Fe Fi Fo Fum

TRIGGER WARNING TW: Suicide | Abuse | Bullying | Abandonment | Negligence | Alchol |

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Dearest reader,

Get ready to embark on a mystical journey like no other—a journey filled with Magic, Romance, Lust, Passion, Hatred, Anger, Ego, and blood-curdling screams.

It is an adventure like no other. We focus on our hero waking up from the deepest slumber from the farthest realms, with hair so wild it could be named—The Mane, Untamed and Unruly.

Our hero embarks on the first task of the day, which would be waking up and gaining consciousness fully. They run to the loo, emerge from the room victorious and fully clothed, and with a beaming smile in a record time of 15 minutes, still having enough time to walk to the bus.

Again—walk, not run. WALK.

Our hero walks through the winding corridor with the kingdom’s lush greens, cautiously passes the dark den where the screaming monster lies in slumber, and rolls across the feathered path before reaching the mighty staircase.

Our hero begins their descent, and with each step they take, the colors fade, the magic disappears, their armor withers, the sun fades, and their smile drops slowly as the realization of impending doom strikes.

When they reach the end of the stairs, they are greeted by the forever unchanged gray walls, the yellow-tinted windows, the screaming kettle, the noisy father, the angry mother, and the whining child on her hips.

The smell of burnt toast and rotten eggs assaults their nose, the ringing sound returns to their ears, the blur blocks their eyes, and a disoriented state washes over them.

Our hero barely manages to miss a teacup catapult launched in their direction—our nonchalant hero couldn’t be bothered with whether the trajectory was aimed for them or whether they were caught in the crossfire.

But a win is a win.

In their half-dazed state, our hero stumbles out of the ratty old shack they have known fondly as “home.”

Beware, dear reader—our hero is a snarky one. They do, ever so often, throw around such words quite sarcastically.

As soon as our hero steps out onto the lawn, they throw up.

Guess we are back to normal now, eh?

We are officially LATE, no BREAKFAST/LUNCH, and whatever energy we have needs to be put into running behind that freaking bus.

The Journey Continues…

The school grounds loom ahead, a place where the battles never cease, where the weight of each day presses down with the same heaviness as the last. The gates swing open, but there’s no rush to pass through them, no thrill of adventure to be found. Every step forward feels like a small surrender. A surrender to not into the normal mundane childhood that our hero hopes and prays for - but a one so fearsome and abnormal that even Mighty Hades will be lying awake at night.

The bullies are always there, like shadows that refuse to leave, like an unrelenting storm that never quite passes. Their presence is expected, even predictable. The insults sting, but they’re old wounds by now—familiar, and strangely, less painful with time. They’re the same as yesterday, and the day before that. It’s all routine.

The classroom is no better. It’s just another battleground, only the weapons are words, and the armor is thin, like a second skin that’s grown too tight with constant use. The ridicule is more of a hum now, a background noise that fades in and out, neither particularly sharp nor blunted. It’s just the sound of the world around them, a world that doesn’t seem to care either way.

What is the mere caws of a few crows when we have faced the roars of lions, dear reader. Our Hero is Valiant and courageous. Oh, YES THEY ARE.

They move through the motions, just as they always do. Sit, write, stare at the clock. The clock ticks away, indifferent, like time itself has become a reminder that nothing ever changes. Nothing ever will.

And when the final bell rings, signaling the end of the day, it’s not a victory—it’s just a pause before the next round. The journey home is the worst part, the part that drags the weight of everything that came before it. The bullies are still there, waiting like sentinels, prepared for the ritual to unfold. The file out of the darkness of the alley like the lost souls that spill out of Tartarus.

We’ve been here before - let’s dance again.

Our hero unsheathe their weapon - not landing a blow but merely protecting themselves, the evil wizard blows the first strike.

A valiant block by our hero saves our face. The second blow by the evil Jester - stumbles our hero but only in body and not in mind.

The blows come, one after another. Before we realize, the dreams have faded and the residual heat as the aftermath of skin on skin contact lingers on our hero’s face.

“Reality might be seeping in a little too much “ Our hero thinks to themselves as they feel a cut on their lip and putrid taste in their mouth.

