Protecting What's Ours

By Mirabella Mooncrest

When Rosalind married Jonathan Cramble, she thought her boys finally had a good man to look up to. She was wrong. When pain and suffering become her everyday reality, Rosalind flees with her children to find a better life. She never expected to see her old middle school friend Stephen again but to her surprise, fate had its own plans. But all good things come with a price. Will Jonathon let her move on? Or will he destroy everything good she's been working for, including her children's safety?
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mirabella Mooncrest
• Release date: Apr 9, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224023295

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

A squelch, followed by a soft thud as warm, musty, two-day-old tea is thrust on me, becoming my new headwear. My husband stands a foot in front of me, shouting profanities at me while our children watch horror-stricken in the doorway. It’s only very recently that the abuse has begun taking place in front of the children. There was always verbal abuse in front of them, but it seems Jonathan is getting rather bold and isn’t hiding behind his youth minister façade anymore.

You can’t throw things at my mommy! Fredrick yells, shattering my heart.

No nine-year-old should have to see this or even know it exists. His seven-year-old brother, Jacob, cowers behind him as their stepfather approaches them, fury etched on his face.

I watch in horror as Jonathan picks up Fredrick, slamming him on the bed across my feet, pinning him across the chest.

How dare you tell me what I can and can’t do with my wife, you fucking moron?! he shouts, inches from my sweet boy’s face, spittle flying everywhere.

My gut is ripping itself apart not knowing how far he will take things and knowing I’m not strong enough to stop him. The weakness has spread throughout my body while enduring this abuse for the past two years since we got married. While doctors tell me they don’t know what’s wrong, I watch the man I once thought was a good, godly man allow his mask to fall away and the monster lurking beneath show himself.

You are just as stupid as that fucking slut on the bed! Think you’re a big tough guy, do ya? Not so tough now, are ya? Fucking useless. Get out of here before I have to teach you a lesson! he rages, once again picking up my scared child and setting him on the filthy carpet, shoving him toward his terrified little brother.

My precious boys cast a glance at me, silently asking me if they can go and if I’ll be okay.

Go on, sweet boys. Momma’s okay. I’ll be up to see you in just a few minutes, okay? I plaster the best reassuring smile I can muster, knowing it doesn’t reach my eyes.

Satisfied, Fredrick leads his brother up the stairs toward the living room, where I know my husband's parents are listening to the abuse, but never interfering.

How can anyone hear this and not help?

I have given up after nearly a year of living in their basement and them constantly blaming me for the abuse, saying I push him too far by not being obedient and not allowing him to touch me. Why would I ever let the man that constantly belittles me and mocks my disabled disposition to touch me? I wish he didn’t even breathe the same air as me.

Enraged that the children looked to me for confirmation of his orders, he leans in close to my face. You must be real fucking proud of yourself for that fucking bullshit. Those kids deserve a mom that will teach them how to be God-fearing men one day instead of the fucking pansies that only listen to you and can’t even stand loud fucking noises.

Jacob has a sensory disorder. You know he can’t control that! I argue, trying to make him see for the eight hundredth time that my youngest is special needs and can’t control certain aspects of his life.

Does it look like I’m believing that fucking bullshit of an excuse for him to just ignore me? He shouts, his temper rising even higher.

I know I should stop arguing, but he knows that my son’s special needs is a trigger for my temper because he can’t help it. It seems to be his favorite way to get a rise out of me.

The doctor even told you⁠—

You mean the fucking doctor you probably slept with to get that diagnosis? Yeah, real fucking believable, Rosalind! You’re lucky I’ve fucking put up with you and those fucking brats for the last two years! I wish you would just fucking curl up and die so I can finally raise them how they should be without your fucking input! he shouts, slamming his hand into the wall above my head as he leans further into my face, pressing his nose against mine too rough to even be considered remotely caring.

I keep telling you, I didn’t sleep with the doctor! It only took so long because it’s an hour away and they ran a ton of tests on him, including sensory deprivation testing. Those diagnoses are one hundred percent real, and you know it! Your ego is going to hurt my child, and I will not sit here and watch it! I shout, shaking from head to toe from a mix of fear and adrenaline.

"What the fuck are you gonna do about it? You can barely fucking walk to the bathroom or help with chores! Any fucking judge in their right mind would snatch my kids from you and throw you into a home for fucking mental patients!" he screams as he presses his face painfully closer.

I taste the metallic flavor of blood. He will never hit me with a fist because then, as he says, he wouldn't be able to deny putting a hand on me, therefore skirting the truth. Instead, he resorts to throwing things at me, dumping things on me, or pinning me with his body or forearms. And if there is ever a mark, he simply denies it was him and everyone believes him.

They aren’t your fucking kids, and if I can ever get them away from you, we will disappear, I grind out against the building pressure from his rough face pushing into mine like a cinderblock.

A sinister grin spreads slowly across his face, and he backs away and stands up. Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong. The adoption makes them my kids. You can’t do shit about it, and no one will ever believe that a children’s minister would do any of the things I’ve done. You’re trapped, you’re fucked, and you’re fucking useless.

He hawks a loogie onto my chest and waltzes out the bedroom door, slamming it behind him, as if cementing me into this hell.

I have to get my kids out of here. He’s going to kill us; of that, I’m sure.

CHAPTER 2

I lie in the bed, waiting to hear the front door slam before I dare venture out of this room, lest he fly off the handle at my audacity to go check on my children.

SLAM!

The breath whooshes from my lungs, and my body deflates at the safety I feel knowing he is gone and won’t be back for at least an hour, as he drives around, no doubt calling his brother to bitch about the fat, lazy, bitchy slut he has for a wife. This has been the same routine since we moved here last year after facing eviction. I kept getting too sick to work, and he got in trouble at work, giving him an excuse to quit every job he landed as he justified it by saying that I got to stay home, so it wasn’t fair that he had to work a job he hated. It’s the same thing over and over again, and it’s not lost on me that he seems to take pleasure from hurting me and the children.

I pick up my pink, purple, blue, and white polka-dotted cane and crack the old dirt-colored white door, listening for a moment to make sure he didn’t trick me by pretending to leave. The last time that happened, I wound up with a fat lip and bruised cheek from him head-butting me. Satisfied that I can hear his mom rocking in her chair and his stepdad’s steady heavy breathing, but not him, I creep up the noisy carpeted stairs avoiding the clumps of dirt, hair, and trash as I climb. They haven't cleaned this house in over ten years, and I offered to help before I saw it, but I am always too sick and sore to be of much help.

As I reach the living room on the main floor, his mom, Beth, is getting up from her rocker with a glass in her hand. "I wish you’d stop pissing him off so we didn’t have to hear all of that. You need to get