Whispers of a Former Life: Episode 52

Charity watched helplessly as the massive bag she’d spent what felt like an eternity inside was lifted without her in it. The simple act, Alejandra’s fingers closing around the straps and hoisting it, somehow stripped the air from the room. Charity’s sanctuary, once hers alone, now felt like a stage she no longer owned, a stage where she was just the smallest, weakest prop. 

Alejandra moved easily through the bedroom, her bedroom, each footstep echoing in Charity’s ears like a drumbeat announcing a new queen. It felt surreal. Wrong. But the wrongness had no teeth, no claws to fight back with. Charity could only watch. 

She winced as Alejandra flipped her ratty plaid bag upside down, spilling its meager, sad contents onto Charity’s bedspread, satin sheets now soiled by old receipts, a half empty tube of cheap lip balm, a single, cracked phone charger wrapped in duct tape. 

Charity clenched her fists until her knuckles went white. Would it even matter if she screamed? If she hurled her fury at Alejandra’s broad back? The question floated through her mind like a moth seeking flame. Deep down, she knew the truth: her voice had been the first thing stripped away. 

“Don’t worry, Patrona.” Alejandra’s sarcasm dripped thick as honey laced with vinegar. Her soft Mexican accent bent the word into something tender and cruel all at once. Charity flinched, hating how the title now felt like a collar snapped tight around her throat. 

Alejandra moved across the room with a lazy, feline grace. Charity’s eyes locked on the gentle sway of her hips beneath cheap denim, once unnoticed, now a hypnotic pendulum counting down the last seconds of her dignity. She vanished into the closet for a breath, then emerged triumphant with a designer backpack that still wore its store tags like a mocking grin. 

“Damn,” Alejandra muttered to herself, rolling her eyes at the untouched splendor in her hands. “This was never even used. Still got the tags, Patrona.” 

To Alejandra, it must be proof, proof that Charity had lived so far above the dirt that she didn’t even remember she had such luxuries tucked away, untouched. A thousand dollar bag forgotten like an old grocery list. 

Alejandra tugged the tags free and let them fall, tiny white ghosts drifting down into the wastebasket. She strutted back to the bed, fingers deft and unhurried, packing her own meager things into the lush fabric of Charity’s former life. 

“Alejandra!” Charity’s voice scraped up her throat raw and useless. It burst from her lips as nothing more than a feeble, strangled cry. She wanted to demand that she stop, wanted to spit fire like she used to when maids misplaced her jewelry or chefs undercooked her steak. But that woman was dead. Or maybe not dead, just gutted, hollowed out, a marionette without strings. 

Alejandra didn’t even glance at her. Didn’t even flinch. 

“Daaamn… this is nice, Patrona.” She dragged out the word with a grin that split her face like a wolf testing its fangs. She grabbed her old plaid bag by one frayed strap and tossed it carelessly onto the gleaming white desk, Charity’s desk, like a sack of trash too filthy to touch the floor. 

She turned the new bag in her hands, admiring it from every angle, catching glimpses of herself in the full-length mirror by the closet door. She posed, chin high, shoulders squared. The reflection mocked Charity with an image of a girl who was free, unbowed, and so thoroughly in control that it made Charity’s gut twist into knots. 

“Mmm… muy bien.” Alejandra’s eyes flicked toward Charity’s tiny form, hardly bigger than one of the glittery perfume bottles still arranged on the vanity. “Way better than my ragged shit. Gracias, Patrona.” 

The thunk of the plaid bag hitting the desk rattled through Charity’s bones. She felt it in her teeth, felt the air move over her skin, smelled the stale ghosts of old sweat and budget detergent wafting from Alejandra’s belongings. The gust knocked her backward, a fragile doll toppling helplessly onto the slick wooden desk surface. 

A tremor shivered up her spine as she struggled to right herself. She had never, in all her gilded years, felt so small, so owned. 

Alejandra moved to the corner where Charity’s laptop rested, a sleek thing made to look powerful but that now felt cheap and useless. She unplugged it with a casual flick of her wrist, stuffed the power cord into her new bag, then drifted toward the vanity like a crow picking through shiny baubles. She selected cosmetics piece by piece, testing lipstick shades against her wrist, snatching compacts of powder, smiling at a palette of eyeshadow that looked like spilled gemstones in her calloused hands. 

Charity’s lip quivered. A thought, acidic and shameful, flickered through her mind: I didn’t even use half of that. It’s hers now, and I never even cared for it. 

When Alejandra was satisfied, she zipped the bag shut, swung it over her shoulder, and turned back to the desk, back to Charity. 

The room seemed to shrink around them both. The silence pressed so heavily on Charity’s tiny chest she almost gasped for air. 

“Why are you doing this? I…I’ll give you whatever you want, Alejandra. Just… please…” Her voice cracked, thin as a child’s whimper. Her hands trembled at her sides, powerless little claws that once wore diamond rings and commanded entire households. Now, they were just flesh, unarmed, insignificant. 

