Whispers of a Former Life: Episode 75

Charity was inside her bag her clothes dried with a hair dryer. 

Not metaphorically. Not some clever twist of fate. She was literally inside a handbag she had once bought, once flaunted, and once discarded. The world around her smelled faintly of worn leather and Alejandra’s skin oils. The fabric lined interior, once pristine and smelling of upscale boutiques, now bore the distinct tang of sweat, resin, and the faint perfume of weed that had clung to Alejandra’s belongings like an aura. 

The bag’s plaid lining surrounded her like a dim, padded prison. Light filtered through the zipper’s teeth above like slashes of gold cutting into shadow. She shifted on the fraying seam of one of the side compartments, what used to be a slot for lip gloss was now a ledge where she could stretch out her aching limbs. Her back throbbed from days of labor. Her fingertips were raw from manipulating papers too thick for her scale and herb that clung to her like barbed lint. She hadn’t known exhaustion like this could exist without pain. It was the exhaustion of use, of having every ounce of energy wrung out of her until even breathing took intention. 

This bag had been hers. She and Kira had laughed over it at a boutique downtown. The shopkeeper had no idea it was limited edition, part of a capsule run that had sold out in New York. Charity had haggled him down like it was a game. Then she tossed the bag into her closet and forgot it even existed. Just one more acquisition in a life of abundance. 

Now it was Alejandra’s. 

There was a  ID tag sewn into the inside lining. It had once been blank. Now it bore Alejandra’s full name, written in thick, permanent marker. There was no trace of Charity in it anymore. The irony twisted in her stomach like a blade. 

Through the canvas walls, she felt movement, the sudden lurch of the car. Her car. No, Alejandra’s SUV now. She heard the engine purr to life, the rumble amplified by her size until it felt like the whole world vibrated. Every thump of bass from the speakers, every hum of the engine, became a seismic event. Even the rustle of Alejandra’s body shifting in the seat was enough to shake the bag slightly, swaying Charity like a forgotten keepsake. 

The air was heavy with Alejandra’s scent. A mix of dry shampoo, body heat, and a cheap but defiant perfume she always wore. The vehicle’s radio played one of Alejandra’s favorite stations, full of cumbia and reggaeton. The Bluetooth connected automatically—her phone, her playlists, her maps. Even the cup holder held the remains of her morning café de olla. Every part of the vehicle had been rewritten. Like the bag, it was hers now, completely and utterly. 

Charity didn’t know how many days had passed. Her sense of time had eroded beneath the rhythms of work, rest, and aching muscle. The bath Alejandra gave her had helped, at least temporarily, but her body still buzzed with dull soreness. She didn’t know this kind of tired existed. The kind that wasn’t about sleep but about motion. About not wanting to lift a finger. Not because of weakness, but because every fiber of her being whispered, “Stop.” 

And yet, every day, she worked. 

She rolled. 

No matter what else Alejandra asked of her, sweeping, folding, learning Spanish phrases, it always came back to rolling. She never imagined cannabis could cling to a person the way it did to her. Tiny flecks of ground bud worked their way into her hair, behind her ears, under her nails. Her fingertips were perpetually sticky from handling the rolling papers, her skin tinged faintly with the earthy musk of Alejandra’s product. She’d improved. Her hands, once uselessly delicate, had adapted. The creases of the paper, the straightness of the line, the tightness of the roll… all of it became muscle memory, hard-earned and methodical. 

She had once imagined a future of leisure: internships at her father’s company, a minor degree in business, maybe fashion. She never imagined this. A miniature laborer producing joints for a teenage girl’s side hustle. 

Alejandra didn’t even smoke most of them. She sold them, used the money to send small wire transfers to her family in Mexico. Her pay went toward siblings’ school uniforms, her mother’s medications, her family’s house bills. As her dad worked 50+ hours at his garage, her mother worked as much as she could while still raising her siblings. Charity had never thought about the other side of poverty until now, not just the struggle, but the relentless grind. The cost of inaction. A sick parent meant working harder, not resting. Hunger didn’t get solved by waiting. And laziness was a luxury for people like Charity had been. 

Now she belonged to someone who had nothing. And in that nothingness, Charity had become something valuable, useful. 

The SUV slowed. 

Charity’s body shifted as the bag tilted slightly, Alejandra getting out. Her feet thundered against the pavement, a sound like distant artillery from Charity’s vantage point. Then the din of the city faded as they entered a café. 

