Whispers of a former life: Episode 43

Alejandra could still feel the stale warmth of the coffee cooling in her stomach when she sat back down on her threadbare sofa, phone in hand, thumb hovering over the browser tab that had changed everything. 

Outside, faint city noise leaked through the cracked window: the distant howl of a siren, the fluttering rumble of an old bus engine. But inside her cramped apartment, everything was suffocatingly quiet. Except for the tiny girl standing on her cheap coffee table, barefoot on the worn veneer where a water ring from an old beer bottle stained the fake wood. 

Charity Stevens, Patrona now, Alejandra reminded herself,  was staring at her like a cornered rat. The name on the registration page gleamed from the battered phone screen. Alejandra’s thumb brushed it again and again, her pulse loud in her ears each time she read the lines confirming what she’d done: 

Nombre Legal CER: Charity Jiménez 
Nombre Común Registrado: Patrona 
Guardian: Alejandra Jiménez, Ciudad de México. 

Her family’s real address back home was listed there too. It had been so easy. So fast. Years of being under other people’s thumbs, and this one moment made it feel like she’d yanked a chain back around someone else’s neck for a change. 

She studied Charity now, how she trembled, eyes darting between the phone screen and Alejandra’s face. Once, this girl wouldn’t even look at her unless Alejandra was holding a rag or a broom. Now she was tiny enough to drown in Alejandra’s coffee cup if she slipped. 

Charity’s lips moved first,  forming that same request she’d made at least three times since they got back. Call Kira. Always Kira. Always expecting help. 

“Please, Alejandra,” she squeaked, voice so pitiful Alejandra almost laughed out loud. “Call Kira, please. She’s, she’s already guardian trained, she can, she can handle this properly, you don’t,” 

Alejandra felt the words brush her like moth wings, pathetic and soft. She had no pity to spare. Her mouth twisted into a lopsided smirk she knew Charity hated. 

She lowered her phone to the table deliberately. Cracks webbed across the cheap glass like frozen lightning. Beneath them, the proof glowed bold and permanent: Patrona. Her little. Her property. 

“Patrona,” she murmured, tasting the word again. She liked how it rolled off her tongue. “Mira. Look.” 

She tapped the screen once, an idle tap that made Charity flinch as if she’d been slapped. Good. Let her flinch. 

Charity’s tiny head craned forward, her minuscule eyes squinting at the alien Spanish labels. Alejandra watched her brain grind through the basic words: Nombre. Original. The moment the recognition hit, the exact second it broke through that stubborn skull,  Alejandra saw the girl’s whole spine fold in on itself. 

She was sure she’d remember that sight forever. 

“Wh-what have you done, Alejandra, what is this, what is this on your phone,” Charity’s voice cracked high, panic rushing out so fast it barely made sense. She backed up a step, then another, until her heel hit the edge of a mug stain on the table and she nearly toppled. 

Alejandra didn’t move to catch her. 

Instead, she leaned back, propped her bare feet on the same table, so close to Charity she heard her squeak, and exhaled the stale tension in her lungs. She didn’t even need to raise her voice. 

“In Mexico,” she said, each word calm, measured, slow enough that Charity couldn’t pretend she didn’t understand, “littles are expensive, Patrona. Much more than here. But registering them? Gratis. Free. And legal.” 

She traced a lazy circle in the air with her finger. “Your laws here? Your family’s money? Nada. Nothing. This goes in the universal system. U.S., Mexico, Canada… same thing now, remember?” 

Charity’s lips trembled. Her knees buckled a little. She looked like she might throw up. 

Alejandra felt something flicker deep in her belly, a tiny, greedy spark of satisfaction. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was for this until now. For years, she’d scrubbed floors that Charity’s shoes never even touched. She’d pressed Charity’s clothes, dumped out trash that held the scraps of her perfect life. She’d smiled at the spoiled brat’s mother and father, two more arrogant rich ghosts who now probably squeaked just like this. 

And now? 

Now the pretty little heir was a Patrona in name only, a pet in her cheap hoodie, trembling in her dingy living room. 

She drummed her fingers once on the table, loud enough to make Charity flinch again. “Let it sink in, Patrona.” Her voice went softer, almost kind, which made it crueler still. “Your mamá? Your papá? They’re little too, yes? They can’t help you. No lawyer, no friend. Kira is nobody. You… are mine.” 

She let that last word hang, tasting it. 

Mine. 

Charity made a sound, half sob, half hiccup. Alejandra let her. She wasn’t in a hurry. She had all day. She deserved this moment after scraping and crawling for scraps so long. 

She reached for her cold coffee, sipped it slowly, and watched her new Patrona shatter again and again behind those watery eyes. 

And this time, Alejandra thought, it wasn’t her who’d be cleaning up the mess. 

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