Drug Induced Sleep

I forget a lot of things, except the things I really wish I didn’t remember. I remember Able, first.
Able. SCP-076. Omega-7. Reincarnating, invincible, crazy, bloody, freak, maniac, murderer, monster, psycho, slasher, superman, sociopath, swordsman, rampaging, death, furious, killer, strong, sick, demented, disturbed, disturbing, disruption, unhinged, unglued, wild, weird, wackjob, whack-job, Why?
I don’t know what set him off. I don’t know why we keep him. I don’t know why no one set off the explosive collar around his neck. I don’t want to think about this ever but my mind keeps coming back to it over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over until I can’t think straight for the fear and pain and panic even though it happened years ago.
I’d never met the guy. Never talked to him. Never seen him. Only heard about him through the grapevine, from people who couldn’t seem to sort out whether to fear him or worship him, and didn’t seem to understand the difference. He killed them all either way. I wonder if the afterlife brings clarity to perception?
Ordinary day at some site. Don’t remember the number. Do we still have that site? It’s not “we” anymore, is it? He was passing through. So was I. We never met face to face. I saw him across a crowded cafeteria, sitting alone, looking like he’d stab anyone who sat with him. Then someone sat down with him and got stabbed.
There was screaming, and he just leaped up onto the table, swinging around a sword that whirred like a chainsaw. Some people shot at him but he didn’t seem to care. He started jumping around, swinging his sword and cutting through everything and killing everyone. I ran and hid.
I sprinted into the hallway and found a closet and went inside and shut the door and curled up in a ball and cried. I didn’t sob; just cried. I didn’t want to make any noise. I don’t know how long I was in there, huddling and trying not to breathe too loud and listening to the noise of buzzing and chopping and screaming outside.
Eventually the noise stopped. I waited a while longer to see if it would start again before I went outside. I was shaking and wanted a smoke. There was no one alive in the hallway. Some bodies and blood, no people. The cafeteria was full of more of them. I’ve never seen so much blood and spilled organs. Some were still alive, crying and moaning. Some people dressed like doctors walked among them, trying to guess who would live. One of them took my name down, didn’t ask where I’d been. I learned later that someone had finally gotten round to detonating Abe’s explosive collar.
I don’t know if I could have done anything. I really don’t. I used to drive myself crazy thinking about it. I had nightmares. I still have nightmares. No amount of therapy cures shit like this.
A week later, I saw him again and almost had a heart attack. He was walking around like nothing had happened, and apart from frightened looks a few people threw at him no one seemed to care he was loose. How fucked up are we that this guy is on the payroll?
Right. It’s not “we” anymore.