Whispers of a Former Life: Episode 27

“A Pequeño? I haven’t seen one of you up this close in a long time.” 

Alejandra’s words crashed down on Charity like falling walls,  not just heard but felt, vibrating through her ribs, pressing the air in her lungs flat against her heart. There was no mercy in the sound, but there was no cruelty either; only raw surprise, roughened by the deep warmth of Alejandra’s accent that wrapped every syllable in a softness that made the power behind it feel all the more immense. 

Charity’s mouth parted, instinct trying to force an apology, a plea, an excuse, but nothing came out. Her throat fluttered uselessly. She had screamed so many insults in her life, spat so many biting words at girls like Alejandra, yet now when all she wanted was to speak something human, her voice had abandoned her completely. 

Above her, the giant girl shifted. Charity’s eyes locked, helpless, on the massive outline of Alejandra’s hand lifting from where it had rested. She watched, transfixed and petrified, as the fingers unfurled like living pillars of flesh and bone. Shadows danced across the smooth planes of Alejandra’s thigh and across Charity’s quivering body as that hand rose, then descended toward her. 

It moved in a way that defied sense, impossibly fast and yet endlessly slow. Every nerve in Charity’s tiny body braced for contact, every muscle coiled like a cornered animal. Her mind gibbered incoherent prayers to any indifferent god that might still listen: Don’t squeeze me. Don’t crush me. Please… please… 

For a heartbeat that seemed to stretch an eternity, Charity thought she saw her entire life reflected back at her from Alejandra’s wide, searching eyes: her cruelty, her petty games, her power, all of it dissolving like a drop of ink in an ocean the size of this girl’s world. 

The hand hovered inches above her, vast, alive, the faint scent of Alejandra’s skin and faint undertones of soap and sweat filling Charity’s nostrils in the oppressive warmth beneath that hovering palm. She had never thought before about how human hands carried warmth. Now it felt like standing under a low, living sun. 

In that suspended second, a horrible, helpless thought flared behind Charity’s eyes: This is what bugs feel. That pure, instinctive fear. that sickening knowledge that all it would take is one careless flex of those fingers, one absent-minded twitch of that wrist, and she would vanish under a palm that would never even remember feeling her bones break. 

But the grip never came. 

Instead, Charity felt a shift, the slightest tremor of fabric under her cheek, then the world lurched as Alejandra’s giant fingers dipped not toward her but past her. The shadow deepened as those thick digits closed gently around the rolled joint that had pinned her tiny body against the warmth of Alejandra’s thigh. 

In the span of a blink, what had felt like a log pressing her flat was lifted away as if it weighed nothing at all. The pungent, suffocating reek of raw marijuana was whisked up and away into the stale room air, leaving Charity gasping, lightheaded and embarrassed by how much freedom the removal of that single object gave her fragile body. 

She lay there, small, rumpled, shaking, on the broad rise of Alejandra’s thigh, feeling her own heartbeat like a frightened bird trapped in her chest. Above her, Alejandra tilted her head slightly, thick brows furrowed, the joint pinched easily between forefinger and thumb — the same fingers that could have wrapped her entire torso in a casual grip. 

A faint puff of breath escaped Alejandra’s nostrils as she studied her, so close now that Charity could see the flecks of deep brown in the girl’s dark eyes, the faint sheen of oil on her nose, the faint glisten of lip balm on her full mouth. 

“Mira, mira,” Alejandra muttered, more to herself than to Charity. Her voice rumbled through her chest, vibrating the muscle and flesh beneath Charity’s cheek. “What are you doing here, chiquitita…?” 

It should have sounded gentle, an amused question, maybe even affectionate, but to Charity, who had once commanded entire rooms with the flick of her tongue, it felt like an indictment: What are you doing here, under the hand of a girl you once dismissed as furniture? 

Charity forced her elbows under herself, trying to push up on trembling arms. She failed twice before managing to brace herself half-upright, her entire body quivering like a leaf caught on a windowpane. She could feel the slight tremor of Alejandra’s breathing through the thigh muscle beneath her knees, feel, in real time, how easily this living ground could shift and send her tumbling again. 

Her mind spat feeble rationalizations: This isn’t how it was supposed to be. Her father’s warnings about the virus, the whispered assurances that their wealth would protect them, that the right people at Generitech would have the real cure, all of it worthless now. Because here she was: filthy, weakened, half-starved and perched like a lint ball on the lap of the Mexican girl who scrubbed her toilet bowls. 

And Alejandra, wide-eyed but calm, did not move to pick her up. She simply watched her. Watched her squirm, watched her struggle, watched the mighty Miss Stevens wrestle with the terror that came from having no agency left in her bones. 

Charity’s lips cracked apart. She tasted salt and stale weed smoke in the air as she croaked, so small and broken she barely recognized her own voice: 
“Alejandra… I… please…” 

But her throat closed on the words. It wasn’t even a command, nor a plea that made sense, just raw need spilling out from what was left of her dignity. 

Above, Alejandra took a slow, incredulous drag from the joint she’d just freed from Charity’s back. Her eyes never wavered from the tiny, shaking creature on her thigh. 

Smoke curled lazily from the corner of her mouth, and when she spoke, her words drifted down like soft thunder: 

“Pues, look at you now, patrona. So small. So quiet.” 

Her gaze softened, but the power behind it did not. 

And in that moment, the room thick with smoke and silence, Charity finally understood: the queen of the hallway was gone. And in her place, barely bigger than a doll, sat something that only survived now by the mercy of the housekeeper she had once ordered around without a thought. 

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