Whispers of a former life: Episode 45

Charity could do nothing as she watched Alejandra stand up. None of this felt real yet. That this small dingy apartment was going to be her world. This was going to be her home. This dingy, grimy shoebox of an apartment was where she was going to spend her days.  
 
The heavy footfalls of Alejandra echoed throughout the apartment at her size. It was all she could hear as she watched her walk into her bedroom. The sound of clothes rustling when she saw Alejandra next she was dressed for the day.  
 
Alejandra dropped the old plaid backpack on the table with a soft thud that rattled the chipped mug beside it. She didn’t bother sitting,  just stood there towering over Charity, one hand gripping the strap, the other flicking a stray hair from her cheek. Her dark eyes locked on the tiny girl like a silent command before her lips curved into that teasing smirk. 

“Órale, Patrona — métete. We’re leaving, ya.” 

Her voice was so casual, like she was asking Charity to hand her a pencil instead of telling her to crawl into a faded school bag like a toy. Charity’s legs twitched, heart hammering against ribs that felt too small for her panic. The backpack’s half-open zipper gaped at her like a hungry mouth, the frayed plaid fabric smelling faintly of old notebooks and cheap perfume. 

She swallowed, eyes darting up at Alejandra’s expectant face, then back at the bag. This was it. This was her life now. And with a trembling breath, she stepped forward, toward the shadows of the backpack and whatever waited beyond it. 
 
She glanced at the cracked phone screen one last time, the dull glow of her bank balance half-reassuring, half-mocking. Bills paid. Enough left for groceries, some fresh tortillas, maybe a small treat if she stretched it right. 

She caught her reflection in the living room mirror as she moved toward the cramped bathroom. The girl looking back had dark circles under her eyes, sleep still clinging to her lashes, but there was a glint there too. Something sharp. Something earned. 

She thought of the tiny American princess curled inside her old plaid backpack by the couch — motionless, barely breathing, just waiting because she had no choice. It made a tired part of Alejandra’s chest feel… not proud, exactly. But level. The scales tipping back her way for once. 

She flipped on the single buzzing fluorescent bulb above the chipped bathroom mirror. The apartment’s old pipes groaned as she turned the tap, water coughing into the cracked porcelain sink. Cold at first — always cold — but she splashed it anyway, dragging her palms over her face until her skin woke up. 

First, skincare. Her mother’s old rule: even if you have nothing, keep your face clean. She squirted a cheap cleanser into her palm — bought at the little bodega that never asked questions. She massaged it in small circles, working out the dirt, the sweat, the faint trace of city air and bus seats. She rinsed with another handful of freezing tap water, teeth chattering softly at the chill. 

Next, the little tub of moisturizer she rationed carefully. She dabbed it under her eyes, along her cheeks, over her forehead. It wasn’t fancy — it smelled faintly of aloe and generic lotion , but it made her skin feel cared for, like armor laid smooth and ready for the day. 

She glanced at the mirror again: better. 

Then, makeup. She bent over the rusted medicine cabinet, rooting through a cracked plastic basket until she found her little roll-up pouch. Two dollar store brushes, a tiny tube of tinted foundation half-squeezed flat, a stub of dark eyeliner she had to warm with her fingers first. She worked quickly but with practiced flicks — a thin line hugging her lashes, a faint smudge at the outer corners. A swipe of tinted lip balm, barely color at all but enough to make her look awake. 

She leaned back, squinting critically. Not glamorous. Not expensive. But good enough to stand in line at the bodega and not look like she’d just crawled out of bed. Good enough to look like a woman who owned what she carried,  including the trembling scrap of a girl zipped in her bag. 

Finally, her little indulgence: perfume. She opened the battered bottle, the cheap atomizer rattling softly. The scent was floral, faintly powdery — bought from a sidewalk stall for cash, unmarked. She spritzed the barest cloud over her collarbones, a quick pulse behind each ear. It would fade quickly, but for an hour or two, she would smell like she deserved nice things. 

She breathed in deep, felt the faint bite of alcohol sting her nostrils, then let it out slow. Listo. 
 
Behind the bathroom door, she could hear the faintest scuff, the telltale whimper of a zipper tugged open, then silence again. She pictured Patrona creeping back onto the coffee table, defiance flickering and then dying at the thought of what Alejandra would do if she found her out in the open. 

A satisfied smile touched her mouth. Not cruel,  just fair. 

For once, she held the rules. She held the leash. And she would keep it there. 

Meanwhile, Charity had climbed into the bag that just yesterday she had made her way into hoping for salvation or at the very least help. She had no way of knowing that she was making the worst possible mistake. Now she sat here in this crappy old bag waiting for Alejandra to come back because what else could she do? What else could she say?  She was no different then everything else in here. It was all Alejandra’s her included.  
 
 

Several minutes had passed by as Charity sat. She could hear Alejandra doing something but she couldn’t make out the noises as to what. It felt like it was taking forever. She walked out the bag and back onto the coffee table. There was no way down without Alejandra’s help.  
 
“Alejandra!” Charity said as loud as her voice could muster but it was weak, quiet and pitiful. There was no sound of footsteps coming. There was no one coming. She was Alejandra’s pet now. Pet by Mexican law, Pet by U.S. law. Her existence erased and listed in some database underneath Alejandra’s name. Charity Jimenez. It sounded wrong, but that was her legal name. She was now classified as CER in Meixco. She had heard the term once it stood for Ciudadano de Escala Reducida which in English meant Reduced Scale Citizen. It was generally used by governments to catalog and manage littles. She felt the citizen part was for show. As basically it was fancy way of saying pet or property. 
 
More time had gone by and Charity walked back towards the bag. She didn’t understand why she felt so nervous. A part of her didn’t want to upset Alejandra. She wasn’t familiar with how they disciplined littles in Mexico but she was sure she wouldn’t like it. She wondered if this is what her life would be like now.   
 
After the better part of an hour she heard the footsteps of Alejandra come out of the bathroom. She was made up, makeup on, outfit all together. Even in the shabby clothes she looked more put together.  No one would wonder who was in charge between them. No would look to her for anything. Charity thought as Alejandra approached. Charity slunk back into the plaid backpack but she knew Alejandra saw her outside the bag after telling her to get inside it. These were the things she had to worry about now. 

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