Whispers of a Former Life: Episode 72

Charity realized it halfway through. 

The small dish beside her wasn’t for cleaning her hands, it was for sealing the paper. A cruel little basin of utility. Each time she dipped her hands into the cold water, she felt the sting of resin peeling from her skin, and then she’d drag her sticky fingers across the gummed edge of the paper. It clung, curled, and sometimes split when she pressed too hard. 

Her joints, if they could be called that, were pathetic at first. Misshapen, bloated things, their contents uneven. The rolling papers buckled under the uneven pressure of her tiny fingers. The process demanded precision and strength she didn’t have, not yet. But her body was learning. One motion at a time. 

The last one she rolled actually resembled Alejandra’s. Not perfect, but closer. Closer enough that her heart swelled, only to deflate moments later when she realized how her body ached, her shoulders ached with each press forward, her knees were red and sore from the coarse wood of the coffee table, and her fingers were cramped and discolored with sticky green dust. 

Charity stood on shaky legs and staggered toward the Corona bottle Alejandra had left. Beads of condensation had pooled beneath its base, and now glistened like a shallow lake across the wood grain. She bent over, lapping up the water like a creature, her arms braced against the cold glass. Her tongue scraped against the chilled surface, slurping noisily at what her body craved. 

The bitter tang of the condensation didn’t even register anymore. 

She remembered, vaguely, distantly, paying eight dollars for a glass bottle of Icelandic spring water at some overpriced café. She had tossed it into her gym bag like it was nothing. Now she was licking droplets off a sweating beer bottle, like a dog at a campsite. 

She paused mid lick, her reflection distorted in the brown glass. 

Alejandra’s voice came from the couch, casual, amused. 

“Muy bien, Patrona,” she said, scooping up the lopsided joints and dropping them one by one into a metal tin. “These… these I’ll keep for myself.” 

She held one up between her fingers, tilting it left and right like a jeweler inspecting a flawed gem. “They’re not pretty,” she said, glancing down, “but they’ll burn.” 

Then, with fluid, effortless grace, Alejandra pulled a fresh paper and began rolling her own. Her movements were artful, thumbs smoothing, index fingers pinching, a quick flick of the tongue to seal. It was like watching someone braid silk ribbon while blindfolded. 

Without looking at her, Alejandra added, “The ones I sell? They have to look like this. And you, mi chiquita… you’re going to practice every day until yours match mine.” 

She gently tapped Charity’s arm with the finished joint, its filter edge firm against her skin. 

“You’ll build the muscles. Tu cuerpo va a adaptarse. No más baby hands, ¿entiendes?” 

Then, with a warm but wicked little grin: “My hardworking little Patrona.” 

Charity’s voice cracked, her throat raw from resin and dryness. She stood beside the tray of papers and leaf bits, arms trembling with exertion, every joint sore from the repetition. Her voice came out reedy, thin, like paper crumpling. 

“No, Alejandra… I can’t. I worked hard, my whole life, to keep my body the way I wanted. Fit. Feminine. Not like… this.” 

Her voice faltered, her breath catching in her throat. “I didn’t want muscles like a boy.” 

Alejandra didn’t look up. 

She finished rolling, sealed the end with a flick of her tongue, then exhaled a soft, dry laugh. 

“Y ahora eres mi pequeño.” 

She finally turned to look at her, the joint still held delicately between her fingers. “You’re not training for cheer pictures or prep school TikToks anymore. You roll.” 

She tapped the tray with a casual flick. “Your body? It develops how I need it to. Not how you want it.” 

Alejandra’s tone sharpened. “Vanity, mi amor, is for people. Not for Pequenos.” 

She reached down and flicked the metal tag on Charity’s collar. It jingled like a dog’s. Her face flushed hot, her breath catching in shame. 

“Your form isn’t for mirrors anymore,” Alejandra said gently, almost motherly. “It’s for work.” 

Charity opened her mouth to argue. Nothing came. Just air and a choking silence. 

The truth was a weight she couldn’t lift. 

She watched, dazed, as Alejandra rose from the couch and moved across the apartment. The thunder of her bare feet shook the floorboards beneath Charity’s tiny feet. In the kitchen, the fridge door creaked open. The familiar sound of a Corona bottle clinking against others echoed. 

She returned, not with water, but with something else, something worse. 

Alejandra carried a shallow pet bed. It was obviously new. Soft sides, small, meant for a lap dog or a large cat. She dropped it near the foot of the couch with a soft whump, then reached into the cabinet again and returned with a handful of food pellets, the kind Charity had seen fed to other Littles. 

Renata’s brand. 

Charity froze. 

Alejandra didn’t speak. She simply bent, scooped up the exhausted Little, and gently set her into the center of the bed. Then she placed the pellets in front of her with the calm precision of someone feeding a hamster. 

“Descansa. Come algo,” she murmured, settling back into the couch. 

“You can do more later, Patrona.” 

Charity blinked at the pellets. 

The smell was familiar, slightly nutty, vaguely sweet, and unmistakably processed. They made her want to gag. And yet her stomach clenched with hunger. She reached toward the first pellet slowly, with shaking fingers. 

As she lifted it to her mouth, her collar shifted and the tag clinked softly against the ceramic dish. A noise that belonged to pets. Not people. 

Not girls like her. 

She bit into the pellet, and to her horror, it wasn’t terrible. The texture was firm but not chalky, the taste neutral, comforting, almost. Her traitorous mouth chewed without resistance. She hated that it made her feel full. She hated that it nourished her. That her body wanted this now. 

She hated the comfort of the bed. 

The way her muscles relaxed into it without permission. 

A warm, familiar scent settled over her, interrupting her spiral of self-loathing. Alejandra had tossed down an old cotton shirt, a soft, lived-in thing. It still held the smell of her skin, her shampoo, the weed. 

It blanketed Charity like a tarp. The warmth soaked into her, and for a moment, she burrowed into it on instinct. The scent, the texture, even the slight grease of the fabric, everything belonged to Alejandra. 

And now, to her. 

She lay there, eyes half lidded, staring up at the edge of the couch where Alejandra’s foot rested, tapping idly on the floor. It made the world tremble in soft rhythmic pulses. 

Alejandra was scrolling through something, Charity’s old phone, probably, filling out applications, maybe chatting with Renata. The flicking sound of her fingernail against glass echoed above Charity like far-off lightning. 

Charity blinked slowly. 

The heat of the shirt. The ache in her limbs. The taste of the pellets lingering on her tongue. 

She was fading. Sleep teased the corners of her mind. She didn’t resist. 

Before drifting off, she thought of the drink at the hotdog stand. That dry, hot day in the marketplace. How she had to lap water from Alejandra’s drink. How her dignity had peeled away one layer at a time like dead skin. 

Now there was nothing left to peel. 

Only work. Only obedience. 

Only the quiet rhythm of being owned. 

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