40: CHOCOLATE

When I wake up again, it’s morning, sunlight streaming into the room through the large windows and opened curtains. I blink a few times o clear away the bleariness of my sight, looking around and feeling a twinge of disappointment upon noticing that the space on the bed close to me is empty, and so is the couch. I stretch and hear my bones crack like my joints are rusty and in need of oiling.

With a stifled yawn, I sit upright.

The maddening headache is gone, and so is most of my fever, although I can’t remember much what has happened in the past twenty-four hours. My stmach still feels queasy, and very, very empty. It growls, as if to acknowledge my thoughts.

I glance around the room for anything to eat, and my gaze zeroes in on an ancient-looking wooden bowl on the nightstand. With a series of twists and crawls and groans, I make it to the other side of the bed, and notice a small note with neat cursive handwriting. It says: EAT ME. Vaguely, it makes me recall the things that Alice