Alejandra laughed softly, and the sound sliced deeper than any slap. She stepped closer, looming until her shadow devoured Charity’s world. For a heartbeat, all Charity could see was the muted swirl of stale marijuana smoke clinging to Alejandra’s hair, the faint sheen of sweat at her collarbone. 

“Give me whatever I want?” Alejandra echoed, savoring the taste of those words, like she was testing the flavor of ripe fruit she’d never been allowed to bite before. 

Her fingers flicked open the flap of the old plaid bag. She tapped the frayed edge with a single nail, a gesture as casual as snapping a leash. 

“I own you now, pequeña. You belong to me.” 

She jerked her chin at the bag’s gaping mouth, an ugly denim maw that smelled like cheap soap and the dark corners of a bus station locker room. 

“Inside, Patrona. This is home now. Ándale.” 

Charity’s lips moved, but no words came. She stared up at Alejandra’s face, smooth brown skin, tired eyes made sharp with triumph. The bitter earthy haze of stale weed mixed with knockoff perfume clung to every breath. It choked Charity more than the tightest collar ever could. 

Is this what I smell like to her? Is this what she always smelled like to me? The thought turned her stomach. 

One foot in front of the other, like a sleepwalker, she crawled into the bag. The rough plaid scraped at her bare feet. She pressed her palm against the coarse fabric. Once, she’d wrinkle her nose at the smell of bleach and sweat on the housekeeper’s uniform. Now, she was buried in it. 

With one swift motion, Alejandra hoisted the bag, Charity rattling inside like loose change, and carried her out of the room without a backward glance. 

The stairs moaned under Alejandra’s feet as she descended to the office. Charity felt each step as a jarring quake, the vibrations rattling her tiny spine, bruising her knees. She tried to brace herself against the jostling but there was nowhere to hide from the reality: she was cargo. She was less than luggage. 

Alejandra set the bag down on the carpet and knelt by the safe, a safe that had spat cash into her open hands so many times before, always with an unspoken be grateful. Be grateful for scraps. Be grateful for invisibility. Be grateful you’re allowed to breathe the same air. 

The zipper rasped open. Warm fingers clamped around Charity’s waist, stronger than they had any right to be. No one had ever gripped her like this. Even her father’s punishments had come with gloves of polite distance. Alejandra’s skin was rough, calloused, alive. Charity’s ribs pressed against bone as Alejandra hoisted her out and held her in the stale light of the office. 

“Patrona.” 

Charity swallowed. There was no defiance left. No strategy. No mercy coming. She croaked out the code, a string of digits that once meant freedom, credit cards, an open gate to buy and discard as she pleased. Now it was a key to her own small survival. 

Alejandra’s eyes widened as the stacks of cash revealed themselves. Charity wanted to laugh, It’s nothing. It’s crumbs. You don’t know real wealth. But Alejandra’s smile silenced that thought. It was enough. To her, it was an empire. 

“Good girl, Patrona.” 

The words coiled around Charity’s spine, binding her tighter than any rope. She flinched as Alejandra patted her head, tender, mocking. Obedience earned a stroke, a pet. Somewhere in the back of her mind, a tiny spark hissed: I deserve better. But it flickered out before it could ignite. 

Alejandra swept the cash into her bag. Papers rustled beneath, titles. Deeds. Proofs of ownership that had once defined the edges of Charity’s world. Alejandra flipped through them, lips moving soundlessly. She paused at one, an SUV, modest, she had seen Charity in it many times. It was hers the vehicle her parents had given her at one time. 

Perfect. 

She pocketed the slip, slammed the safe shut, and locked it. Her eyes flicked to the door, to the walls she had scrubbed while dreaming of open skies. 

There was more to take, jewelry, tablets, watches. But she could feel the eyes of the house on her, the memory of her own voice telling her to stay out of sight. No. Enough was enough. This was hers now. 

She snatched the keys from the kitchen counter on her way out. 

In the narrow hallway by the employee exit, lockers lined up like tombstones. Alejandra paused at hers, popping it open with a deft twist. Cheap deodorant. A battered bottle of body spray. A scrunchie stiff with old elastic. She unzipped the plaid bag and dropped them in one by one. Charity, half-buried, dodged a giant T-shirt, a pair of yoga pants that smelled of detergent and sweat, battered work shoes that knocked into her like boulders. 

The bag stank of Alejandra’s life, hot days, cold bus rides, nights on a mattress no one saw fit to change. 

Charity pressed herself into a corner of rough fabric, clutching a stray piece of yarn like it could anchor her to a past that no longer existed. 

She could feel the vibrations of Alejandra’s heartbeat through the bag straps as they swayed. She felt the creak of the back door opening, the bite of humid air on her skin—and then she felt it all vanish behind her as Alejandra stepped out into the sunlight. 

New backpack on her shoulder. Old plaid bag at her side. A ring of keys jingling in her pocket. 

And inside the bag, buried beneath the stink of the past and the promise of a new future, Charity trembled in the darkness, too small to stop any of it. 

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