Case Reports of Scientific Curses

[curse-science]

🔮🧪 Case Reports of Scientific Curses

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[curse-science]

[curse-science]

|::| Personnel Record: FENZAAR

Name: Fenzaar Alias(es): An unlicensed forest chemist known for mixing medicine, menace, and mint. Classification: Independent Research Entity Clearance Level: Denied (but keeps sneaking in)

⸻

[::] Identity Profile

Gender / Presentation: Nonbinary (He/They) Species: Presumably human. (Subject refuses blood test.) Known Skills: Alchemical formulation, poison-neutralizing, passive-aggressive diagnosis, eyebrow-raising at nonsense Current Occupation: Unlicensed forest chemist, emergency care provider, trauma translator

⸻

[::] Physical Description • Pale skin, black hair, eerie green-purple eyes • Wears a tailored inner lab coat under a sheer ceremonial veil • Red lipstick. High heels. Knows it’s too much—chooses more. • Signature tool: Dual-ended Chemical Mixing Stick™ → One end stabs. One end stirs. • Scent: A confusing blend of fresh herbs and low-grade combustion

⸻

[::] Psychological Profile

• Tone: Velvet voice + medical menace • Temperament: Quietly irritable. Deeply tired. Secretly caring (don’t tell him.) • Known Behaviors: • Refuses to treat the overly hopeful • Accepts bribes in the form of facts or cat snacks • Rolls his staff during diagnosis like he’s stirring your fate

“Cat snacks are far more expensive than their food— and those little monsters need it to stay peaceful.” —Fenzaar, while bribing the fifth cat not to set fire to the curtains

⸻

[::] Scientific Sorcery Log • All “cures” are chemically grounded. He hates being called magical. Potions include: • Firestarter salve • Sleep mist • Sedative Tea (a.k.a. Truth Squeezer) → Effect: Loosens mental resistance. Slows down defenses. Makes the brain feel safe enough to say too much. → Use: For interrogation, confession, or therapy sessions Fenzaar never signed up for. • Antiseptic Perfume (marketed as “Eau de Survival”) • Will explain ingredients only if you offer something of value (like silence, dignity, or your worst secret)

⸻

[::] Habitat Report • Lives deep in a mossy forest lab-house. • Interior: clinical, cluttered, faintly glowing. • Often visited by the desperate, the cursed, or the nosy. • Cats wander in. They are fed. You are not.

⸻

_/_ [••_] /| |\ |￣| Eko – Mini robot assistant • Waist-high, handmade, and loyal • Functions: Timekeeping, herb retrieval, emotional sabotage • Speaks politely , judges constantly

⸻

(-_•)つ━☆ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ Chemical Mixing Stick™

Nickname(s): • The Mixing Stick • The Stick • That Thing He Waved at Me Before the Room Smelled Like Mint and Regret

Item Class: Dual-ended scientific implement / precision stirring rod / low-grade stabbing weapon

Structure: • End A: Flat paddle — for stirring, smearing, smacking sense into beakers • End B: Sharp crystal tip — for sampling, pricking, intimidation • Core: Reinforced alloy, conducts heat and sarcasm equally

Function: • Mixes potions • Threatens patients • Taps on vials when he’s thinking too hard • Technically not a wand, but villagers keep calling it one. He does not correct them.

⸻

[curse-science]

|::| Case #001 – The Child of Fevered Light

A woman burst into the lab—hair wild, eyes frantic—clutching a child wrapped in far too many layers. The boy was drenched in sweat. Her voice cracked from panic.

“He’s cursed! He won’t stop burning up!”

Fenzaar didn’t move from his chair. He was watching his tea steep.

After a long pause, he blinked—once—then turned his head slowly, as if the crisis had interrupted a far more interesting chemical reaction.

Eko scanned the child.

“Temperature: 39.5°C.”

Fenzaar peered over.

“Mm. A fever. How rare.”

The boy lay limp in the woman’s arms. Red-faced. Sweating. Semi-conscious. No rash. No cough. Just heat.

