me from hunting down every single one of his friends and family members who knew what he was doing.
Who heard my screams and did nothing.
Who he bragged to, laughed with, and shared details like I was some sick trophy.
And one by one, they fell.
By accident.
By misfortune.
By "unfortunate circumstances."
And I did it all with a smile.