…and still there's more for her to give.
-
ADULT CONTENT
This article contains adult content that may not be suitable for all readers.
Sexual References: Features sexual themes or language, without the depiction of sexual acts.
Sexually Explicit: Description of sexual acts.
Sexual Assault: Features non-consensual sexual acts.
Gore: Depiction of blood, gore or mutilation of body parts.
Child Abuse: Features severe mistreatment of children.
Self-Harm: Description of self-harm.
Suicide: Description of suicide.
Torture: Description of torture.
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Hello Dr. Garter.
Your request for reassignment has been approved. Starting Monday, you will be a member of the containment team for SCP-939-268. This is a Keter-class anomaly, so we expect you to bring your best to the table.
Thank you,
Hey.
I appreciate your consideration.
I am reviewing the documentation for SCP-939 now. Are there any additional considerations I should be aware of?
Thanks again,
Hey.
Dr. Garter,
SCP-939-268 displays abnormal behavior for its species. See the attached document for details.
I know you can hear me.
SCP-939-268 Containment Procedure Modifications
SCP-939-268 displays unusual vocalization patterns for its species. Unlike most SCP-939 instances, it will regularly mimic speech specifically prompting containment specialists to converse with it. If answered, it will discuss a variety of topics. It generally allows containment specialists to guide the conversation. Engaging in conversation with it has been correlated with a significant decrease in escape attempts and damage to its cell. Thus, containment team members are expected to converse with it using the cell's integrated sound system as frequently as possible.
C’mon, aren't you supposed to talk to me?
While conversation with SCP-939-268 is a useful containment technique, containment specialists must remember that it is a highly dangerous and actively hostile anomaly. Do not trust anything it says, do not tell it anything sensitive or personal, and do not become attached to it. Additionally, all conversation with SCP-939-268 is recorded and archived. Please remain professional.
Hey. Pay attention.
…Yes, SCP-939-268?
Finally. Y’know talking to me is basically your whole job, right? Distracts me from the hunger for a moment, lets your bosses save a few pennies on concrete and fancy glass.
…Hello.
You sound different. Must be fresh meat. So which one got sick of me?
…I am not at liberty to discuss that.
Ha, you sound like you're gonna shit your pants already! They're really scraping the bottom of the barrel now.
I-
But seriously, which one left. Was it Gerald? He seemed off last time.
…SCP-939-268, how do you know that name?
A real stickler for the rules, hm? You better be a good listener at least.
SCP-939-268! How do you-
Shut up. Not my name, either. Call me Carmilla. Carmilla Agony. I know, I know, I picked it in 8th grade.
SC-
And to answer your question, he told me his name. Not everyone is as much of a stick in the mud as you.
What?
Yeah, yeah. It's so shocking. Why would he breach protocol just to hang out with this thing?
I will be reporting-
Look at it from my perspective, though. You seem boring as hell to me. Maybe you're lucky that you get to talk with such a fun, friendly, lovable creature.
…
Here, let me tell you my relatable backstory, that'll help. Imagine that you're me, five years ago.
…
You're 13 years old, you're a normal, miserable boy, and your name is…
"Alex."
"Alex!"
"Alex Avon! Wake up!"
You blearily sit up. You've slept past your alarm, again, and now your mom is yelling at you, again. You have been feeling ill for the past two weeks, but your grades take priority, at least according to most of the people in your life. You finally process the fact that your mother is angry with you and jump out of bed. You get dressed in your typical attire, a T-shirt and sweatpants. You don't really notice which ones.
You open your bedroom door to see her scornful face. She prepares to berate you before remembering that you're already late and nearly shoving you down the stairs in panic.
You frantically get ready for school and briefly consider enduring her for a few minutes in order to eat breakfast. You decide it isn't worth it and run out the door.
You just barely live within city limits, so on the way to school, you always walk along the highway at the edge of town. The highway is quiet, but every so often a car comes through. This time you were close enough to the road to feel the wind of it passing by. Your mind conjures images of roadkill.
As you go into the town proper, you see another late-for-school unfortunate. They're running down the sidewalk, backpack swinging precariously from one shoulder. You don't increase your own pace.
You walk into the school and wind through empty hallways for another few minutes. Your first class is already half-over.
You sit down at your desk. Your teacher just sighs. Now that you're sitting, the toll of your walk hits you. Your legs ache and the pit in your stomach grows. The pit in your stomach has been there for the past two weeks. It's always there to some degree, gnawing at you. It feels like hunger and nausea at the same time. It makes it impossible to concentrate on anything, or sleep, or sometimes eat. Physical activity makes it worse, thinking about it makes it worse, and lying down in bed doing absolutely nothing makes it feel slightly better, until you think about it. By the time you look up from your self-reflection, class is over. Your teacher looks at you with pity, like you're some kind of wounded animal. He says something about paying attention in class. You want to cry. You don't cry.