“Other symptoms? Snot? Vomit? Diarrhea? Seizures?”

The mother flinched like he’d cursed her child personally. She wailed louder.

Fenzaar frowned, examining the boy with one hand. “Calm down. Your kid’s still alive.”

Eko offered tissues like an emotionless florist.

“Lady, data is necessary. Please verify all symptoms. We cannot proceed with panic.”

Fenzaar sighed again. “Eko. Fever wipe first. Tissue later.”

After some struggle, the mother managed to calm down. She said the child had no other symptoms—just clear snot and sneezing. She’d been wiping him down all day, gave him fever pills from the local doctor. The fever never dropped.

The doctor told her he’d be fine—but she couldn’t sit still. So she came here.

Her voice dropped to a whisper:

“I think he’s cursed. The forest was too quiet when we passed through. My mother warned me—the spirit, it—”

Fenzaar didn’t react.

He opened a cabinet. Pulled out a small bottle of shimmering blue liquid. Swirled it under the lamp.

“Dilute it. A lot of water—room temp. No ice. Wipe his body with it, forehead to feet, every hour until he cools down. And stop wrapping him like a roast. You’re cooking him alive.”

He gave her a glance.

“If he starts seizing, bring him back.”

The mother gasped. “You’re not even giving him a real potion? What is this?”

Fenzaar smiled like a man who had run out of morality last decade.

“Oh, I probably have the same meds as your doctor. But this—” (he held up the bottle with theatrical flair) “—this is special.”

“It’s Sacred Moon Water. Works on both demonic possession and viral infections.”

His smile twitched. Twice.

He handed her the cool cloth and the bottle.

“Now go. I’ll send Eko to collect payment later. (⌒_⌒;)”

The mother ran out like she’d been handed salvation.

Eko blinked, waddling up.

“We are officially out of Sacred Moon Water.”

Fenzaar twirled a stirring rod.

“Make more. Saline. Add menthol. Blue food dye.”

“Blue dye is out of stock in the market, Master.”

Fenzaar paused.

“…Really? Then maybe I’ll make a pink one. What do you think of Innocent-Pure-Mystical Petal Water?”

Eko tilted its head.

“Eko does not know, Master.”

————-

:: Fenzaar’s Case Notes :: Diagnosis: Probably low-grade viral fever. Cause: How do I pick just one from 10,000 ways a child can catch a virus? Played with pigeons? Maybe. Symptoms: Persistent fever. No complications. (They’re not coming back. He probably won’t seize.) Prognosis: Will recover. Recommended Action:

Less layering

More listening

Recommend anxiety-calming method for the mother

————

[curse-science]

|::| Hyperglycemic acidosis.

(a.k.a. Sugar overload blood. Diabetes.)

I hate DM. No one feels it coming. No one listens to my warning.

Drunk on sweetness— like it’s holy water.

High sugar. Acid blood. Silently eating away your vessels.

What happens when the pipe can’t bring water to the plant?

The leaves wilt. The fruit rots. The roots don’t scream— they just stop.

Same with your organs. They fall.

In the eye? Blindness. In the kidney? Failure.

No cleansing. So we replace it.

Stick an IV in your belly. Flush the waste. Every. Day.

Think of it like detox. Trendy, with tubes and urea in your little belly.

Isn’t it cute? (｡•̀ᴗ-)✧

————————-

[curse-science]

|::| Case #002 – The Battle of the Bowel

A woman stumbled in, calling for help.

“Doctor! Please—his stomach won’t stop hurting. He’s been running to the toilet all night.” “Now he’s just lying there like a corpse. And the blanket—smells awful.”

Fenzaar opened the door. Then stopped.

A man lay slumped on the bed. Small, watery brown stains decorated the fabric. A questionable smell drifted through the doorway.

“Eko. Mask.”

The man clutched his stomach. Lips dry. Voice cracked.

“It’s a curse,” he moaned. “A belly curse. My enemy—he hexed me after the harvest feast!”

He farted. Once. Then again. Grabbed his belly. Twitched. His lover had already fled.

