The car’s hum had long faded by the time Charity really noticed the silence. She was too lost in the soft static roaring inside her own skull, the place where the reality she wanted and the reality she had kept tearing at each other like wild dogs fighting over a scrap.
She lay curled in the bottom of Alejandra’s battered plaid bag, the same bag that once carried Alejandra’s ratty lunchbox and spare work shirt to the Stevens estate. Now it carried her.
The fresh chip under her skin tingled with a phantom itch. Every heartbeat reminded her it was there, every heartbeat felt like it broadcasted her shame in tiny digital pulses straight to Alejandra’s cheap phone. She hated how her own body betrayed her.
Outside, car doors slammed. A muffled laugh floated across the lot. Someone called out “¡Cállate, pendejo!” and a burst of teenage laughter rippled by. Charity understood enough to wince.
She felt the car shift as Alejandra’s weight disappeared from the front seat. A beat later the back door creaked open, washing warm night air over her tangled hair and the rank smell of Alejandra’s work shoes tossed beside her.
“Ven aquí, Patrona.”
Alejandra’s voice was syrup thick, casual, like she was calling a housecat to her lap. Charity stiffened, but her limbs obeyed before her mind could bark No! Her tiny body tensed as Alejandra’s hand dipped into the bag, sliding under her ribs, fingers pressing to the fresh chip that made her a blinking dot on a cheap app.
Charity swallowed the whimper trying to crawl up her throat as Alejandra lifted her free of the bag. The night air hit her skin like a slap. She squinted at the building rising up in front of them, squat and beige, paint peeling in long flakes like sunburnt skin. A plastic porch light above the doorway hummed with insects, drowning in its own warmth.
Alejandra carried her tucked to one side like a beloved purse, or a beloved prize.
I used to make people like her wait outside, Charity thought wildly. I used to be the gatekeeper. The final word. And now…
A rough bark from a dog two doors down startled her out of her thoughts. She flinched, curling closer to Alejandra’s chest. She hated herself for it instantly.
Alejandra laughed under her breath. “Ay, pobrecita… so jumpy. It’s okay, Patrona. Nadie va a tocarte. You have me now, ¿sí?”
Charity clenched her teeth. She wanted to spit I don’t want you. But her throat only managed a tiny hiss that made Alejandra’s grin widen.
They reached the door marked 12B. The warped numbers clung on with rusted nails. Alejandra juggled the key ring, her cheap new purse (Charity’s old one, the leather soft and smug under her arm), and the squirming little prize in her grip. The door groaned open on the smell of overcooked rice, faint bleach, and the musty edge of old drywall.
Inside, the condo was small, warm, oppressively normal. One room bled into the next: the kitchenette’s stained counter separated from the living area by a chipped bar stool; a battered sofa slouched under a crocheted throw that didn’t match the yellow curtains at all. A single framed photo sat on the TV stand, Alejandra’s family, smiling stiffly in church clothes, probably back in Zacatecas.
Charity’s eyes caught on it as Alejandra kicked the door shut behind them. The photo felt like an accusation. A line in her brain, wild and ugly, hissed: These people never should have been allowed in.
Then Alejandra’s hand curled protectively around her ribs again, and the thought shriveled in the warmth of her new reality.
“Welcome home, mi chiquita,” Alejandra murmured against her hair, voice so soft that for one insane heartbeat Charity wanted to lean into it. I’m not your chiquita. I’m not. But her body knew better now.
Alejandra set her carefully on the couch for a moment, just long enough to shrug out of her jacket and toss it over a chair. Then she scooped Charity up again with the same easy possessiveness that used to twist Charity’s stomach in disdain when she’d seen maids cradle their brats at the park.
This time, it was her turn to be the brat.
Alejandra set her down beside the couch, right on a square fleece mat tucked between the coffee table and the sofa’s armrest. Charity stared at it: a soft, dollar-store pet bed, obviously washed a hundred times. A squeaky chew toy shaped like a bone lay abandoned beside it.
“No,” Charity croaked. Her voice rasped through her too-small throat, half air, half despair. “Alejandra, no. Please, I can sleep on the couch. Or in your bed if you want, I don’t care…”
Alejandra’s finger pressed lightly to her lips, silencing her with humiliating ease. “Shhh, mi amor. Aquí. Here for now. It’s cozy. Warm. Better for a good girl like you.”
