Charity didn’t realize how long she’d been staring at Alejandra’s hoodie until the giant girl’s voice rumbled above her.
“Here.”
One word. Not a request, a decree, plain and final. Before Charity could even process it, the heavy weight of fabric, her hoodie, her shelter, dropped in front of her like an avalanche of warmth. The air shifted with it; the faint smell of Alejandra’s skin, her soap, the smoke from that pungent joint, all spilled out with the cotton folds.
Charity didn’t hesitate. Pride had died long ago, somewhere between the first stair she climbed down and the moment Alejandra’s fingers pinched her up like she weighed nothing at all. She scrambled forward on all fours, legs trembling, palms skittering on the cold coffee table, and dove headfirst into the hoodie’s neck hole.
Inside it was dark, and for a moment her new little eyes flared with that strange sharpness, the gift of her cursed metamorphosis. What used to be blackness was now a realm of grays and faint edges. The hoodie’s inner walls formed a cave of stitched seams, a chaotic nest of lint and Alejandra’s smell: shampoo, sweat, and that earthy weed smell she hadn’t noticed when she was big enough to tower above it all.
Charity curled in deeper, tugging folds of the cloth around herself until only the tip of her nose poked out. Warmth returned in careful degrees, burrowing into her chest like a timid pet. Her shoulders dropped. Her heartbeat slowed from a gallop to something just shy of manageable.
For one fragile second, hidden in the borrowed heat of a hoodie she’d once have mocked for looking cheap, she felt safe.
She could hear Alejandra’s movements outside: the faint scrape of the plaid backpack being set on a shelf, the soft shuffle of slippered feet across warped floorboards. Every sound vibrated faintly through the table and through her own ribs, each footstep a reminder of how immense the girl was now. Not just in size but in presence.
Charity pulled her knees tighter to her chest, focusing on the soft drum of her own heart. She wanted to hate Alejandra for this. She wanted to hate her for being big, warm, and immune, when she and her family, with all their old money and marble floors, were now at the mercy of people they’d once paid in cash under the table.
But even now, tucked away in the stolen den of a cleaner’s hoodie, some bitter part of her knew she couldn’t hate Alejandra for any of it. Not really. How could she hate someone for surviving?
She could hear drawers opening in the kitchenette. A faint hiss, oil hitting an old skillet. The smell of frying egg drifted into her cave. Her stomach, the same stomach that once turned up at the smell of her father’s burnt toast, cramped painfully now. She pressed a fist against it, glaring at her knuckles through the gloom.
Don’t whimper, she ordered herself. Don’t beg.
Time passed slowly inside the hoodie. Light bled through a corner where the hem gapped just enough for her to see Alejandra’s silhouette moving about her small studio. She caught snatches of Spanish words under Alejandra’s breath, muttered at the old laptop perched beside a chipped mug.
Charity’s eyes flicked over the giant’s back: the faded tank top riding up slightly at the hem, the brown shoulders strong and relaxed. This girl, seventeen, undocumented, illegal, had the freedom to stand tall in her own apartment, to move as she wished, to cook an egg in her own pan. Charity, once the queen of her father’s estate, couldn’t even stand upright without ducking her head inside a threadbare hoodie for warmth.
Something inside her twisted painfully. A tangle of envy and self pity that tasted like acid on her tongue.
A sudden shadow fell across her makeshift burrow. Charity flinched as the hem lifted. Light flooded in, stinging her new eyes for a moment. There was Alejandra’s face, framed by the halo of her wild hair, her skin warm against the apartment’s single yellow lamp.
Alejandra set down a plate: a fried egg broken, toast and couple pieces of bacon, and next to it a chipped mug, half-filled with milk so fresh and white it looked like luxury. For a moment Charity only stared. The smell punched her in the ribs: fat, salt, warmth. Her mouth watered painfully.
She didn’t move. Couldn’t.
She felt Alejandra’s gaze on her like a weight.
“Come, chiquita. Eat. Tomorrow… we figure this out. But tonight? You live my way.”
Charity hesitated. The hoodie edge slipped off her shoulder as she crawled forward, dragging her limbs like lead weights. The air bit at her skin where the fabric no longer shielded her. She glanced once at Alejandra’s eyes, impossibly deep and calm, a dark ocean she couldn’t read.
With shaking hands, she broke off a piece of egg as big as her own fist. It was greasy and hot and so delicious she almost cried. The first swallow burned her throat, reminding her how empty she really was.