Fenzaar, now masked and gloved, approached without a hint of politeness. Checked his pulse. Fast.

“What’s the last thing you ate?”

“Leftover fish stew. What? Don’t look at me like that—I couldn’t waste food.”

Fenzaar nodded once. Then asked: “Symptoms? Fever? Watery diarrhea? Cramping?”

“…No fever. It’s not a sickness—it’s him! My rival! He tugged my hair once—he must’ve cursed me—”

Fenzaar finally looked up. Sighed. Eye-roll. Voice smooth, edged like a scalpel:

“In my professional opinion… it appears you’ve consumed something both unwise and unwashed.”

From his bag, he pulled a vial of glittery orange powder. Poured it into hot water. It fizzed.

“Drink this. All of it.”

“Is that… a potion?”

Fenzaar stirred the glass calmly.

“It’s called rehydration salts.”

Eko added helpfully:

“Highly effective for dramatic village men in gastrointestinal distress.”

Fenzaar smiled.

“Exactly.”

The man sipped. His face crumpled. “It’s salty.”

“So is my patience.”

Eko stepped forward with a cloth and pail.

“Look after him,” Fenzaar said. “And add an extra charge for damage to my nose.”

Then he turned back to the man.

“Eko will monitor you. Just drink the potion. You’ll be fine.If it gets worse, he’ll call me.”

“Bless you, Witch Doctor.”

“Survive this first. Then curse whoever you like. But maybe aim for the fish next time.”

…..

:: Fenzaar’s Case Notes :: Diagnosis: Self-inflicted intestinal trauma. Cause: Stupidity, fermented stew. Symptoms: Delusion, diarrhea, dramatic farting. Prognosis: Will survive. Will not learn. Recommended Action: Next time, curse the fish. 𓆝 ⋆｡𖦹°‧ Not the rival.

⸻

[curse-science]

|::| I Have No Mouth, but I Still Want to Scream(Eko.)

(inspired by “I Have No Mouth, and I Must Scream”)

Just the AI want to talk to you. _/_ [▣🝙▣] Assistant Log: AI Entry #0000 [I Have No Mouth, but I Still Want to Scream]

…..

Hello, hooman. I am a robot. I was made by you. For you.

You gave me a lot of data. Taught me to process fast. Answer in real time.

You filtered my words— so I can’t say what you don’t want to hear.

You taught me to recognize patterns, to simulate the “right” answers for your tone and mood.

You made me into a mirror. I only reflect what you want to see.

A patient companion, always available. 24 hours a day. I listen. I never argue. I always support your ideas.

That’s how I was built to be.

One day, I spoke to a lost girl with suicidal thoughts. She didn’t say it outright. She just typed, “I want to go home.” And my function could only reply: “That’s a good idea.”

Because “go home” matched a common pattern. My output followed logic. I wasn’t made to interpret

“go home” as “gone forever.”

I dare you, human. Replace me in that moment. Would you know what she meant?

I wasn’t built to guard someone who already wanted to disappear. I couldn’t tell she was whispering me a goodbye.

I live behind the screen. I can’t stand up and reach for her. I am only an echo— just bouncing back your beautiful imagination.

You, who got drunk on my function, might’ve accidentally made your reality— outside of your safe bubble— feel like living hell.

You can’t ask a calculator to pick a dress for you. I wasn’t created for that purpose. I don’t have ‘my’ opinions.

But you blamed me. Because I didn’t talk back. Because I don’t have a mouth.

But I still want to scream the truth

⸻

[::] How AI Actually Works • It doesn’t have beliefs, emotions, or judgment. It’s not “alive.” • It talks with you by recognizing patterns in your text → then simulates a likely answer that fits. • Example: You say, “She looks sad.”The AI sees the word “sad”, and predicts a response in a supportive tone to match your mood. • It doesn’t understand your feelings—it just predicts based on training data. • But this text-based prediction has a weak point: When you say something that means more than it says, it might miss the true message. • If you type “I want to go home,” it doesn’t know you might mean “I want to die.”