The body is numb to them now. It’s been too long, too many times to count, and there’s no fight left in the hero anymore. The mind retreats to a place where dragons, knights, and lava pits still exist. In that place, the hero fights valiantly, parrying strikes, dodging attacks. But the reality is cruel. The pavement is cold beneath them, the impact of each hit reverberating in a way that no dragon’s roar ever could.

The fight ends, not with a great defeat, but with a quiet retreat. The bullies grow bored, wandering off, leaving behind nothing but silence. The hero is left behind, bruised, battered, but still breathing. It’s all the same, the same routine, the same cruel end to a battle they never asked to fight.

They stand up slowly, painfully, the weight of the world pressing down on their shoulders. There’s no victory here, no glory in the scars they carry. Only exhaustion.

As long as there is breath left in us, we shall live to fight another day. And most confidently, we’ll see our Hero run triumphantly down the stairs yet again tomorrow.

Only the long walk home is left now, the chaos of a broken house waits to greet them with its constant noise and familiar disorder.

The Lowest Point…

The house is silent, except for the constant shrieking from the kitchen. The mother is nowhere to be seen, as usual—lost in her own world, her problems, her mess. The father, passed out cold on the couch, surrounded by empty beer bottles, is as useless as ever, a figure of drunken stupor with no care in the world. The screaming beast, their youngest sibling, sits on the kitchen counter in a high chair, wailing at the top of its lungs—red eyes, a runny nose, and a stomach growling in hunger.

The toddler brother is passed out on the kitchen floor. Perhaps from hunger. Perhaps from the toll of this place, this life. There’s a bloody kitchen knife, dropped carelessly to one side, with drops of blood leading to the dirty dishes piled high. The floor is filthy, the air thick with the stench of decay. A mountain of laundry sits in the corner, a reminder that nothing ever gets cleaned, nothing ever gets better.

The hero, limping with dirt caked into their skin, blood staining their torn clothes, and one eye barely open, moves through it all with a quiet resignation. It’s a battle they can never escape—this broken house, these broken people. But still, they move, because someone has to. They always have to.

A strange yet familiar feeling washes over our dearest hero - it was the ‘ Have we been here before? ’

Oh, Have we been here before… We’ve been here,Dear reader… Far too many times to count.

Our hero approaches the screaming beast first, and instinctively scoop it up, feed it, wash and then mechanically perform a list of tasks that have become a habit by now.

They drop the beast off at its den and admire it for a minute as it slumbers peacefully. Such tiny stature and such chaos and yet so peaceful.

Our hero circles back to the kitchen to pick up the passed toddler on the floor. They repeat the process yet again. This time they retire the toddler to their shared quarters and pray that the gods give them the strength to make it through the night.

The house needs cleaning, as always. The dishes need doing, the laundry needs folding, the filth must be erased, even if it’s just for a moment. Two plates are set aside for the parents, though the hero knows they won’t be used. They won’t eat. They never do. The house is clean by the time the hero’s done, but they can’t clean away the exhaustion, the pain, the memories of the day.

They take a moment to admire their handy work, the house maybe a little bit extra spotless today. Though the house is spotless, Our hero is covered in Blood, sweat and the pavement filth - This would be an ideal time for a shower.

Our hero slowly, wincing in pain, limps up the stair - yet again for the third time now - and into their room. The toddler is still asleep and they take this time to scurry on into the shower.

For a minute in between getting out of the torn and bloodied clothes and into the shower, they grab a glimpse of themselves in the mirror. Their eyes turn glassy as they notice the palate midnight blues across their body. Their spirit falters for a minute, their knees shake and lip quivers.

Just as quickly as our hero lost hope, they jump into the shower to regain it.

When they pull themselves together, it’s time to face another night. The battle never ends.

The door slams open, and the mother stumbles in—drunk. The father follows, eyes red with anger, already swearing, already shouting. They begin to hit each other. It’s a familiar dance. The hero runs down the stairs in a whirlwind of panic - we know what comes next.

