Becoming Fifi: Chronicle of Change - 19

March 25th

Oh Journal,

Everything is ruined! My only solace, my barefoot moments of liberation, have been stolen from me! Am I destined to stay stuck in this life of unending pretence? Am I to forever exist as this prissy, high-heeled, fashion-forward, French girl, burdened with a name more fitting for pampered poodle than a grown man?

Annisa, my well-intentioned tormentor, confronted me last night about my repeated footwear rebellion. She's not a fan of my habit of kicking off my Biancas at every opportunity. I tried explaining to her the agony my feet experience, trapped within their angled confines, balanced on pencil-thin heels. She responded with surprising empathy, but her solution, well... it's ruined everything!

She suggested a miracle gel of sorts, a potion gifted to her by a friend. It's said to work wonders for heel-induced foot fatigue. Apparently, this friend of hers used to suffer the same way I do, with feet protesting against the torture of towering heels. But after using the gel, she was, as Annisa put it, 'a changed woman', now capable of completing a marathon in a pair of Christian Louboutin's 'So Kate' – a thought that sends shivers of dread down my spine.

Desperation won over caution, and in my intoxicated state, I agreed to the proposal. Annisa helped me apply the gel, slathering it generously over my protesting feet before tightly binding them in bandages. The hope of pain-free days was a potent lure, promising a fragment of solace amidst the ever-growing chaos of my existence. But little did I know of the horrors that awaited me the following morning.

Waking up, my feet felt rigid, confined as if encased in plaster. As I reached down to unravel the bindings, a sense of foreboding gnawed at me. My hands shook as they carefully tore through the thick layers, revealing the scene of my worst nightmare. My feet were locked in a perpetual en pointe, mimicking the posture of a prima ballerina, as if ready to pirouette across a stage. But there was no stage, no applause, only a wave of panic that crashed into me with unforgiving force.

I screamed, a chilling sound that echoed in the empty room. Annisa came rushing in, her face a mask of concern. As her eyes fell on my feet, her complexion turned ghostly. Despite her apologies and attempts to massage out the rigidity, my feet remained unyielding, stubbornly holding onto their unnatural posture.

In the calamity of my conundrum, I must've slipped into a state of shock. I barely registered Annisa's frantic apologies, or her disbelieving confession that she'd experienced nothing more than mild relief after applying a little gel to the soles of her feet after a long day. But as I attempted to stand, the gravity of my predicament along with my body came quite literally crashing down!

In a fit of anguish, I drew today's illustration. A self-portrait of despair. It shows Fifi, crouched by the window, staring with hopeless eyes at the figure reflected in the mirror across the room. In the reflection, she is a picture of femininity, clad in a short black, flared skirt, and a spaghetti-strap top blooming with multicoloured flowers. Her wig is secured atop her head, her fringe held back by a dainty clip. The remnants of last night's makeup clung to her her face, adding to the grotesque mockery of my identity.

But, it's the monstrous heels encasing my crippled feet that shook me to the core. My feet, stuck in their balletic arch, render me incapacitated and helpless! I couldn't even slide my feet into the punishing Biancas; the acute angle of my arches defied the design of those heels. Just as I was on the verge of screaming, of revealing my true identity to Annisa, she darted off to her closet, only to return with a solution to my problem.

In her hands, she held a pair of pumps, a colossal seven-inch tower of suffering. A pair of Louboutins she'd never managed to wear herself, the heels were disturbingly tall, covered in black spikes that protruded like the scales of some nightmarish creature. And yet, in my desperate situation, they seemed to be my only hope of movement. With trembling hands, I slipped my feet into the stilettos, my ankles protesting at the extreme incline. But, miraculously, I found myself able to move again. The physical pain was absent, but emotionally, I felt like a vessel brimming over with despair.

(See image 19)

So, dear Journal, how do I escape this trap now? How can I, with the gait of a circus performer balancing on stilts, even dream of approaching the British Embassy? This reflection in the mirror, this caricature of femininity, is a cruel prison. Every step is a cold echo of my ordeal. Can I ever walk again without being propped up by these towering heels? Can I ever flee this farcical parody of my existence? My future, once so full of potential, now seems a desolate landscape.

David.