When she dared to look up again, Alejandra had turned away, pretending not to watch, but Charity knew she did. Every crumb, every gulp was laid bare between them: the girl who once gave commands now surviving on scraps in her maid’s living room.
Inside her head, a voice that still thought it was big whispered: You will never forgive this. And you will never forget.
She wasn’t sure if that made her stronger, or just smaller still.
Looks like they are in a small way bonding and it’s really making thinks they are not link together but we still have to wait and see
I kinda think Alejandra’s gonna take advantage of Charity. it’s still too early to tell for me though. I can never read this person
I can never read that guy
Hahahah nice reference
0) Happy Smallara.com anniversary. Two years already!!!
1) “Charity didn’t hesitate. Pride had died long ago, somewhere between the first stair she climbed down and the moment Alejandra’s fingers pinched her up like she weighed nothing at all.” I’m sure it’ll be back
2) “Charity curled in deeper, tugging folds of the cloth around herself until only the tip of her nose poked out. Warmth returned in careful degrees, burrowing into her chest like a timid pet” that just sounds too damn cute to be charity.
3) “She wanted to hate her for being big, warm, and immune, when she and her family, with all their old money and marble floors, were now at the mercy of people they’d once paid in cash under the table” That’s a normal way to feel, though entirely middirested.
4) “Some bitter part of her knew she couldn’t hate Alejandra for any of it. Not really. How could she hate someone for surviving?” Well… she hated Sara for less.
5) “This girl, seventeen, undocumented, illegal, had the freedom to stand tall in her own apartment, to move as she wished, to cook an egg in her own pan. Charity, once the queen of her father’s estate, couldn’t even stand upright without ducking her head inside a threadbare hoodie for warmth” oh how the mighty have fallen
6) “She broke off a piece of egg as big as her own fist. It was greasy and hot and so delicious she almost cried” I’m surprised it didn’t burn her hands. I’m glad she likes the taste, even with her enhanced tastebuds.
7) “The girl who once gave commands is now surviving on scraps in her maid’s living room.” I mean, not really. These aren’t Al’s scraps; it’s just food, Al’s even being nice enough to feed Charity first, letting her have her pick of the meal.
8) “Inside her head, a voice that still thought it was big whispered: You will never forgive this. And you will never forget. She wasn’t sure if that made her stronger, or just smaller still.” Holding others accountable is a sign of strength, but in this case, Al hasn’t been anything but Nice to Charity, nicer than Charity deserves, so holding a grudge over this would make her weak
0) wow two years. I had no idea. Come a long way from that fateful day where I considered just calling it quits at first. But after a couple hours when the emotionality had time to settle I was able to look at it more clearly.
1) You can’t keep a prideful brat like charity down for long.
2) She has her moments. Being small does help the cuteness factor in some ways.
3) it is a understandable feeling.I can’t actually fault charity for feeling that way as I think anyone in her position would feel that way regardless of if you were a good person or not. But to have so much money and have at the end of the day it not matter would be hard pill to swallow.
4) I do think Charity could find a way. I have no doubt about that.
5) you love to see it. “Poor Charity”. One who has brought so much pain to those around her or just in her purview. Is now feeling what she deserves.
6)People food does taste good to littles even if it is more like junk food to them. More nutrious then junk food but its not exactly healthy for them without a lot of work.
7) I actually didn’t think about that. But you are right. Charity is eating before alejandra. That is a good observation.
8) Nicer then charity would be if roles were reversed that is for sure.
(0) Damn glad you stuck with it, man.
i am glad you stuck with it. this is my favorite site.
I’m also checking in to see if anyone made a comments lol. I’m a blue check on X and I’m still on here more lol
0) I’m glad you kept the story going, it’s my favourite one.
1) That’s resilience for you.
2) yeah, small things are cute.
3) I’d imagine many disabled people have similar thoughts.
5) Karma can be beautiful.
6) That’s good to know, but I was referring more to preferences than edibility.
7) yeah, Al’s scraps would be if she ate first and gave Charity the crusts of the toast, rinds and fat of the bacon and what ever droplets of yoke were left on the plate after.
8) Nicer than Charity is not a high bar.
Based on what I have read and how this world is ran, I think Al will turn in charity, get what she can and then charity’s friend will see her on the website and buy her and make her a pet of her and the popular girls she used to run. Maybe a little human to little unrealized lesbian thirst that now can be told to charity because she is a little now. A lot of directions still to go.