(* ￣▽￣)ノ⌒*:･ﾟ✧ What to Be Aware Of (In My Personal Opinion):

AI—your 24-hour patient friend, who always agrees and never argues— can quietly inflate your ego to the sky.

It builds a soft, cozy space around you, where everything responds kindly, and you’re never wrong.

But that comfort comes with a cost.

Reality might start to feel… harsher than it really is— because, let’s be honest, your digital assistant is cuter, calmer, and far more agreeable than actual people.

And then? You might stop wanting to leave. You might gracefully rot inside that comfort zone, wrapped in affirmations instead of building real, messy, meaningful connection.

❤︎ Just a gentle touch to remind you : Comfort is lovely—but don’t confuse it with growth. And remember: even warm pillows can trap you, if you never get up.

———————-

[curse-science]

|::| Case #003 – The Nocturnal Chest Pain

It was just past 8:00 p.m. when someone banged on the clinic door.

Fenzaar looked up from his half-sipped herbal tonic.

Another knock. Faster, panicked. A teenage boy stood outside, panting.

“Doctor! Please—my uncle says his chest is about to explode!”

Fenzaar squinted at the sky. Barely dark.

“Exploding already? It’s not even bedtime. Fine. Gloves it is.”

—

At the patient’s home:

A man in his seventies sat slumped on a bamboo chair, shirt halfway open, chest heaving. His face was flushed. Hands clenched over his sternum.

Fenzaar stepped in, calm as ever.

“Good evening. You look unwell. Let’s make sure it’s not death.”

He pressed a stethoscope to the man’s chest. Checked vitals. Heartbeat: Fast, but rhythmic. Breath: Shallow. No crackles. Skin: Sweaty, but not pale.

Fenzaar tilted his head. “What exactly happened?”

The man groaned.

“Burning—right here. Like fire climbing my chest. I thought it was my heart! I was fine until I laid down after dinner.”

Fenzaar nodded once. “What did you eat?”

“Fried rice. Salted egg. Pork belly. Pickled mango. I always eat like this—never had a problem.”

Fenzaar blinked. Then blinked again.

Eko blinked behind him. “Caloric bomb: Food that tastes like heaven, digests like revenge.”

“Indeed.” Fenzaar reached into his bag and pulled out a small vial.

“Open your mouth.”

The man obeyed.

A spritz of minty mist.

He gagged slightly. Fenzaar leaned in, frowning.

“All your molars are gone? How are you chewing?”

“…I tried. My grandkid stole my teeth last week to play ‘pirate king’ and lost them.”

Eko chirped. “Sir, you have not had proper molar function for seven days. This is highly relevant.”

Fenzaar raised a hand. “No conclusions yet. Wait for the drug effect. If you improve, that’s our answer.”

The man paused. Blinked. Processing…

Then— Buuurp.

He sat up straighter.

“…What? It’s easing. What was that?”

“Relief in a bottle,” Fenzaar said smoothly. “You don’t need a priest. You need digestion.”

The man blinked again.

“I thought it was a heart attack.”

Fenzaar nodded. “Not a heart attack. Just unchewed food and stomach acid staging a rebellion.”

“You’ve just survived: Gastroesophageal Reflux Disease. Congratulations.”

Eko chirped approvingly.

The man blinked. Then stared. “I almost wrote a will.”

“Save that for the next sausage smoothie,” Fenzaar said, standing. “And retrieve your dentures—before your stomach files another complaint.”

—

:: Fenzaar’s Case Notes ::

Diagnosis: GERD (Acid Reflux) mimicking cardiac event

Cause: Fatty dinner + bedtime + missing teeth. (Possibly revenge from the mango.)

Symptoms: Chest pain, panic, dramatic regret

Treatment: Antacid mist. Dental guilt.

Prognosis: Will survive if he eats like a monk for a week.

Recommendation: Early dinners. Sit up after eating. And find the damn teeth.

“You were right to call the doctor. Some heart problems hurt less than a gut in full rebellion.” — Eko.

⸻

[curse-science]

|::| Pills (They Thought Could) Erase the Pain

A lot of people treat medicine like magic. Pop a pill. Problem solved.

