Charity awoke to the low, rhythmic snore of Alejandra beneath her. The familiar plaid bag swayed gently where it hung next to the bed. From the hook where it dangled, she could see the room in distorted angles through a half-zipped flap. The snoring wouldn’t have been much to notice if she were still full-sized. But at five and a half inches tall, her ears caught every nuance of it, deep, rolling, cavernous. Like a truck idling too close.
Her body ached. Dull pain pulsed through her shoulders and into her lower back. Her hands, tiny, blistered, calloused—tingled faintly with soreness from the night before. She could still feel the drag of weed resin on her palms. The adhesive from the rolling papers had dried into her skin. And the hoodie she lay wrapped in, Alejandra’s, held heat from the girl’s body. The fibers felt almost soft against her cheek, comforting, almost maternal in their familiarity.
It had once been Alejandra’s blanket when she slept on the streets. Her cloak when she ducked into a shop to swipe a phone. Her armor against a world that looked down on her. Now, the same garment cradled Charity like a makeshift bedroll, a faded relic of warmth for someone who had never known cold like this until now.
Charity shifted, groaning softly. Even that small movement caused a ripple of soreness through her limbs.
She hadn’t ever worked like this before. Not once. Not really.
And now, for the first time, her body bore proof of it. Work had marked her.
The top of the bag gaped open, teasing her with a false sense of freedom. It didn’t matter. Even if she scrambled all the way up, she’d be met with nothing but the drop. The bag hung high above the floor, suspended on a hook beside the bed. And even if, somehow—she got down, Alejandra’s phone was constantly pinged with her location. The chip implanted in her side made sure of that.
Her new body wasn’t built for escape. It was built for staying. For serving.
Below, the bed creaked softly. Charity’s ears picked it up like thunder. The familiar cadence of Alejandra’s morning shuffle, the low grumble of tired bones. She heard the floorboards complain beneath the girl’s feet, then the world tilted slightly as Alejandra reached into the bag.
“Patrona, ándale,” she murmured, tapping once against her thigh with an open palm.
Charity didn’t argue. She simply crawled into her hand. Her limbs dragged beneath her, heavy, uncooperative. Her knees bent awkwardly. Her fingers barely curled. She looked less like a proud girl being lifted and more like a limp rag.
Alejandra cradled her gently in her palm, thumb resting just against her spine.
“You look tired, Patrona,” she said, voice softer now. Not mocking. Not quite. Just observant. And beneath it, a thread of something close to warmth. “Ahora sí entiendes, huh? Real work.”
Her other hand came up, adjusting Charity’s position slightly. The motion was slow, practiced. A tender sort of efficiency that felt almost… reverent.
“People like me?” Alejandra’s gaze drifted to the window for a beat. “We don’t get rest days. No hay descanso. We hustle. We sweat. We pay in body and time.”
Then her dark eyes turned back to Charity. Clear. Unapologetic.
“And now that you’re mine? I expect the same.” A pause. “You’re gonna work as hard as you worked me. Fair’s fair.”
There was no smugness in the words. No raised eyebrow or gleeful grin. Just the simple, final statement of a girl who had learned how the world worked and had carved herself a foothold in it.
Charity didn’t reply. She couldn’t. The weight of the morning sat on her tongue. Her breath came shallow. Her eyes, half-lidded, refused to focus. All the protests she might’ve offered once, all the declarations of dignity or demands for fairness, had dried up somewhere between the ache in her spine and the tremble in her hands.
She had never known this kind of tired.
It wasn’t athletic exhaustion. Not the afterglow of tennis practice or the good-sore from a gym session. This was deeper. Uglier. It was the weight of invisible labor. Of doing something beneath notice, again and again, until you were shaped by it.
Alejandra’s palm felt warm beneath her.
Too warm.
Too safe.
And that realization bit deeper than any of the pain in her muscles.
Because she hadn’t earned comfort.
Not really.
Alejandra was right. She did look tired.
She was tired.
More than that, she understood it now. The kind of tired that used to belong only to others. The kind she’d looked down on. Ignored.
