After My Husband Stuffed Me in the Sandbag

I'm lying face-down on the boxing mat in our home gym. Can't breathe right. There's this rope around my neck—feels like it's still squeezing even though Ryan's done with his little "practice session." My wrists are bleeding through the old-style handcuffs he keeps in that stupid prop box. Every breath sends this sharp pain shooting through my ribs. When his boot connected earlier, I heard something crack. Definitely heard it.

Another one of his "action coaching" nights. That's what he calls it when he gets wasted and decides I'm his personal stunt dummy. Last month it was knife work—left me with cuts all over my back. "Gotta keep those skills sharp, babe," he'd said, like I should be grateful.

The gym floor's covered with all his movie crap. Fake guns, rubber knives, chains, more handcuffs. His old action hero posters stare down at me from the walls. Used to think they looked cool. Now they just feel like they're laughing.

There's this tiny sound coming from the corner. Lily's hiding in the prop box again, trying not to make a peep. She's gotten real good at staying quiet when Daddy's "practicing." Three years old and she already knows which props make Mommy bleed. No kid should know that.

I fumble for my phone. My hands won't stop shaking, but I manage to hit Dad's number. The sound that comes through makes my chest tight—champagne glasses clinking, people laughing, that jazz song Stella always requests. They're having the time of their lives.

"Hello? Ruby?" Dad's voice cuts through the party noise. "Why're you calling right now? We're celebrating Stella's Golden Globe win."

"Dad..." I can barely get the words out. "I think... I think I'm really hurt this time. Can you come get Lily? She's just a baby, she doesn't need to see..."

God, how do I even say this? That your son-in-law just used me for target practice again? That I might actually be dying? They'll just think I'm being dramatic. That's what they always think.

The music gets quieter, then Marcus grabs the phone. My brother's voice hits me like a slap.

"Ruby! Seriously? Every damn time something good happens to Stella, you pull this crap! It's Golden Globe night! All of Hollywood's here congratulating us!"

He's really going for it now. "You've been married four years, Rubes. Either you're crying about wanting a divorce or saying you're gonna get killed. You know how big tonight is? Stella's about to make her Oscar run!"

I don't say anything. Can't really. Marcus used to piggyback me around the house when we were kids. Now he acts like I'm some kind of disease. All that laughter in the background—it's like knives. I can picture Stella in her designer gown, surrounded by people telling her how amazing she is. And here I am, bleeding into a boxing mat.

I remember being seven, sitting in Dad's director chair. Everyone called me "little boss" back then. Before I got lost on set. Before Stella showed up and took my whole life.

Sixteen years on the streets taught me things kids shouldn't learn. Working at that convenience store where the manager wouldn't keep his hands to himself. Washing dishes while customers "accidentally" brushed against me. Serving drinks while drunk guys dragged me toward bathroom stalls.

When they found me at twenty-three, I thought I was done with all that. But Stella had already moved into my room, my life, my family. She'd become their perfect daughter while I was gone.

"Ryan's better for Ruby," Mom had said when they arranged this whole thing. "She's tougher. She can handle the rough stuff. Stella's too delicate."

Yeah. I'm tougher. I can take a beating and keep smiling for the cameras. Perfect.

Ryan's passed out on the couch now, mumbling stuff about "street trash" and "doesn't deserve to act." Half an hour ago he was explaining how this was all "method acting."

"Real action stars gotta understand violence, Ruby. You should thank me for helping you get into character."

Right. Thank you, Ryan. For breaking my ribs. For making my three-year-old daughter hide in a box full of fake weapons.

Every breath feels like someone's lighting matches in my chest. The blood's spreading under me, making this dark circle on the mat. Lily's still in that prop box. She won't come out until she's sure Daddy's really asleep. Three years old and she's already got survival instincts that would make a street kid proud.

My phone buzzes. Stella's texting me while I'm dying.

Tonight was PERFECT! Everyone says I'm the next Oscar winner! Dad's buying me that Beverly Hills place! 🏆✨

I stare at that message for a long time. Then I do something I swore I'd never do.

I call her.

"Stella..." My voice sounds like sandpaper. "I'm sorry. For everything. For being jealous. For trying to compete with you. I'm... I'm begging you. Please come get Lily."

I actually press my forehead to the bloody mat. Once, twice. Each time it makes this sick thudding sound.

Stella's laugh comes through crystal clear. "Oh my God, Ruby! Are you seriously bowing to me right now? This is incredible! Seven years I've been waiting for this!"

I'm so weak, the words come out wrong. "Save... save Ruby home..."

The laughing stops. "Wait, what? I thought you wanted me to save your kid. Now you wanna come home? You really think you can just waltz back into my life?"

I meant Lily. I meant to say Lily. But I can't fix it now.

Dad gets back on the phone. "Ruby, enough drama. I'll swing by the set next week, okay? We'll grab coffee or something. Right now you need to let us celebrate."

Next week. He's actually gonna visit me. First time in sixteen years he's offered to see me on purpose.

But I won't be here next week.

I turn my head toward the prop box. Lily's eyes are wide in the dark, watching me.

I'm sorry, baby. I wanted to save up enough money, make a plan, get us both out of here. I really tried. But I'm not gonna make it.

Maybe it's better this way. I won't have to pretend I'm okay anymore. Won't have to smile for cameras while wearing makeup to cover bruises.

But what about Lily? Will she end up like me? Spending her whole life begging for love from people who'll never give it?

Everything's getting fuzzy around the edges. The pain's fading, but so is everything else.

I can't wait anymore. I'm dying.

Lily, I'm so sorry. Mommy couldn't save you from this place.

I hope ghosts are real. I wanna watch over you just a little longer.