Whispers of a Former Life: Episode 70

Charity sat in Alejandra’s lap like a forgotten trinket, her legs curled to one side, her body dwarfed by the soft valley of fabric beneath her. The worn couch smelled faintly of citrus cleaner and old incense, but it was the television that dominated her attention, or tried to. 

Every word from the screen was in Spanish. Fast, dense, and alien. Even the commercials offered no reprieve—just more sound without sense. To Charity, it was as though the language floated above her in thick ribbons of sound, shimmering and unreachable, like songs sung underwater. Each phrase a lock she couldn’t pick. 

Once, English had been her sanctuary, her weapon. Precise. Polished. She’d only taken Spanish in school because the credits were mandatory. She never saw it as useful, certainly not something that belonged in her home. She remembered mocking the sound of it, calling it crude. Dirty. The language of housekeepers and busboys. 

And yet, now it was the air she breathed. 

A language that governed her new life. A language she could not control. A language that owned her. 

“Patrona,” Alejandra murmured, her voice warm, lilting, but undeniably firm. She stretched out like a cat along the couch, her dark curls cascading over one shoulder. “Ya es hora que hagas un poquito de trabajo aquí, ¿no?” 

The words wrapped around Charity like a net. 

Then in English, a smirk in her tone: “Time you do a bit of work around here, m’hija.” 

Charity flinched as Alejandra gently lifted her and placed her on the old coffee table. The surface beneath her bare feet was chipped and warped, its varnish stripped away by years of careless mugs and forgotten ashtrays. To Charity, it might as well have been a wooden sports court, vast and uneven beneath her soles. 

“I’m… I’m too small to work,” she muttered, voice barely above a whisper. Her words were feeble, wispy. Her vocal cords, like the rest of her, had shrunk into fragility. 

But it wasn’t just her voice that betrayed her. It was everything,. the way her arms curled in close to her ribs, the way her eyes refused to meet Alejandra’s for more than a second. The way her heart pounded, not from effort, but from shame. 

Work? That wasn’t her purpose. Not her. She didn’t do the work. She gave the orders. She assigned the tasks. She was the one with the clipboard, the schedule, the expectations. 

And Alejandra? 

Alejandra used to be the help. 

A maid. A girl her parents had hired under the table for cash, no paperwork, no questions. Charity remembered the whispers about how much they saved by “employing local talent” and paying a wage “generous for her kind.” She remembered how Alejandra used to wait, silent, obedient, for her instructions. She scrubbed Charity’s floor on her knees. She carried out her trash. She fetched smoothies with the wrong straw size and apologized for it. 

Once, Charity had spilled a blended açaí bowl onto the living room carpet and hadn’t even glanced down. She’d just snapped her fingers, snap, and Alejandra had come, blotting, steaming, scrubbing. 

Now Alejandra stood in her kitchen like a titan at rest. The overhead light cast her in silhouette as she pulled a vacuum-sealed bag from the cabinet. The plastic rustled like a sail in the wind, sharp and deafening to Charity’s ears. When Alejandra opened it, the scent rushed forward, earthy, thick, tinged with something sharp and citrusy. Weed. 

Charity gagged. The scent was suffocating at her scale, an aromatic punch to the lungs. Her eyes watered. Still, she didn’t dare move. 

Alejandra returned, a fistful of dense, ground flower in one hand, and a small stack of rolling papers in the other. She dropped the bundle next to Charity with a soft whuff. The force rattled the table beneath her. 

The weed looked like a small haystack from her perspective, crumbled, sticky, and daunting. Each flake was the size of her hand, tangled like damp moss. 

Beside it, the papers. Rectangular sheets that reminded Charity of parchment. They curled at the corners, already resisting her. At her scale, they weren’t so much papers as cloth, stiff, unwieldy sheets waiting to humiliate her. 

Alejandra crouched beside the table. Her face filled the skyline, her breath scented faintly with cinnamon gum and that pungent weed. Her voice was smooth. Gentle. 

“Patrona,” she said. “I’ve already ground it for you. Now watch.” 

She demonstrated with practiced ease, laying out the weed, forming a channel, curling the paper, sealing it with a single lick of her tongue. The joint came together like magic. Effortless. Precise. 

Charity blinked. “You want me to… roll your joints?” 

Alejandra’s eyes didn’t flinch. “You’re my Little now. My responsibility. My joy. My helper. You work for me, Patrona. That’s the way it is.” 

She stood again, her towering form casting a wide shadow over the table. 

“No more hiding in my flannel bag while I run errands. No more snuggling in my hoodie while I cook and pay the bills. You use what I give you. You live in my things. It’s time you start returning the favor.” 

Charity stood frozen. Her throat felt tight. 

Alejandra gestured broadly with one hand. “Littles here are grateful to be owned. They don’t take it for granted. They don’t coast. They work. They help their households. That’s how it works in Mexico. No fancy suburbs here. No entitled brats with perfect nails and a loud voice. Just people doing their part.” 

She pointed to the pile again. “Make five. Stack them. I’ll bag them. These are for sale, so be precise. Don’t get sloppy. And later, you’ll roll mine.” 

The quiet returned. The window was cracked open, and the distant hum of traffic drifted in, joined by a barking dog down the street and the occasional hiss of a passing bus. 

Charity stared down at the paper in front of her. It was longer than her legs, curled at the edges like a weathered scroll. The mound of weed beside her seemed alive, swarming with texture. 

She knelt. 

The coarse grain of the table pressed against her knees. She reached out with both arms, pushing the sticky plant matter into a line. Her fingers came away coated in resin, slick and green, as though she’d dipped her hands in glue. 

The smell was overwhelming. It clung to her hair, her clothes, her skin. The weight of it made her feel even smaller. 

She tried to fold the paper. It buckled. She tried again. It flopped like a bedsheet. Sweat beaded on her brow as she pressed the damp paper against itself, trying to mimic Alejandra’s motion. 

Above her, Alejandra lit her own joint with a flick of a lighter. The flame was bright, distant, like a lighthouse signal. She took a drag, exhaled a curling plume of smoke toward the ceiling, and tapped lazily on her phone. 

She didn’t watch. 

Didn’t need to. 

Charity looked at the twisted, half-rolled mess in front of her and then reached for another paper. Then another. 

This wasn’t work. 

This was penance. Ritual. A reminder. 

Charity, who once gave orders, now labored on her hands and knees. 

Not because she was good at it. 

Not because it mattered. 

But because she could. 

Because this was what Littles did. 

Because her hands still worked, even if her voice didn’t matter. 

Because Alejandra said so. 

Because she was owned. 

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