She’d never told someone folding her clothes, “Rest, you earned it.”
No one had ever said it to her either.
Until now, she hadn’t.
“We have a job interview today, Patrona,” Alejandra said as she carried her into the bathroom and set her on the counter.
The space smelled of cheap soap and older mildew. The sink basin loomed beside her like a stone bathtub. And all around her, lined up on the scratched laminate, were the relics of her former life. Bottles of perfume. Serum. Moisturizers. Designer skincare. The last of her high-end possessions, now perched like golden statues inside a temple of peeling paint and flickering lights.
Charity’s mouth opened to protest, to demand why Alejandra had set them out like trophies. But before she could speak, music roared to life.
The radio buzzed with a bilingual mix of reggaeton and Top 40. A beat-heavy anthem filled the space. Alejandra began to hum, moving with practiced grace as she applied foundation with a brush Charity used to keep in a velvet box.
Charity tried to shout over the music.
Her voice barely rose above the faucet drip.
She saw her reflection in the mirror. Bits of weed still clung to her skin. Adhesive crusted along the backs of her arms. Her hair was tangled, laced with dust. She looked feral. Like she’d been dragged through a garden and left to dry in the sun.
She moved toward Alejandra’s hand, muscles screaming in protest.
She didn’t fight.
She didn’t yell.
Instead, she pawed gently at Alejandra’s finger. A kitten asking to be picked up. A beggar child tapping at a window.
Alejandra’s gaze flicked down. A grin pulled at the corner of her mouth.
She let Charity linger there, pressing her hands to her skin. It wasn’t about attention. Not yet. Alejandra was still applying eyeliner, still concentrating. But the contact, the silent, unspoken permission to be near, lingered.
It was a reversal neither of them missed.
“Speak,” Alejandra said finally, flicking off the radio.
Charity flinched at the command.
Not the volume. The tone.
Like a trainer addressing a dog.
“I’m so… sticky and dirty,” she said, her voice as brittle as paper, the damaged cords turning vowels into sand.
Alejandra reached for her without hesitation. She carried her to the faucet, set her beneath the stream, and squeezed a bottle of bargain hand soap. It oozed out in thick, off-white globs.
Charity’s mind flooded with memories of scented foams and imported lavender oils. Now she was lathered in dollar-store soap. Scrubbed gently, but thoroughly, beneath fingers rough from work.
Alejandra bathed her with the same care one might give a precious possession.
Not out of love.
Out of routine.
Out of ownership.
When she was done, she patted Charity down and bent to the floor. A sock, soft, stretched, old, was picked up and dropped beside her like a dishrag.
“Use this to dry off,” Alejandra said. “The other one’s ruined. This is your towel now.”
No sarcasm. No joke. Just a flat statement of reality.
Charity stared at the sock. It still smelled faintly of detergent. Worn but not filthy. A thing once used, discarded, and now… repurposed.
Like her.
She stripped off her wet clothes. Folded them with trembling fingers. Wrapped the sock around herself.
And waited.
Wrapped in a girl’s old sock. On a cracked counter. Beneath fluorescent lights. Her feet dripping on linoleum. Her world no bigger than a fist. Her worth… condensed to labor.
She didn’t cry.
She just listened.
To Alejandra humming softly. To the tap tap tap of mascara against glass.
And in her heart, a single thought unspooled quietly—
I’m hers. And she knows it.
Looks like we are still not a place in their relationship where they are still getting use to each other and not yet at a place where it like other relationships like sara and Jordan yet and will probably will talk a long long time maybe shorter depending on events but hey at least charity is clean again and no jokes or smirks from Al so far so …. progress ! In a way
Well to a degree charity is having to grow up. She isn’t being cruel but she isn’t coddling her either.
Charity is expierencing what life is like without the silver spoon.
1.1) “It had once been Alejandra’s blanket when she slept on the streets. Her cloak when she ducked into a shop to swipe a phone.” sounds like it’s been around the block a few times.