Charity bristled. Her mind snarled: I am not a girl. I am not a good anything for you. But the collar around her throat reminded her that her definitions no longer mattered.
Alejandra knelt and spread the worn throw blanket over Charity’s shoulders, tucking the edges under her hips like she might for a sleepy puppy. Her fingertips brushed the fresh chip behind Charity’s collarbone, a not-so-gentle reminder that she’d always know where to find her.
“You were always so alone in that big house, Patrona,” Alejandra murmured, switching easily back to Spanish. “Pero ya no estás sola. You have me now. Your Alejandra. Forever.”
Charity’s eyes burned. She wanted to scream that she’d never wanted this. Never wanted her. But the words stuck behind her teeth, a ghost voice too weak to matter.
Alejandra stood. The couch groaned as she sank into it, her bare toes brushing the fleece mat where Charity knelt. She flipped through the TV channels one-handed while the other absentmindedly drifted down to stroke Charity’s hair.
Pat. Pat. Good girl.
The show she settled on was some cheap telenovela, bright costumes, fast Spanish that Charity’s brain couldn’t parse fast enough. The actors laughed, cried, threw drinks in each other’s faces. It might as well have been white noise.
Her eyes drifted sideways. On the coffee table sat her old designer purse, now unzipped, the neat compartments stuffed with Alejandra’s loose coins, a packet of gum, a battered phone charger. It looked so at home there. It was never yours, the room whispered. None of this is.
She pressed her cheek into the fleece mat. The scent of cheap lavender detergent and faint bleach soaked her senses. Once, she would have sneered at the idea of a Little sleeping like this, so close to a guardian’s feet, obedient, safe but so obviously owned.
Now she curled tighter, her collar tag giving a faint, pathetic jingle every time she shifted.
Above her, Alejandra hummed along to the telenovela theme song. Her fingers traced lazy shapes on Charity’s scalp, sometimes dipping to the base of her neck to press softly into that cluster of nerves Renata had taught her how to soothe. It worked, traitorously so. Charity felt her eyelids droop, each blink heavier than the last.
She hated herself for how her body relaxed under that touch. Hated how her breath slowed, small lungs rising and falling with the same resigned rhythm as a pet who knows the cage will never open again.
A sharp commercial break jolted her back. She shifted, enough to catch Alejandra’s calm, amused eyes watching her over the sofa’s edge.
“¿Qué pasa, mi chiquita? Can’t sleep?”
Charity’s voice crawled out, tiny and hoarse: “I want… I want to go back. I don’t want this. I’ll be good, I swear. Just… not this.”
Alejandra’s hand cupped her cheek, thumb brushing the salt slick from beneath one eye. “Ah, mi Patrona. You always think you know better. You will see, I know how to care for you. How to love you properly. How to make you mine completely. Tomorrow we start fresh, ¿sí?”
Charity’s lips parted around a soft, defeated sound. She tried to shape words, to promise anything, barter for a shred of dignity, but all that came out was a whimper.
Alejandra’s smile softened. She bent down, pressing a slow kiss to Charity’s forehead. Her whisper drifted into her hair, a promise and a leash in one: “Buenas noches, mi pequeña. You sleep now. Tomorrow we learn how to be good.”
Charity felt that last flicker inside her, that secret ember that once terrified boardrooms, curl into ash under the weight of the blanket, the fleece, the collar, the chip humming beneath her skin.
She closed her eyes. Above her, the telenovela rolled on: lovers shouting in fast Spanish, a slap, another shriek. None of it touched her anymore.
Tomorrow she knew she would wake up in that plaid backpack in a place she couldn’t leave, in a life she couldn’t rewrite. Tomorrow she would still be Alejandra’s.
i kinda see this as Al balancing owning a little in Mexico and owning a little in the states. Like she’s probably doing a bit more than should would have back home for Charity because it’s different, but at the same time still intending to raise her as if Mexico was always her home and culture if that make sense.
won’t know for certain for a bit, though, as i think because it is still charity and she still is representative of all the people that treated Al like crap because she’s an illegal immigrant and her negative experiences in the USA so she probably hasn’t gotten over the dynamic shift ye.
Alejadnra is putitng in the effort. I think she has to learn to walk the line as you say between cultures and also find her own style. As being trained and practical application is different.
She’s enjoying her new toy, but doesn’t she need to find a new job?
