Withstanding the Enemy

s**t, that stings. The smell of alcohol penetrates my nostrils as I lift the soaked gauze from my already swelling cheekbone. Man, he got me good this time, I think, as I assess the damage caused from his iron fist. The half-inch cut stretched along the thin layer of my cheek and my left eye is already swelling shut with a bluish-purple ring. Damn, there goes my freedom. I know Rick will be locking me in the penthouse until all evidence of his abuse has disappeared. Disappointment fills my heart and I turn my attention away from the mirror; I am no longer able to look at myself.  I go over the events that caused me to be trapped in this damned prison again. Like I always do when I am alone and bruised.  At the tender age of sixteen, I ran away from my last foster home thinking I knew what monsters looked like: a fat belly under a filthy dishwater grey wife-beater, covered with the stench of cheap cigarettes; a man who was a drunk with wandering hands. I ran before that asshole had a chance to get to me, like he did with some of the other foster girls. Before I ran, I overheard a few of the girls talking about Rick Stevens, saying that he hires young women and doesn’t care about their age as long as they will work. They claimed he provided accommodations and a decent pay. Knowing he was my only real option, I made up my mind and set out to find him. I realize now that I didn’t have a clue about real monsters back then. Even my youth in the poorest of neighborhoods in New York City—where terror flooded the streets—pales in comparison to what being with Rick has been like. Seven years … but it feels like a lifetime ago.  Rick’s building is one of New York’s finest skyscrapers with an abundance of floors (twenty to be exact), filled with guards buzzing around—all of whom are completely ignorant to my desperation.  There is a famous nightclub which is the highlight of the building. It is aptly named Club Envy and it takes up the first three floors of the building. I think Club Ugly is a more fitting name, with all the egotistical males flashing around their money and acting like chauvinistic pigs. All while woman circle them like vultures starving for their next meal-ticket—I hate having to go to that place. Once, in an attempt to get away from the club, I snuck away only to be caught by one of the guards. His name was Chance. When he stopped me, he said he didn’t want to report back to Rick what I was doing, so I should turn back. He is definitely one of the friendly guards—the words tall, dark, and handsome also come to mind when thinking of him…   I shake my head and turn my attention back to the black and blue eye staring at me in the mirror. I reach for the concealer in hopes of covering up the mess on my face but my hand clumsily bumps into something solid and my eyes dart to the floor just as my press concealer hits the hard marble and blows up in a puff of dust.  Really? Could I be any more awkward? I think as I lean down to clean-up the mess.   “Ms. Emma Andrews,” a familiar voice sends a vibration of fear down my spine, stopping me immediately.