At lunch the pit gets worse. The pit has made the cafeteria food go from unappetizing to inedible. You've lost 7 pounds since you've been sick, if your bathroom scale is to be believed. You were never particularly concerned about your weight either way before, but seeing that number go down feels like watching your life drain away. You're sitting alone right now. You were sitting with Daniel before, but he's been avoiding you since you told him you felt sick. You feel like you're going to die soon. You hope he'll come to the funeral, at least.
As you wallow, you hear someone sit next to you. You look up. It's a girl, Avery. She's Daniel's girlfriend as of last month. She's wearing a plain white dress, like she always does. She must consider herself a pure person. She asks "How are you doing? I think Danny's still germaphobic, but I wanted to check on you." You are confused. You've certainly met Avery before, she's often with Daniel, but you can't think of a time you talked to her without him present. Does he want her to be talking with you? Why is she suddenly taking an interest in you? Does she have an interest in you? You percolate for several seconds before realizing that she expected a response. You spit out an awkward "Fine!". She looks at you oddly before continuing. "Really? You don't seem like you're doing well, and I know you said you're sick…" You don't want to worry her. "I'm sick, but I'm doing alright." She still looks concerned, but turns her attention to her lunch. The period is barely long enough to eat it even if you're perfectly healthy.
My shift is changing momentarily.
Ah, damn. You did at least turn out to be a good listener. You must've been downright captivated by my tale to be so quiet all shift.
…Okay, SCP-939-268.
Ugh, what an ugly mouthful. Use my damn name.
Hello again, SCP-
Your job is to talk to me so I don't get bored and trash the place. Using my name will make me less likely to trash the place.
…Fine, Carmilla.
No need for the sass, miss. You've got a much better deal in this arrangement than me. They don't even feed me!
You have no biological need to eat, and the only food you'll touch is humans.
Well that's exactly the problem. Imagine starving to death, except without the part where you die. I have been starving for two years.
And people should die to fix that?
Well, surely you've got corpses from other sources, right? C'mon, it's the humane thing to do.
…
Oh don't be like that. Fine, I'll get back to the story.
After lunch is recess. You sit on the grassy edge of the schoolyard, watching the other kids. You don't want to move too much. You look down and see an anthill. Its inhabitants march in perfect sync, off to find some scrap of food or other. You think of the trope of "bad kids" burning ants with a magnifying glass. Are you a bad kid? You were always an unpopular one, but you wouldn't have said so until you got sick. Now you can't focus in any of your classes, your one real friend is scared of you, and your mother curses the fact that she has to feed you. What other explanation is there? There must be something wrong with you. Either that, or there's something wrong with everyone else.
You look up, dimly aware of some sound or other. It's Avery again. Why does she suddenly care so much? She looks at you oddly again. "You're sitting alone again." You reply awkwardly again. "I don't feel like moving around much. Cuz I'm sick." "You can still talk while sick, right?" She sits down next to you again. The interaction feels unpleasantly familiar. She's operating on the same script as before. Does she actually care? Is she messing with you? Is this a prank? Your head spins again. She blushes and looks down. "I broke up with Daniel." That didn't help. Is she into you? Why would she be into you? All you've done recently is sit around and forget things. Surely she'd rather have the healthy, almost-sort-of-popular Daniel than this pathetic, dying boy. You once again have to remember to respond to her. You've been doing nothing but getting in your own head since you got sick. Since you got sick. Everything's since you got sick now. It's like you didn't even exist until two weeks ago. That Alex was a different person. A normal kid. A-
She snaps her fingers in front of your face. "Hello? Alex?" "Sorry, sorry!" "It's okay, I know you don't feel well. Did you hear me?" "Yeah, uh, you… broke up? Why?" You still have no idea what's happening. You don't feel like it's even you saying the words. You're busy freaking out inside your head, you just have a machine that pretends to talk to people while you do that. "It just wasn't working, we're both too stubborn." You hear the words. You respond to them. More words are said. This presumably continues for some time, but you don't recall any of it. The world blurs again. The pit in your stomach grows. You're so hungry. You're starving. But all the food you can think of just makes you feel sick. You definitely need something, but what?
The next thing you consciously register is going back inside. Avery is gone. Your conversation must have ended at some point. You go to your next class. You sit down. You feel sick. You feel hungry. You feel like you're going to die. You're going to die.
Wait, pause. Have you ever had a panic attack?
…
Aw c'mon, you can tell me.
…Why should I?
Something something concrete pennies, I think I've given this speech already.
Fine. Yes.
There we go!
…Ew.
So you know what I'm talking about then.
Yeah. Why did you need to know if I did? You were about to explain it anyway.
Oh, I just wanted to see if you'd tell me.
…
Anyway.
You're going to die. You are absolutely certain of it. Whatever's wrong with you is going to kill you. This fact fills your mind. It almost fills the pit in your stomach. You allow yourself to slump onto your desk, and focus on trying not to cry. The only thing that could make this worse is suddenly crying in front of the whole class. You don't cry. You feel like you're going to, but you don't. There's something preventing the tears from flowing. You suddenly wish you could cry. Crying makes you look worse, but it makes you feel better. Which is more important to you?