1.2) “Her armor against a world that looked down on her” maybe she wouldn’t have been looked down on if she wasn’t breaking the law.
2) “The familiar plaid bag swayed gently where it hung next to the bed. From the hook where it dangled, she could see the room in distorted angles through a half-zipped flap” did Ale take her out of her bed?
3) ““Ahora sí entiendes, huh? Real work.” Indeed she’s been taught.
4) “You’re gonna work as hard as you worked me. Fair’s fair.” She’s definitely enjoying her Little revenge.
5) “Alejandra’s palm felt warm beneath her. Too warm. Too safe. And that realisation bit deeper than any of the pain in her muscles. Because she hadn’t earned comfort. Not really.
6) “Instead, she pawed gently at Alejandra’s finger. A kitten asking to be picked up. A beggar child tapping at a window.” fucking adorable.
7) “Alejandra reached for her without hesitation. She carried her to the faucet, set her beneath the stream, and squeezed a bottle of bargain hand soap. It oozed out in thick, off-white globs” not sure this is exactly what Charity wanted, but she’s less sticky and dirty now.
8) ““Use this to dry off, The other one’s ruined. This is your towel now.” Sock towel isn’t the most dignified option, lol.
9) “Charity stared at the sock. It still smelled faintly of detergent” there are much worse things socks could smell of.
10) “She stripped off her wet clothes. Folded them with trembling fingers. Wrapped the sock around herself.” Ale didn’t strip her before washing her?
11) “And in her heart, a single thought unspooled quietly— I’m hers. And she knows it.” and now so does Charity.
1) It has been around since the start of her journey.
1.2) The people looking down at her wouldnt know that though so its not applicable to her being looked down upon. You only know becuse your privy to the thoughts of both people. But objectively the people having an issue wouldnt know that. She also was stealing not for profit or gain but to literally not starve to death. So she wouldn’t freeze to death sleeping on a park bench if it going to be subzero temperatures.
While the argument to just get a job could be made. Its hard to get a job without a residence or an ID. However, even the bit of money she was making here was still more then she could have made back home. So while its fair to critcize its also important to note the people judging her dont know what you know. They only see the color of her skin, her age, her size. Anything outwardly viewable.
While stealing is never great. I personally look at it differently if you are just trying to survive and thats your option. I mean she could froze to death, she could starved. She could go back home and watch her siblings not get enough food to eat and her not able to get a job becuase there just aren’t jobs available. I don’t think its fair say well if shes jsut breaking the law they wouldnt look down at her. As the people judging her would have looked down at her regardless. Charity looked down at Sara for no reason. Charity thought she was better then Alejandra just becuse of where she was born and who her parents were, and her lifestyle and those traits are very real and no unique to charity in the fictional or the real world.
While alejandra isn’t a saint and not presented to be. I do think her struggle and choices are understandable even if its not the choice that another person would make.
2) The bed isn’t where she sleeps. she sleeps in the bag. the pet bed is just for lounging and napping when Alejandra is in the living room or kitchen, etc. and Charity is just relaxing. Alejandra doesnt leave her in the open unprotected.
3) Yes she has
4) I dont even know if thats revenge persay. You shoudl never ask of someone you aren’t willing to do yourself. So alejandra saying i’m going to hold you to the same expectation you hold others too isn’t revenge as shes not asking more of her then charity asked of others.
5) CHarity hasn’t earned very much in my opinion. its barely been any time at all and a lifetimem of bad choices and hurting people isn’t forgiven or overlooked because you had a rough few days.
6) Thats what i was going for.
7) I’m sure Charity imagined a little bar of soap, some kind of tub or basin being created. A little curtain she could pull shut.
8) A sock towel wouldnt be but it would be sized about right. An actual towel or even a handcloth would be huge for her.
9) I agree, I wanted to show that Alejandra wasnt tryign to demean her or be cruel. She is genuinely trying to do it correctly and treat her just as a little.
10) Well Charity has worn the same outfit it was probably needing a cleaning as well.
11) Undeniably.