Whispers of a Former Life: Episode 55

Listening to the sounds of your own car as someone else drives it is strange enough. But listening from inside a threadbare plaid bag on the grimy floorboards of what used to be your car? That was a humiliation Charity had never imagined, even in her most self pitying nightmares. 

Each stop and start jolted her against the scratchy fabric. She tried to brace herself against the clutter, Alejandra’s old work shoes were the worst offenders, their soles pressed close enough for her to see every caked ridge of dirt in microscopic detail. 

She hated how her eyes had adapted to this tiny, raw life. How she could study those battered shoes and see every frayed stitch, every stain and scuff from years of labor. How she couldn’t look away. It struck her, like a needle under the nail—that Alejandra had likely owned those shoes longer than Charity had ever worn anything. 

A cruel truth settled in her gut: She uses things until they die. I toss them aside when I’m bored. 

Her newly sharpened sense of smell betrayed her too. There was no escape from the cocktail of cheap soap, old sweat, and a faint chemical bite, probably from cleaning supplies spilled at some thankless job Alejandra would never brag about. Each sniff forced her mind to replay every second Alejandra had spent on hands and knees scrubbing floors Charity once tiptoed across in silk slippers. 

The steady rhythm of city traffic offered no clue where they were headed. Every red light, every brake tap reminded Charity that this was no longer her day to command. Her schedule, her empire of appointments and personal whims, had dissolved into one truth: Alejandra’s whim was now her world. 

So she did the only thing she could: she clung to a corner of Alejandra’s spare T-shirt buried in the bag, the fabric still warm with the scent of a life Charity would once have gagged at but now had to breathe like air. 

The car ride stretched on until the SUV’s engine hummed to silence. Charity felt the bag lurch skyward as Alejandra lifted it with a grunt and stepped out. Through the muffled walls she heard a world humming, buzzing chatter, bursts of laughter, the hiss and pop of frying oil. But one detail slammed into her like a slap: every voice she caught was Spanish. The rolling, musical words wrapped around her brain like a language she had never bothered to learn, though she’d once bragged she was ‘basically fluent’ after two summers in Cabo. 

They were somewhere alive with color and noise, too alive for her. 

Alejandra’s voice drifted in and out as she bartered with someone, a woman, by the tone, but the words blurred, a soft mess Charity couldn’t hope to untangle. She lay still inside the stinking cocoon, staring at the stale thread patterns above her head, wondering if this was what a forgotten dog felt like: muzzled, trapped, dependent. 

She barely flinched when the zipper rasped open above her. Cool air rushed in, and Alejandra’s face, brown skin glowing with sweat and purpose, peered in. Their eyes locked for an instant. Charity’s pulse stuttered. 

Alejandra’s fingers snaked in, coiling around Charity’s middle like a python. She lifted her free, set her down, rough but careful, on something cold and hard. 

Charity’s eyes blinked against a wash of harsh fluorescent lights. Shapes swam into focus: metal stall counters stacked with fruit, chiles, fresh cheese. A cramped sea of bright tarps overhead. And standing directly behind the counter, peering down at her, was a Mexican woman, mid-twenties maybe, hair scraped back, brows arched in open curiosity. 

Charity swallowed hard. She felt her own sweat trickle down the back of her neck. 

For the first time since Alejandra had closed the safe door back at the house, Charity realized she hadn’t once asked where they were going, because it didn’t matter. Wherever Alejandra wanted her to be was where she would be. And right now, that was a grimy market stall, perched on a slab of steel, on display like a rag doll for strangers. 

And she knew, deep in her bones, that this was only the beginning. 

 
The zipper rasped open overhead, splitting the stale dark in half. A sliver of daylight sliced across Charity’s face, too bright after the sour warmth of the bag. She flinched, squinting into the sudden gleam of sunlight mixed with the harsh white glare of overhead fluorescents strung up under colorful tarps. 

Above her, Alejandra’s face filled the opening, framed by messy hair damp with sweat, her lips drawn in a thin, focused line. There was none of the mocking grin Charity half-expected. Just intent. Purpose. She looked through Charity the way one looks through a purse for spare change. 

Charity’s pulse galloped against her ribs. Somewhere nearby she heard the low buzz of a dozen voices, all speaking Spanish, the rolling syllables colliding like warm wind against her ears. The air smelled dense with spices, roasted chiles, fried masa, ripe fruit left just a little too long in the sun. It pressed on her lungs, thick and sweet and wrong. 

Alejandra’s hand descended, fingers first, wide, dry, calloused pads brushing against Charity’s bare arms. The warmth of her skin startled her. It was one thing to be carried in the bag, feeling each swing and jolt; it was another to be physically touched like this. Not delicately. Not carefully. Just taken. 

Charity tried not to gasp as Alejandra’s palm spread across her belly and side, gripping her like an unruly kitten. Her breath caught, teeth clamped on her tongue to silence the squeak that nearly broke loose. 

In one clean pull, she was hoisted out of the scratchy depths of the plaid bag and up, up, up, the sudden rush of open air chilling her sweat-slick skin. 

She had a fleeting glimpse of the world as Alejandra held her aloft: a row of market stalls brimming with bright produce, stacked crates of plantains, a young boy darting past with an armful of tamarind candy, and the curious stares of a few passing women who saw her, really saw her, and blinked in disbelief before quickly looking away. 

Then gravity shifted again. 