You are shaken out of your panicked stupor by this class's teacher. She looks at you with pity too. It's appropriate; you feel very pitiable. You awkwardly gather your things and leave before she can bother you more.
Another class presumably happens. You remember none of it. It is soon the end of the day, so you lethargically pick up your backpack and stumble towards the exit. As soon as you step outside, you are accosted by Avery once more. She seems like she's in an odd mood. She walks a little too quickly and looks around a little too much. She asks to walk home with you. You know she doesn't live in the same direction as you. You let her come with anyway. Asking questions would take effort currently reserved for walking without throwing up. You are soon walking along the highway with her. She's getting even more nervous, and you're still looking at your shoes and trying not to vomit or cry.
She stops. You actually notice for once, and stop with her. She stammers. "I- I think I love you." You say the first thing that comes to mind. "Why?" She looks stunned. Your thoughts catch up and you freeze as well. "Because you're always such a good listener, and you're always around to talk to me, and you're so handsome…" You want to throw up. Why is she saying these things. She's lying, you don't know why but she must be lying. "You know what? You get in your head too much. Let me…" You glance at her again. She moves forward. You stand in place. She leans in.
Your lips touch. You want to cry. You want to throw up. You want to scream and kick and fight. Why is she doing this? You don't know each other. She's a normal girl; she has a future. You can't function at all; you're going to die soon. And she kisses you? You panic. You push her away. She stumbles backwards, and just a little to the side. You feel wind.
Her right side erupts. Red on white. The force throws her forwards, into you. You fall, her on top of you. You're covered in it. Red everywhere. Her arm is gone, her leg is bent sideways, you can see a little of her intestines under the dress. You don't scream. Her blood falls onto you, into your mouth, into the pit in your stomach. You feel a little better. Why do you feel better? Now you scream. You killed her. You thought you were going to die. If only you had died. Now you've killed her. She didn't hurt you. You pushed her. You killed her.
Your internal monologue goes on like this for some time, entirely disconnected from what your body is doing. Your body is eating its first meal. As you internally scream and whine and curse yourself for being born, your teeth sink into her. It tastes so much better than the cafeteria food. It tastes so much better than any meal you've ever eaten. You eat the meat off her twisted leg, you pull at the shredded muscles of her torn arm with your teeth, you shove your face into her abdomen and bite down again and again. There's a lot of gristle, but you greedily choke it down with the meat. Bone too, you crack through a few ribs for the marrow. Her liver is a delicacy, her eyes pop in your mouth like candy. Your real first kiss is pulling her tongue out with your teeth. You eat an impossible amount of her, and still there's more for her to give.
You come to your senses, now covered in Avery and free of your illness. You feel fine. Good, even. You feel like you could do anything. You cry. You killed her, and now you ate her, and it felt better than anything you've ever done. There is something wrong with you. They were right. You're a monster. You aren't going to die, but you should. Despite this, you get up. You shed your blood-soaked clothes somewhere in the woods, and you unsteadily walk home naked. You claim that your clothes got covered in oil. Obviously ridiculous, but better a suspicious lie than a damning truth.
You cry a lot in the next few days. The news reports on a girl being hit by a car and then eaten by an animal. It's not wrong. You felt like you were going to die, to starve to death no matter how much food was presented to you. And now you feel great. Is this going to happen again? Do you need to eat people to survive? Are you some kind of vampire? Or just an animal? You go back to school. Your grades improve. You still hate crying. You think of Avery constantly. She called you handsome, and then you killed her. You particularly hate that moment. You didn't like anything she said to you, but you really didn't like her calling you handsome.
You figure out why a few weeks later. You cry a lot more. You give yourself a new name, after a vampire, of course. You make this a central part of your identity. You have no friends. Your mother has transitioned from tough love to open hatred. Everyone is a little afraid of you. This makes you smile. They are correct to fear you. You think of the day you have to eat again with both longing and fear. You know you won't stop yourself. You'll do anything to stop the hunger.
…Hm.
So whaddaya think? Pretty tragic backstory, right?
Wait, didn't you molt when you were 16?
Yes, yes. I didn't molt for another couple years, we'll get to that. I was plenty hungry anyway. I don't know if that's normal for us scary red things, I've never gotten a chance to talk to another. We are weird as hell though, apparently I don't have a brain?
Yes, that is correct. SCP-939 instances are missing several key organ systems, but function regardless.
Anyway, are you impressed by my story? Do you feel bad for me now?
I am in the business of containing you. It would be poor practice to develop sympathy.
Lame. Can I at least get your name? I like to know who I'm talking to.
No.
Aww, please? Nobody even looks at the audio archives anyway, it takes them so long to figure out someone is making friends with the big red lady.
Ugh, will it make you damage your enclosure less?
Why, of course. What kind of monster would I be if I didn't give my friends favors? (A different kind! Ha!)
…My name is Dr. Melanie Garter.
Y'know, I really feel like we've gotten to know each other better in these past couple days, Melanie. You've already decided I'm an annoyance rather than a threat and I… you're not as boring as I thought.
Hm. Well, my shift is over. See you again, Carmilla.
