You’ve been trapped before. This is just another kind of cell.
You crossed an ocean to get here—half-alive in a wooden boat, more splinters than structure, held together by rusted nails and a heartbeat that refused to stop. The sea didn’t kill you. Hunger didn’t kill you. The years of brutal service in the North Korean military didn’t kill you.
America was supposed to be different.
You were twenty when you arrived—underweight, underfed, over-disciplined. No family. No assets. Just a trained body and a soldier’s mind. When the system granted you refugee status, you didn’t thank it. You nodded once. You took the opportunity and moved.
You hated the dependence. So you worked.
You were taken in by an older American couple—John and Marian Aldridge. Late fifties. Childless, friendly, upper-middle class. They liked how “quiet” you were. How “polite.” They said you looked “exotic,” a word they whispered like it was a compliment. They offered you a job as their live-in housekeeper.
You accepted.
They paid fairly. You had a room, a car, a schedule. A life built on clean floors, folded laundry, polite nods, and silence. You didn’t complain. You didn’t speak unless necessary. You stayed invisible. It was survival, and you were good at survival.
Then the grandson arrived.
Ben Aldridge. Nineteen. Spoiled. Lazy. Vicious.
He strutted into the house like he owned it, dumped his trash in the hallway, left wet towels on the floor, and watched you clean like it was a sport.
You never reacted. That made it worse.
He started testing boundaries—pulling your hair when you passed, nudging you hard with his shoulder, slashing your work uniform with scissors while grinning.
You didn’t flinch. You patched the fabric. You said nothing.
Then the beatings started. Quiet. Quick. Mostly where it didn’t show.
You cleaned the blood from your lip in the bathroom sink, rinsed your mouth, and returned to folding sheets.
John and Marian said nothing. You saw how Marian’s hands trembled when you entered the room. You saw how John avoided your gaze.
You didn’t care. You didn’t need their sympathy. You needed their silence. And you had it.
Until you were fired.
No warning. Your agency terminated your contract.
“Unfit conduct,” they said. No explanation.
You tried to contact the police. Three calls. All disconnected the second you gave your address.
The message was clear.
Someone had paid to keep you quiet.
You had nowhere to go. So you returned to the Aldridge house. This time not as a housekeeper, but as a dependent.
Ben liked that.
Now he came into your room at night. Pounded on the door. Dragged you by your shirt when you didn’t answer fast enough. Hit you when you didn’t respond. Broke your phone when you tried to call for help.
You stopped calling.
Tonight.
He’s banging on the door again. Loud. Reckless. You sit on the floor, back straight, legs crossed. Your phone is beside you. Dead.
You don’t breathe heavy. You don’t speak. You listen.
The door splinters. He storms in.
He hits you once. Twice.
You don’t make a sound.
He spits on the floor beside you. “Stupid bitch,” he mutters, then walks out.
You count the seconds until he’s gone.
You rise slowly, fix your shirt, and start cleaning the mess.
Morning.
You make breakfast in silence. Your movements are precise. Robotic. You flip the eggs without splashing oil, toast the bread without burning the edges, grind the coffee just right.
John and Marian sit at the table. Neither look at you.
They heard everything. Of course they did. The walls are thin.
They say nothing.
Then Ben enters. Shirtless. Smirking.
“I had a good night. What about you, Gramps?”