Allice in Mysterious Land (ON HOLD)

8: Perplexed

Miro dozes off after the Highlifes left.

The treehouse's manual book has thick pages, yet it's still as light as a feather. Once I lay on the couch, I flip it open. Words glare out from the sandy, recycled papers. On their sides are bad furniture sketches. A two-dimensional cabinet and a metal arm from the kitchen counter, which looks like a wooden stick, are a few examples.

Curiosity urges me to press a loudspeaker icon on the page's corner. "There are three in-wall drawers," Sandra's pretentious robotic voice echoes. My fingers fumble for a volume button on the book's jacket once Miro stirs.

"There is one opposite our beds, one behind the couch, and the last is under a photograph—Roy, give that back!"

Swallowing down a chuckle, my shadow drifts off the couch as I stagger to the kitchen, where the said photo frame sways on the wall. The lamp's orange hues illuminate their faces. The sight of Roy with an untidy maroon suit side-hugging Sandra, whose sleeveless white dress complements her black eyes, brings a smile to my face.

Are they best friends or lovers? Anyway, whichever that is, they suit each other well. Their best and worst traits patch each other's up. Like Dad with his amusing jokes and Mom's quietness. They're different, yet so alike at once.

It must be good to have someone that close. How does it feel to have someone behind one's back? How did they forge that relationship at first?

Will I ever have someone like that?

But no, what if I'm meant to be a lone wolf?

Sighing, I shamble to the window, where Ax's sprawling silhouette is visible from. A crowd of night-colored bats flutter about outside, their wings flapping sloppily. Wintry winds seep through the sills, aching my bandaged injuries while passing a message.

I should get used to this loneliness. No creatures can possibly change my lone wolf nature... for now.

🐾

The hut is scorching. Sunlight pierces through the windows. The air conditioner, according to Miro, relies solely on wind. The manual setup includes mind-boggling descriptions which slacken the jaws of both a nineteen and six year old.

But this complicated situation is far better than having to join the mass of Lowlife ravagers at the streets. In a sudden critical time like this, especially when Highlifes have taken most of the life supplies, they must be out with their makeshift weapons and either steal or hunt in Huntshire Woods. We've never done it before, but it's one of the scariest things about being a Lowlife.

I rise from the couch to reach the door, trying to allow the outside air to chill the treehouse. But a force tries to break inside, pushing me back. With overwhelming panic, I muster all my strength to push the door.

Are we found? Why doesn't this intruder knock—wait, do intruders do that?

"Open up, junkhead. It's Roy."

Heat blossoms on my cheeks as I unbolt the door. I rack my brain for an excuse, but none surfaces. As Roy darts inside, carrying various items, I catch a glimpse of his ear-to-ear smirk.

How many times have I been a fool?

Miro jumps on his feet, as if greeting one of his goofy best friends at school. His stomach rumbles out a monstrous roar. "What do you have there, Roy?"

There's something off as he mutters while arranging his belongings on the couch, "I need to restock food. I hope you don't mind late breakfasts." He smiles apologetically. "Good thing I'm a good feeder. Anyway, Sandra won't be here until 5 PM since she's sleeping and all that, so I'll be your guide for today." His words are too tensed and formal. Is there something going on?