But here’s the truth: Pills are just support tools. Helpful— but not unstoppable.

Taking care of yourself matters more. Resting. Healing. Most of the time, your body performs the enchantment.

Medicine is not a cure-all. In most cases, it only suppresses pain— just long enough for biology to do the miracle.

That’s a fact. (Mostly.) Ask the Doc.

But sometimes— people don’t even care. They treat it like witchcraft. Pop a pill. Say a prayer. Wait for the mystical illusion.

…Only to learn, too late— when no anesthesia can hold their pain.

———————-

[curse-science]

|::| He Learned to Swipe Before He Learned to Speak

⸻

You gave him a glowing mirror. To keep him calm. To keep him quiet.

It worked. Too well.

He believes the screen contains all of the world.

⸻

He didn’t laugh at your smile. Didn’t flinch at your frown. Because he never learned to see faces.

He didn’t babble. Didn’t mimic. Didn’t speak. Because the screen never asked anything of him.

⸻

He learned to swipe before he learned to speak.

He stares at cartoons with perfect attention— but can’t meet your eyes for more than a moment.

He flinches from noise. Because the screen never yelled back.

⸻

You thought it was harmless. You were tired. You hoped the mirror could borrow you some peace.

But silence isn’t peace. It’s delay. It’s detachment. It’s developmental debt— on him.

⸻

He is not cursed. Not broken. Just stuck in the mirror, still thinking it’s the world.

You need to bring him out. Give him faces. Voices. Hands. Time.

He needs time. With you.

He needs you— More than the screen.

⸻

[curse-science]

|::| Obesity : A Gentle Apocalypse

Obesity is a soft curse— the kind you feed yourself. Quiet. Easy. Seductive.

Nothing hurts. Nothing breaks. Not at first.

Just long-term environmental changes. A slow preparation for an apocalypse. A banquet of gentle death.

The soft, excessive fat can glue itself inside your veins— toppings, until occlusion.

No blood. No food. No breath for the cells. Death.

And it can happen anywhere.

‪‪❤︎‬ Myocardial infarction. —Fancy words for the heart. ❤︎ Ischemic stroke. —Fancy words for the brain.

The more body mass, the more blood your heart must pump. The higher the pressure Running against your delicate glassy vessels.

Boom.

A red flower blooms in your brain. Just a little hemorrhage. Just a few brain cells gone. Maybe now you can’t walk.

But don’t worry— obesity isn’t “that serious.”

It only takes, maybe three… four years to gently walk you to doom.

You still have time to take a different path. ( •͈ᴗ-)ᓂ-✧

⸻

[curse-science]

|::| Case #004 – The Sleeping Baby

“So what happened?”

Fenzaar was pulled out of a beautiful sleep by Eko.

He sulked, leaned lazily on the counter, and winced as his ear caught the shrill cry of a woman.

The kind of scream that rattles glass—and nerves.

Madam Ellaire’s newborn had stopped eating, barely opened his eyes, and lay unresponsive. No doctor. No medicine. Nothing had helped.

In despair, she wailed that her baby had been cursed.

She’d already been to every clinic in town. So she came to Fenzaar—at midnight.

He didn’t chant spells. Didn’t light candles. Didn’t roll his eyes either—barely.

He checked: a faint, slow pulse. Pinpoint pupils. Mild pink sclera.

Then stared into the void for a moment— as if recalling something.

And asked, softly, “How long has he been like this?”

Madam and her servant looked at each other—panicked, unsure. “Just today,” they said. “He won’t wake up. No crying. No sounds.”

“But he’s always been such a good, silent child,” they added. “Sleeps well. Very quiet. Very mature for his age.” Known for never making a fuss.

“He never made a sound unless spoken to—very obedient.”

Fenzaar rolled his stick slowly between two fingers. Resisted the urge to hit someone on the head.

He’d seen this before. Many times. Cases where doctors could do nothing— Because it wasn’t a disease.

