Trapped In His Cruel Six Year Contract

Essie stood in the cramped, moldy bathroom of her Queens apartment. She frantically dabbed thick layers of cheap concealer over the dark purple bruise on her neck.

She pulled a tight, high-necked black turtleneck over her head, making absolutely sure the fabric covered Kieran's violent mark. She threw her blue scrubs on over it.

Essie grabbed her worn-out backpack and walked out into the freezing New York night, heading toward the subway station.

By 1:00 AM, the harsh fluorescent lights of the emergency room were blinding. Essie pushed a metal medical cart down the aisle between the trauma bays.

Inside her scrub pocket, her phone vibrated aggressively. It didn't stop. She pulled it out just enough to see Kieran's name flashing on the screen.

Essie ground her back teeth together. Her stomach churned with anxiety. She thumbed the mute button, silencing the vibration, and shoved the phone deep into her pocket. She refused to look at it again.

At 3:00 AM, the red trauma alarm on the wall started spinning wildly. The ear-piercing wail of an ambulance siren rapidly approached the bay doors.

The automatic doors slammed open. Paramedics rushed in, pushing a bloody gurney at full speed.

"He was assaulted!" one of the EMTs yelled over the chaos. "Found him near the Washington Square Park. They pushed his wheelchair over! He took a hard fall, multiple lacerations, suspected mild concussion—but he's on blood thinners, so we didn't want to risk a closer facility."

Essie snapped on a pair of blue latex gloves. She grabbed a stack of sterile gauze and ran alongside the attending doctor toward Trauma Room 1.

They shoved the gurney under the massive surgical lights. Essie looked down at the patient groaning in agony, his face covered in a mask of blood.

The stack of gauze slipped from her fingers and hit the linoleum floor with a soft thud.

It was Charles.

Essie's brain flatlined. A high-pitched ringing filled her ears. Her knees buckled, and she grabbed the edge of the metal bed rail to keep from collapsing to the floor.

"Essie! Pressure!" the attending doctor barked, snapping her out of her frozen state.

Essie forced her lungs to take a breath. She grabbed a fresh pack of gauze, her hands shaking violently, and pressed it hard against the deep gash pouring blood on Charles's forehead.

Charles thrashed weakly on the bed. He was half-conscious, spitting out slurred, angry curses through bloodstained teeth.

It took an hour of frantic suturing and bandaging before Charles's vitals stabilized. They wheeled him into the observation ward.

At 6:00 AM, Essie's grueling shift finally ended. She peeled off her blood-splattered isolation gown and threw it in the biohazard bin.

She walked into the observation ward. Charles was awake. He was propped up against the pillows, staring darkly at the ceiling tiles.

Essie went to the front desk, signed his discharge papers, and grabbed a spare folding transport wheelchair from the rack near the exit.

She didn't say a single word as she helped him into the chair and pushed him out the sliding glass doors of the hospital.

The early morning streets of New York were empty and freezing. Essie raised her hand and hailed a passing yellow cab.

The driver got out and helped shove the folded wheelchair into the trunk. Essie carefully helped Charles slide into the backseat.

The cab bounced over a pothole on the ruined Queens asphalt. Charles hissed in pain, his hand flying to his bruised ribs.

Essie turned her head. She looked at his swollen, purple face. "Why?" she asked, her voice trembling uncontrollably. "Why were you fighting?"

Charles turned his head away, staring out the dirty window. He was silent for a long time. His hands balled into tight fists on his lap.

Essie saw his jaw clench, then tremble. She had seen that look before—when they were kids, when their mother's boyfriend would lock him in the closet. He wasn't angry. He was ashamed.

"I know what you think of me," Charles finally said, his voice cracking. "After what I said to you that night... I know you think I meant it."

Essie froze.

"I didn't." He still wouldn't look at her. "I was just... I hate that you're with him. I hate that I can't do anything about it. And I hate myself for taking your money when I know where it comes from. So I called you names because... because it was easier than admitting I'm useless."

A tear slid down his swollen cheek, cutting a clean path through the dried blood.

"Those thugs on the corner," Charles ground out through his teeth. "They were laughing. Calling you a whore who sells herself. And I thought—I thought if I just sat there this time, I'd be no better than them. Than me."

The words hit Essie like a sledgehammer straight to the chest. A tidal wave of suffocating guilt crashed over her, drowning her instantly.

She bit down on her bottom lip so hard she tasted blood. Tears silently spilled over her eyelashes, dropping onto her knees. She gripped the hem of her turtleneck, pulling it tighter around her neck.

The cab pulled up to their rundown apartment building. Essie paid the driver. She pulled her muted phone out of her pocket.

The screen lit up. 50 missed calls from Kieran.

This notice lay there quietly, like a death sentence.