Fairytale Gone Bad


Legend has it that abandoned children are meat for organ sales and pedophile pleasures. The queen’s move ended the duel and it turned out that the meteorite had decided to fall on our heads this time, ending a painfully uninteresting ball of wrong priorities.

- Drowning fish or throwing birds off tall buildings? asked Alice, filling out a questionnaire on social drama

Well, on that day, I was 5, I sat in a room with a social worker for a few hours and answered questions about whether I was beaten at home, whether I was loved, what was going on in general. My mother hit me once, she was lying on the bed and crying, I came up and wanted to hug her, I felt so sorry for her and she turned around and hit me in the face, saying that she couldn’t see my face and hated me, I fell down and hit the closet. Since then, I’ve tried to keep my distance and not say anything unnecessary. Did she love me? Of course not, I was only a tool to keep the man of her dreams and when she realized that I was useless, she started to hate me more than she hated him. Did I love her? All children love their parents, it’s a self-preservation instinct, you subconsciously think you can’t survive without the people who gave you life. The umbilical cord does not break after birth, it remains for life and even when you want to break it is impossible, this connection, is magical, you can not explain it, but it is. I’ve been thinking a lot about, what if Dad loved her and didn’t leave, would she treat me differently or would I be just white noise to her as well? No one would know anymore. Did I hate her? Sometimes. I’ve never been to her grave and I never even thought about going there, even though the orphanage gave me the address. At first, I thought that if she wasn’t selfish and hadn’t given birth to me, I wouldn’t be going through hell right now. Then, looking at myself, I realized that even from such horror and foolish parents, I turned out not a bad person, not indifferent. That maybe my story has made me the one who’s making history now. I only had one feeling for my mother, she seemed very scary to me, she was always drunk, unbrushed, not washed practically and my childish imagination still saw beauty in her, somewhere inside, because for a child mother is always the best and most beautiful person on the planet, even like this.

- The word is not a sparrow. Nothing is a sparrow but a sparrow, I said, standing at the entrance to the zoo of unknown beasts

Nothing is ever clear about the living. They have not yet settled down and are flailing about. It was as if there was a small imitation of the existing world before my eyes. I watched the process soberly and calmly, I saw the beginning and the end of the journey of each of the avatars of the hastily created project. It was an amazing sight. You see things that the avatar is not yet aware of, the unplanned events of his reality. Walking suffering seeking truth. A useful brain massage.

A manifesto of old scars. As if she had just undergone a rite of folk-antiromantic initiation. The protagonist’s enthronement after defeating the main villain, who by a funny coincidence happens to be her blood relative. I’ve seen a lot, but the unspoken rule is that whatever you see can’t be interpreted according to your senses. I’m haunted by vague doubts. Isn’t it a fairy tale? I’ve seen kids die from an overdose or die slowly, depending on the drug. I saw children’s bodies just wrapped in a sack, and we didn’t know where they were or what we did with them next. The caretakers at the orphanage knew about the drug problem, but they didn’t care why they had to bother with the kids their parents didn’t think about. It was so strange when we were telling a story and then realizing that several people who were part of that story were no longer alive. That’s how I came to know death. That’s how I knew that no one could save me but me. That’s how I knew how much human life costs. That’s how I realized that despite my disgusting life, I want to live and want to live differently, so I have to take care of myself. The censorious rupture had no predictable results, life moved on by the laws of the forest.

- Don’t boil the old goat in someone else’s mother’s milk, said the older girl, after arriving two weeks after the unknown but obvious to us party

Dreams of a poppy seed bun did not come true. It was too sweet, luscious, and abstract. Like a brilliantly beautiful woman who flew to the ambuscade to defend the rights of children, covering herself for those who violated those rights. If there’s a lingering striptease in front of you, chances are you’ve already had the house you built out of shit and sticks set on fire in the background.

When a man is utterly exhausted, he suddenly discovers deep within himself an abyss of cheerful cynicism. Peter Høgh’s



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