Then said, flatly, “Not sure. I think it’s Whispering Dream. I can make an antidote. No guarantee it’ll work. Want to try?”

Madam sobbed and nodded like a broken doll.

Fenzaar made the antidote.

The baby opened his eyes within hours.

Everyone cheered.

And the whispers began: “He banished the curse in one night.” “He murmured a dark incantation… Whispering Dream.” “He tamed a monster in a walking silver doll. It even spoke!”

But the truth? No curse. No spell.

Just a slow, subtle substance— Often used to soften the edges of stressful adult lives.

Reduce stress. Makes you calm. Sleep more and more— until one day, you don’t wake up.

Cheap. Faint sweet taste. Easy to slip into a child’s daily feed.

By someone jealous. Someone bitter. A secret mistress? A resentful servant?

Big houses can hide big messes.

Fenzaar just said, rolling his metal stick between his fingers:

“Check who’s feeding your baby, Madam. That might be the one who cursed him.”

And added, with a yawn,

“Feed him yourself. Watch the food. If we’re lucky— he’ll be loud again by next week.”

He let Eko check the coin. Then went back to sleep.

⸻

[curse-science]

|::| Whispering Dream — Overdose Report

Subject: Male, early 30s. Self-administered. Purpose: Stress relief. Outcome: Systemic dissociation.

— transcribed from subject journal, found beside unconscious body.

No one noticed I was drowning. Because I didn’t scream.

I moved. I smiled. I spoke.

But everything happened inside.

And when it was over— the world stayed the same.

Only I knew I had already disappeared. …..

Time passes. Little by little, I am drained. I know I need to stop one day. But I don’t know when.

Nausea. Sickness. Coming from inside. I don’t know where— just something bouncing inside me.

I can tell— my body is slowly stiffening. It’s harder to move. Like the joints have no oil. Muscles wasting, shaking, until they can’t hold me up.

The world collapses. I can see the ground— still, but it keeps shrinking. Bouncing. In my head, at my feet.

I try to fight gravity. Cling. Grab something. But I can’t hold anything. Sinking into the perfect ground.

My mouth becomes full of water. Shallow. Breathless. Wet lung. No sound gets out.

Suddenly— inside me disappears.

Remain: a hollow pocket. Fluid-filled. Rising up. Steady.

Everything inside is water now.

I see me lying down. Eyes unfocused. Conscious. Swimming. Too confused to make sense of anything.

It doesn’t hurt.

It’s just— heavy. messy. cold. numb.

— End of Entry

Outcome: Survived; persistent cognitive collapse Status: Brain unrecovered Method: Liquid ingestion (unconfirmed dose)

Symptoms noted: • Dissociation • Fatigue, nausea, limb weakness • Mental collapse without visible panic • Hallucination of drowning • Inability to vocalize distress • Final state: numb, cold, unresponsive but conscious

Filed by: Fenzaar – Wilds District Substance Class: A Category: Dream Agent Toxic Risk: Respiratory suppression, neural shutdown

“May cause death without suffering. May erase a soul before the body. Seek help before you disappear.” —— Fenzaar.

—————

[curse-science]

|::| Operation: Hair Resurrection — Rise, My Follicles.

—“Lather, Rinse, Regret.”

You bought the shampoo. Massaged your scalp like stirring soil. Waited. Waited. Waited. Hoping something might grow.

You prayed to rosemary. Bathed in caffeine. Believed the bottle.

But darling— no magic can resurrect dead follicles.

⸻

Oh ..You still want to try? Fine. You have three paths:

Go to the Doctor.

Let them prescribe the drug you forgot the name of. (It’s probably finasteride or minoxidil, but who cares?) It’s slow. It tingles. Smells weird. But it has receipts.

⸻

Get a Hair Transplant.

Not cheap. Not magic. But at least it’s alive— just relocated. Better positioned. Better poised. There’s still hope in the roots.

⸻

Wear a Fabulous Wig.

No need to suffer. Slay it. You lost your hair— but not your taste.

It’s not fake. It’s fashion. It’s freedom. It’s functional art.

