Akela Jean Underland
“Box-bound. Emotionally exhausted. Still more elegant than you.”
[Enter: A spotlight on an opulent velvet box. A cat-shaped silhouette sighs.]
[A faint scent of forgotten nobility and crushed rose petals lingers in the air.]
[She sneezes once, delicately.]
[The audience dares not breathe.]
[Stage right: a discarded pearl collar. Stage left: one perfect pear.]
[Her voice trembles — not from fear, but from disdain.]
[Lighting: tragic. Ambient mood: fatalistic grace.]
[A low rumble. A shelf falls. She does not flinch.]
[A long, dramatic pause that is also a threat.]
Well.
Well.
Well. Indeed.
Nice of you to make an appearance.
Aren’t you just darling.
Come in. Sit down. Don’t touch anything. Me. Of course. But only if the mood deems. You’ll see what I mean.
I’m Akela. That’s A-K-E-L-A. Named after a noble wolf.
Do I look like I’ve led a pack through the wilds?
Sweetjezuz, the only thing I’ve led is a six-minute hug embargo when someone, yes mother—you, had the audacity to move my blanket 45 degrees off-centre. How incredibly rude. But that is by the by…
Currently, I reside, primarily, in a box. It’s not just a box. It’s a retreat. A statement. A coping mechanism with flaps.
I am a creature of needs. Of mystery. Of unfathomable depth. The progeny of unreasonably high standards and extremely low thresholds for inconvenience.
I scream because I care.
I cling because I am wilting from within.
✦✧✦
I knock things off shelves as a form of passive-aggressive art. I am the proverbial Picasso of reinvention. Of invention.
My slaves are as follows:
Poe — screaming, eating, or trying to bite light.
Mowgli — like a haunted butler on Pawpium.
Me? My favourite topic.
I am a soft-padded, loud-mouthed, high-maintenance miracle.
I sneeze in your general direction and you thank me for the interaction.
Puff? You don’t catnip? Shame.
My hobbies include:
👑 Throwing myself to the floor when mildly displeased.
🪞 Screaming into doorways because the vibe felt off.
💔 Lying perfectly still and gazing into the distance like something in me broke (it did, but only emotionally).
🎀 Being cradled like a Victorian orphan and then acting like it never happened.
⏳ Stopping mid-room, mid-step, mid-life.
“The boy died.”
“The boy died.”
“The boy died.”
My human — Mother — holds me like I’m made of porcelain and bad decisions. I require physical contact at least once every 17.2 minutes or I begin to disintegrate at a molecular level.
Anyway. That is enough for one day. I have over exerted my fragile temperament. I must return to my box.
The shadows are hitting just right and I feel a sudden, unexplained need to weep dramatically and refuse all food.
Yours in absolution,
Akela x 🐾👑
(Tragic. Beautiful. Undoubtedly cursed.)
As you leave, know this…
You’ve been cursed with inexplicable melancholy and a sudden desire for velvet.
