Allice in Mysterious Land (ON HOLD)

4: Persistent

It has been three months since my parents got locked, but today marks my first visit.

Despite OCZ's suggestions to stay home, Auntie Morgan insists on visiting them. I lower my woolen beanie to avoid the demeaning stares Highlife people might throw. After all, Auntie Morgan's yet-to-heal wound lures attention from the crowd on the streets, though they're lesser than usual.

It's suspicious how Lin-Irene didn't ask where my wounds came from. Did she know?

As we walk on Chrysanthemum Road, with closed clothes stores and half-opened three-starred restaurants on either sides, Auntie Morgan whispers from her shawl, "Do you notice we aren't the only ones hurt?"

I slightly lift my beanie. The smoking old man in front of me is limping, scars stretching from his ear to the nape. A bicyclist, heading to our opposite direction, has blood pooling on his shoulder. He grimaces like there's a jar of mustard in his mouth.

The clearest similarity we have with them is our modest clothing. Nothing crisp nor polished. Colorful patches glower from Auntie Morgan's shawl and t-shirt. My shoes and socks are still wet from last night. Typical Lowlife.

As we round a corner to Cactus Road, a lesser-known part of the city, Auntie Morgan quietly says, "What I told you was true. OCZ is working with Jorge Zaragoza to get rid of Lowlifes. OCZ was testing their inventions—"

I roll my eyes, suppressing a sigh. "Don't let hatred drives your judgment, Auntie." As pleasing as that sounds, we can't accuse Jorge Zaragoza, a famous anti-Lowlife figure, for the attacks. Though the coincidences are too obvious...

In these parts, the sky is dirtier. Factory smoke stains the morning. The sturdy towers with rooftop gardens are replaced by cheap flats and ancient stores with flower boxes. The road gets narrower, the vehicles lesser, and the sidewalks less polished.

This is where the chasm between Highlife and Lowlife community begins.

Most stores are closed too, but with huge differences from the ones before. The glass displays, along with their contents, litter the sidewalk. Awnings torn and crushed, holes marring the fabric.

The animals attacked the whole city last night. But why, though these stores aren't far from each other, have different results?

"How far are we?"

"We'll be there in minutes." She warily eyes our fellow passersby, as if one of them is ostrich-headed. "I regret going out. What if we're attacked by an animal..."

Beneath the horizon, lies a wasteland with lots of bright panels on the ground. But it's no secret that the condition doesn't represent the mood in prison.

The thirteen-year-old incident tickles my forehead. Fingers aiming for my face from their glass-walled cells, voices yelling, "Murderer!". Tears staining their red faces. Anger twisting their tongues.

Even after thirteen years, my heart still thumps like a war drum at the sour memory.

The illusion ends once we face the officers, who look like doppelgängers. Silence consumes the area, like there isn't any uncaged animal wandering around.

"Hi. We're here for Mr. and Mrs. Worke." Auntie Morgan gives a shaky toothed smile.

The red-faced officer huffs, blowing a loose black strand off his nose. The other frowns deeply.

Are we that disgusting, even for fellow Lowlifes like them?

Shutting myself from their dialogue, I focus on the solar panels in the wasteland's center. There's a circular opening slightly before, big enough to fit two to three people. I have to tiptoe to view the spiraling downward steps within.