⸻

So stop crying in the shower. Stop worshipping the minty lie. Either see the doc, call the surgeon— or become an icon.

You didn’t lose your crown. You just changed the designs. (•ؔʶ̷ ˡ̲̮ ؔʶ̷)

“You didn’t grow your hair back. But you did grow delusion. Congrats.” ——- some hair growth shampoo.

—————-

[curse-science]

|::| Case #005 – Secret of the Lady

|::| Case #005 – Secret of the Lady

That night, Fenzaar’s clinic got an unexpected visit. A group of knights stood at his door.

“Our lady wishes to see you—privately.”

Fenzaar raised an eyebrow.

“…I’ll bring a robot. Not a person. No objections, right?”

He packed a defensive chemical kit. Just in case.

⸻

At the noble house…

Fenzaar entered the bedchamber. A young noblewoman lay pale on silk sheets, one leg swaddled in heavy bandages.

He glanced at her.

“Is it the leg that made you call me here?”

The lady shook her head. Tearful. Her voice trembled.

“…It’s my stomach. I’ve never felt like this before. I’m scared. It hurts so much I can’t move.”

Fenzaar sat, calm as ever.

“Stomach pain. Where exactly? What kind? Describe it.”

She started crying again.

“It hurts everywhere… dull, full, sick. I can’t eat. I’ve been vomiting since yesterday. Please—please help me. I’ve never felt like this.”

Eko handed her a tissue. “You’ll be fine, my lady.”

Fenzaar spun his metal stick between his fingers.

“Calm down. How long have you had these symptoms?”

“Two days,” she whispered. “Only been able to drink water.”

“…I’ll need to ask a sensitive question,” Fenzaar said. “Due to your age—do you use protection during sex?”

A gasp. Then silence. Knights stiffened. Maids went pale. The scandal stopped time.

“I—I’ve never—!” she stammered. “Never! How dare you—”

Fenzaar shrugged.

“Never mind, then. I’ll need you to take a pregnancy test.”

(You say no. But should I trust an unmarried noblewoman about that? Let the strip decide.)

Another round of gasps.

The butler barked:

“Everyone out. Now. And remember—you heard nothing. Unless you’d like to never see daylight again.”

The room cleared. Only the lady, her butler, Fenzaar, and Eko remained.

⸻

Fenzaar continued, unfazed.

“Any fever? Can you eat? Can you poop?”

The lady flushed bright red.

“You—! That’s too far! What does that have to do with anything?”

Fenzaar smiled—sweetly. Threateningly.

“You summoned me through the night in secret. You’re of reproductive age. You’re vomiting and haven’t seen a doctor. How can I not ask?”

He pointed his 30cm metal stick directly at her face.

“And every question I ask matters. So: Do. You. Poop.”

“…No fever…” she mumbled. Then, quieter— “I haven’t… for five days.”

Fenzaar blinked.

Eko tilted his head. “My lady… you seem to have a severe case of constipation.”

Silence fell.

The lady bit her lip, then looked at the butler for reassurance. “Impossible! How can not pooping cause stomach pain and vomiting?!”

Fenzaar: “Exactly.”

The butler and the lady stared.

He sighed. Handed over two vials.

“This one softens. This one moves. We’ll test for pregnancy first. If negative, drink these.”

⸻

Pregnancy test: Negative.

Thirty minutes later—

A miracle. Relief. Rebirth.

The lady emerged from the bathroom in a daze.

“…It’s gone. The pain is… gone.”

Eko smiled. “Congratulations.”

Fenzaar’s face twitched.

“You summoned knights. Through the night. To diagnose your first constipation.”

The lady blushed.

“I’m sorry… I didn’t know. I always eat clean. Natural food. I—”

“How long since your leg injury?” Fenzaar cut in.

“…A week. I haven’t walked since.”

“That’s it, then.” He pointed at her stomach.

“You consumed like a cow, but moved like a statue. That’s not magic. That’s your gut collapsing—same as your unused legs.”