Muffled conversation washed over her like a tide. 

A woman’s voice rang out, bright and polished. 

“Hi, Alejandra? Just as we discussed, I’m looking for a personal assistant. Travel’s part of the job, so you’d be expected to accompany me. That okay?” 

Alejandra’s voice was quieter, tinged with uncertainty. “I’ve been working toward getting my papers. I… I worked for a family, but they caught Smallara. I probably can’t travel like you need. I’m sorry.” 

There was a pause. 

“That’s not necessarily a dealbreaker,” the woman replied. “You said you had Little experience?” 

“Yes.” A rustle. Charity felt her entire world shift as Alejandra reached into the bag. “She’s mine. Registered in Mexico. Her name is Patrona.” 

The zipper peeled open. 

Light flooded in like a spotlight. Charity squinted, her eyes adjusting as Alejandra’s fingers beckoned her. Her limbs protested, but she climbed into the hand. She didn’t have to be told. She knew now that Alejandra’s fortunes were her own. If Alejandra succeeded, she might get better food, a better sleeping space, maybe even warmth. 

The table they landed on was large, towering, polished. Every cup on it was a tankard to her. The sugar packets were the size of briefcases. 

Charity turned to face the voice. 

And froze. 

Chloe. 

Bright. Regal. Almost glowing. Her skin was sun-kissed and flawless, and her scent, a blend of tropical lotion and subtle perfume, wrapped around Charity like a spell. She smiled like she had always been powerful. And Charity, Charity Stevens, felt herself shrink in every sense. 

“Well hello there,” Chloe said with a friendly smile, reaching forward. 

Her fingers were wide, soft, gentle. A single touch on the back of Charity’s hand sent a tremor through her body. Not fear. Not exactly. More like… acknowledgment. Of her place. Of Chloe’s power. She felt like a pet being inspected. 

“I’ve worked with Littles before,” Alejandra said. “She rolls for me. I’m teaching her about work ethic. Traditions. Our ways.” 

Chloe’s gaze remained on Charity. “You said her name is Patrona?” 

“Yes,” Alejandra said without pause. “It suits her.” 

Chloe chuckled. “That’s funny. I knew her when she was still Charity Stevens.” 

Charity’s breath caught. 

Oh no. 

Her heart pounded. She looked for Sara, for anyone else from the past. But there was only Chloe, smiling sweetly. No judgment. No mockery. Just a curious warmth that made the moment even more terrifying. 

“Do you mind?” Chloe asked, offering a small biscuit in her palm. 

Alejandra gave a nod. 

Charity wanted to say no. Wanted to slap it away. But her body leaned forward, driven by hunger and reflex. She took a bite. 

And the world exploded. 

The taste, rich, buttery, sweet, rushed through her. Her eyes welled with tears. She saw her father laughing at the lake. Her mother singing while stringing up Christmas lights. Her brother shoving her off a raft into icy water. She tasted memories. And they broke her. 

Tears spilled over her cheeks as she chewed. 

“She worked hard,” Charity murmured when Chloe asked. “She was diligent. Always stayed until the job was done.” 

Chloe looked between them and smiled. 

“Then I’ll offer you the job, Alejandra. Forty thousand a year. Not under the table. I’ll get you a visa. Later, dual citizenship. Once that’s sorted, we’ll bump your pay up another twenty-five. You’ll be my PA, help with Generitech stuff, travel, scheduling. You’re bilingual. You’re honest. That’s more valuable than experience. You’ll also help me out with a company I run called Echo Riot.” 

Alejandra stared. “Forty thousand… every year?” 

“Yes,” Chloe said. “I don’t want you to scrape by. I want you to thrive. You don’t have to sell weed or resort to theft anymore. You can build something. You said you only did what you had to. Well you wont have too” 

Alejandra’s hands trembled. 

“I accept,” she whispered. “Thank you, Miss Gracewood.” 

“Chloe is fine.” 

Then she looked at Charity. 

“One last thing. I’d love for someone else to meet her. I think it could be… mutually beneficial.” 

Charity shivered. 

Something in the way Chloe said it made her feel like her story wasn’t done yet. 

Not even close. 

 ____
Note: Since 75, 76 and 77 all go together. I’m going to flip things for this weekend only. 76 and 77 will post saturday and sunday. Monday and Tuesday will have no whispers postings. Then we come back Wednesday with the regular posting schedule, carrying on forward until the thanksgiving break. 

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