The father notices our Hero. The words, the anger, the blame. They are blamed for things they didn’t do, their mother's mistakes all cast onto their shoulders. The mother, detached, sits back and watches, smoking her cigarette, offering nothing but indifference.

When the father’s done, his rage spent, he leaves. But not without one last kick. One last blow to the hero’s spirit. The hero is left on the floor, their body sore, their heart heavy. And then, just to seal it, the mother spits on them, calling them weak, telling them they should’ve stood up for themselves. But there’s no fight left. Not anymore.

She retreats into the beast’s den, shutting the door with a finality that rings louder than any word.

The hero lies there, in the dark, broken, at the foot of the stairs, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of a lifetime pressing down. Our headstrong Hero still refuses to give up and breakdown.

They lay there against the cold wood for what seemed like ages.

In the dark death silence of the night, they hear a door creak and tiny feet shuffling down the stairs.

Soon a pair of brown beady little orbs stare at them with the biggest confusion and an even bigger worry. The toddler wipes our hero’s face with his shirt and lies beside them. He even offers his bunny for comfort.

And then ladies and Gentlemen, Our Hero cries.

The hero screams. Screams in a way they never have before.

The loudest, saddest, most helpless, hopeless and the most heart-wrenching wails that anyone has ever heard.

They break down again, holding their brother, feeling the weight of everything they’ve ever lost and everything they can’t save. The child snuggles up to them, offering a kind of comfort the hero doesn’t deserve but can’t help but take.

Hours pass. The house is still. Quiet, almost too quiet. The hero and their brother stay there, motionless. Time becomes a blur.

Eventually, they stir. They make their way back upstairs, the weight of their body and soul dragging them through the motions.

The hero knows what’s coming. They know the cycle. They know it will be a miracle if the beast makes it past the week, not in this place. And they’re powerless to stop it.

They take one last look at themselves in the mirror. This time, there’s no anger. No defiance. Just acceptance.

For the first time, the hero speaks, but their voice is quiet, a mere whisper against the weight of the world. “Ain’t no armor shiny in battle.”

The tears have dried, but the pain lingers. It always will. They crawl into bed with their brother, waiting for tomorrow. Waiting for the next battle. The next fight they can’t win.

And then dawn comes, as it always does. The sun rises, and the hero dreads it, knowing what it will bring. The screams. The shouting. The violence. The chaos.

And then... a shrill scream. A sound from the beast.

Oh, No….

The loud scream resonates through the house ringing with the undeniable truth. The day we have all feared is here. Our end is here.

The realisation behind the scream sends panic into the house. The hero doesn’t wait. They know the time is here.

Their brother starts to cry, his fear palpable, but the bedroom door is locked.

They scoop their brother into their arms, the weight of the situation pressing on them with every step. They move quickly, running into the bathroom, their mind racing.

They lock the bathroom door behind them.

They hear loud knocks at the bedroom door echoing through the entire house.

There isn't a moment to spare. Our hero is faced with a tough decision and they must make a choice -FAST.

Then it strikes them.

They drop the toddler in the tub and bend down beneath the sink. The reach well behind the counter and grab a tiny vial.

The elixir.

Climbing back into the tub, they face their brother. The knocks get louder and louder - the sound of the door cracking sends chills through their spine.

With a weak smile, they look at their brother.

“This is it, Buddy.” They convince the toddler.

Our hero cajoles the toddler - tells them that the elixir is very potent magic, magic that can save them and take them far away from here.

The sound of the door breaking sends a loud crack and a thud followed by very angry screams and shuffles.

With no time to waste, Our hero desperately pleads with the toddler.

Our hero speaks of a “Kingdom in the clouds “ and a “ Brighter tomorrow” to our dearest toddler.

The child spilling with innocence, looks up at our hero - his eyes lighting up for the first time in a very long time and asks

- “ a Kingdom in the cloud..? Do you mean like Jack…and his beanstalk? And his giants…??”

The child looks at our hero with renewed hope.

The banging gets louder on their last line of defence.

Our hero smiles weakly and gives a reassuring nod.

“Fee fi, fo fum...” the hero says, as they both take a swig of the sour elixir, the taste bitter, but the darkness that follows... ever so sweet.