Alejandra lowered her, and Charity felt the moment her bare feet brushed against something unforgiving and cold. Stainless steel. A countertop, slightly damp from where fresh herbs and dripping vegetables had left their mark. 

Alejandra’s grip eased, her fingers dragging off Charity’s side like the scrape of dry leaves. 

The counter’s chill seeped up her legs and into her spine, rooting her to the spot. She wobbled slightly, knees soft, arms tucked tight to her chest to hide how violently they shook. 

Above her, Alejandra’s shadow fell across her like a curtain being drawn. 

Charity didn’t dare meet her eyes. Instead, she stared straight ahead, at a pyramid of prickly pears stacked behind the stall, at the blurred shapes of market-goers drifting past, oblivious or pretending to be. Her own reflection winked back at her in a smudge of polished metal: small, ragged, hair mussed, wide eyes rimmed red. A thing that used to be someone. 

She swallowed the sour taste in her mouth and tried not to flinch when Alejandra’s fingers lifted away for good. 

She was set down. Exposed. Displayed. 

And there, on the cool steel counter in the heart of a humming market far from marble floors and soft linens, Charity Stevens stood alone. 

 
 
Charity’s foot stomp barely rattled the cracked wooden counter. Her tiny, outraged voice scraped at the air, desperate to sound like the old Patrona she used to be. 

“You can’t just manhandle me, Alejandra! I have delicate skin!” 

Alejandra didn’t even blink. She slid the hundred-dollar bill into the other woman’s palm like paying for groceries, not a living person. Then she fished out the collar, dark leather gleaming wickedly under the room’s single weak lightbulb. 

Charity realized too late,  her squeal turned into useless thrashing as Alejandra’s fingers pressed the collar around her throat with clinical calm. 

The click was final. Beautiful, in Alejandra’s mind. She leaned back just enough to watch Charity’s panic bloom like a bruise across her perfect face. 

When Charity’s hands jerked at the spikes, a pitiful yelp squeaked from her lips. The sound made Alejandra’s grin spread slow and wide. 

And when Charity’s voice broke into that squeaky plea, 
“No, Alejandra. I promise I’ll be good. I’ll admit you’re my guardian. Just please take this off me, ” 

Alejandra barked a single laugh. Sharp, amused, not unkind,  but merciless. 

“Ay, Patrona…” she purred, voice dripping honey and iron all at once. She bent close enough that Charity could feel her breath on her cheek, the scent of cheap mint gum and street heat clinging to her words. 

“You had your chance to be good. Now? Now you get to learn good.” 

She tapped the tiny tag dangling from the collar,  a soft jingle that made Charity flinch,  then flicked her forehead gently, almost playfully. 

Charity’s breath hitched as the black leather bit at her throat. The little jingle of the metal tag felt louder than the whole buzzing market around them,  louder than the chatter, the music, the laughter that had nothing to do with her humiliation. 

Alejandra’s words dripped over her like warm oil, “Littles wear collars, Patrona. It’s the law. Now everyone will know you’re my Pequeño.” 

 And oh, that smug tease buried inside it made Charity’s skin crawl and burn all at once. 

She pressed her palms to the cold counter, trying to ignore the Mexican clerk behind Alejandra who watched the scene like it was the most normal thing in the world. Charity’s voice squeaked out before she could stop herself, her protest pathetic and childlike against the collar’s bite: 

“N-no! This, this isn’t right! I’m not a Little, Alejandra, I’m me, you can’t, I can’t wear this, people will see!” 

She tried to shove at the collar again, but the memory of the hidden spikes made her flinch, fingers hovering uselessly just shy of the leather. 

Her eyes darted desperately between Alejandra and the older woman,  as if maybe she’d help, maybe someone would see her, the real her. But the woman just gave her a pitying little shrug, one corner of her mouth curling like she’d seen this a thousand times. 

Charity’s lower lip trembled. Her next words stumbled out half-broken, half-begging: 

“Please… please, Alejandra, take it off. I promise I’ll do whatever you say. I’ll be good, I swear. I don’t want this. I can’t,” 

She choked on her own breath, the weight of the collar pressing every word back down her throat like a hand closing over her voice. 

Alejandra didn’t flinch at Charity’s begging. Didn’t blink. She just stood there at the counter, arms casually crossed, the market noise drifting around them like background music to a private performance. Charity’s performance. 

Her eyes dropped to the collar,  perfectly snug, just like it was meant to be,  then back to Charity’s tear-glossed face. That tremble in her lip? That panicked little squeak? That was better than any apology. 

She leaned forward, voice low and warm like she was sharing a secret. 

“Shhh… ya, Patrona.” The way she said it was almost affectionate, like a mother hushing a bratty toddler,  but with something smug curled deep in her throat. 
“You don’t gotta want it. You just gotta wear it.” 

She reached out and gave the collar a soft tug, not enough to hurt,  just enough to remind Charity that it was there, and that it wasn’t coming off. 

“You say you’ll be good? Mmm, maybe. But see, I don’t need promises anymore.” 

Her fingers let go of the collar and instead brushed lightly along the tag until it jingled again, loud and final. Alejandra smiled, soft and deadly. 

“Now everyone knows what you are. Even you.” 

She straightened, grabbed the plaid backpack with one hand, and made a little beckoning gesture to the older woman at the stall,  business done. 

“Vámonos, Pequeña,” she said, not even looking back. 
“It’s market day,  and I love showing off my new things.” 

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