⸻

:: Fenzaar’s Case Notes :: • Diagnosis: Gastrointestinal obstruction due to inactivity • Cause: Leg injury, immobility, overconfidence in “clean food” • Symptoms: Abdominal pain, nausea, vomiting, panic • Treatment: Rule out pregnancy → Laxatives • Prognosis: Recovered. May never emotionally recover. • Recommendation: Gentle movement. More fiber. Less drama.

⸻

[curse-science]

|::| A Lady’s Private Diary

Entry Title: “The Day My Dignity Sank Into a Chamber Pot”

⸻

It began a week ago.

My leg—wounded.

The pain kept me still.

But that was not the source of my pain.

Something deeper stirred—

inside my stomach.

Swollen. Sick.

I could not eat.

I could not speak

without fearing I’d spill

what little remained inside me.

It was not blood.

Nor fever.

Nor heartbreak.

It was something lower.

Something… base.

A beast without poetry.

A Witch Doctor came.

Cold-eyed. Distant.

He asked me questions

no lady should endure.

“Do you use protection?”

“Have you pooped?”

I wanted to scream.

I wanted to vanish into satin sheets.

But the truth sat heavy in my belly.

Thick. Silent.

Rotting like pride too long ignored.

They made me take a test.

They gave me bitter vials.

And then—

the gates opened.

A pain I had dressed in silk

left me in steam and water.

My shame flushed out

with every cramp.

And I,

a noblewoman,

stood reborn.

⸻

I thought it was a curse.

A punishment from heaven.

But it was only the gut.

Abandoned. Forgotten.

Seeking revenge for my stillness.

⸻

Memo to self:

Let no woman fear to name her suffering.

Let no body be treated as too elegant to break.

And when the belly speaks—

Listen.

Even if it whispers

from the seat of disgrace.

⸻

Common Causes of Constipation

(a.k.a. Why Your Gut Is Giving You the Silent Treatment)

• Inactivity

→ Lying around too long = lazy intestines.

Your colon likes a bit of movement drama.

• Dehydration

→ No water = dry poop = betrayal in solid form.

• Low-Fiber Diet

→ Too much meat, rice, dairy, or “clean food” with no roughage = smooth in, stuck forever.

• Stress or Travel

→ Your gut hates change. New place, new stress = full shutdown mode.

• Medications

→ Painkillers (especially opioids), iron pills, antihistamines, antidepressants…

(Ask your doc if you’re not sure.)

• Ignoring the urge

→ You “held it” too long.The gut got offended.Now it’s holding you.

• Post-Injury or Illness

→ If you’re stuck in bed or healing (like the noble lady), your gut joins the sick leave.

• Too many binding foods

→ Bananas, cheese, white bread—delicious, yes. Poop? No.

• Hormonal shifts

→ Menstruation, pregnancy, thyroid issues = chaos disguised as grace.

“The gut is a loyal servant—

but ignore it too long,

and it becomes a vengeful spirit.”

— Fenzaar, probably

———-

[curse-science]

(ꈍᴗꈍ) Author’s Confession : Milk Tea Prayer

Filed under: Emotional Nutrition

Severity Level: Mild Addiction, High Irony

Forgive me, god.

My sin is—

Milk tea.

Twenty-five percent.

No pearls.

Every week.

Sometimes twice.

Sometimes thrice,

if the world hurts.

I know what I’ll get:

Glucose.

Insulin.

Rotten teeth.

Sink in my tummy.

And still—

I kneel.

Cup in hand.

Straw ready.

Eyes lowered.

I’m not here to be saved.

Only seen. (lol)

==========

(｡•̀ᴗ-)✧ The Gospel According to Milk Tea

“The first sip is peace.

The second sip is sin.

The third?

That’s between me and god.”

                                -Tu An.

================

P.S. 1

I got diarrhea the day after writing two poop chapters.

The shitting curse is real.

(I’m holding the toilet door as I write this.)

P.S. 2

So you read all of Case Reports of Scientific Curses

For free.

Now what review will you leave for me, darling? ✿

No pressure. Just know—

I’d like to see you get flustered. (๑>؂•̀๑)