She was already working multiple jobs; theoretically, she can pick up more hours at one of her other Jobs. Plus had the money she took from Stevens’ safe.
I think Al is trying to get Charity to give her the Stevens family fortune.
Like Lethal said, she was working multiple jobs before. Plus, it hasn’t been very long canonically. It’s only been a day or two.
Like Kelli’s bed, wouldn’t charity be cold with out a heat source. I think sleeping on Al would be better for warmth.
It would depend on the temperature of the apartment. Alejandra probably doesnt have the greatest of cooling so the apartment is probably on the warmer side to begin with. It would depend what charity is bundled into and how well it was made how good it was as keeping heat, etc. A good quality hoodie can be pretty warm.
1) “Charity stiffened, but her limbs obeyed before her mind could bark No!” She’s got no spine whatsoever.
2) “Ay, pobrecita… so jumpy. It’s okay, Patrona. Nadie va a tocarte. You have me now, ¿sí?” I’m not sure if that’s better or worse than the dog.
3) “The photo felt like an accusation. A line in her brain, wild and ugly, hissed: These people never should have been allowed in.” I don’t think most of them even made it in.
4) “This time, it was her turn to be the brat.” I think she’s had many turns as a brat.
5) “Shhh, mi amor. Aquí. Here for now. It’s cozy. Warm. Better for a good girl like you.” she’s not the first to sleep in a do bed.
6) “Charity bristled. Her mind snarled: I am not a girl”. Trans Little? “I am not a good anything for you.” Nonbinary Little? Lol.
7) “You were always so alone in that big house, Patrona, Pero ya no estás sola. You have me now. Your Alejandra. Forever.” Charity did give off lonely energy.
8) “Once, she would have sneered at the idea of a Little sleeping like this, so close to a guardian’s feet, obedient, safe but so obviously owned.” I’m sure she’d have doen something like that if she was immune and a guardian.
9) “Her fingers traced lazy shapes on Charity’s scalp, sometimes dipping to the base of her neck to press softly into that cluster of nerves Renata had taught her how to soothe” Renata having tricks is cool.
10) “I want… I want to go back. I don’t want this. I’ll be good, I swear. Just… not this.” many Littles want that,
11) “Ah, mi Patrona. You always think you know better. You will see, I know how to care for you. How to love you properly. How to make you mine completely. Tomorrow we start fresh, ¿sí?” Oh Ale, you think you know best, but you’ve been influenced by a government that practised eugenics on its citizens, and seem to agree with them for doing it.
12) “Alejandra’s smile softened. She bent down, pressing a slow kiss to Charity’s forehead” cute
1) She’s been through a lot, though, and is still finding her bearings a bit. So i think some of her lack of back bone coudl just be from the newness of it all and insecurites. Overtime she could change a bit as she gets more comfortable.
2) Its better then being out in the cold. Charity wouldn’t survive long on her own I feel like she isn’t much of a outdoors person.
3) Thats true more try and fail then make it.
4) lol, always time for a few more turns.
5) If she knew Kelli she coudl contact her for advice. ALhtough Kelli does admit the bed is comfortable she more doesnt like the fact it is a dog bed.
6) lol while the intent was woman. I never thought of it any other way even in re-reads until you mentioned it.
7) Not by choice though. Her parents shrunk and her brother noped out. She probably should have asked to move in wiht a friend or something.
8) most defiantely not. I feel like Charity woudl be like Madison but worse.
9) She does see and work with alot of littles. seemed appropriate.
10) yup, not everyone can be as lucky as jordan. 😛
11) Best is always in the eye of the beholder though. One persons best is another persons worst.
12) She is trying
3) this is why I don’t like people who encourage people to cut in line of the legal process to enter the US. Dangerous and basically second class workers for bad rich people. Good people pay legal immigrates a legal wage.
7) I have to admit that is good Al cuddle energy lol.
8) if she was smart she would rub her feet to get some brownie points lol
9)Renata is a little whisperer lol
11) sounds like she is going to physically bond charity to her to make her obedient & need her. smart if you are AI lol. I have been asking that for Cindy for ever lol.
12) Al is gain points with me now lol.
Day 3 starting tomorrow
It broadcasted her shame in tiny digital pulses straight to Alejandra’s cheap phone
Hey, didn’t Alejandra acquire Charity’s expensive phone?
sure did, that was an oversight in writing.