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This entry contains depictions of eating disorders and mentions of self harm. Read at your own risk.

It always starts with a simple question. Questions that are innocent and light; things that need to be investigated. Things we asked when we were kids, things we ask day to day. “Where does this hole go?”, “How does this anomaly work?”, or most recently “How long can I go without food.” They were all simple questions, each with some defined answer somewhere. Once tested, they can be tested again and again, compounding a single idea until it’s proven fact. Think on how the sky is blue.

Often I’m caught with more nebulous concepts that morph into questions. "How many different ways has the world ended since I started speaking this sentence?" It was something that could be, and probably had been, calculated. The answer floated around my mind, but I didn’t care enough to grasp for it. I lived in a foggy mind, one I was quite accustomed to. One I’ve lived in before yet always somehow pulled myself out of. I’m rambling.

These questions are normal. Things everyone asks themself. Kids ask questions all the time, and I’m getting paid to ask them! It’s fucking ridiculous. Yet, it’s always worse when I realize where I work. This place is basically a death factory, ready to send me to my grave at any second. This is no place for kids to work. I say that as though I’m still talking about kids, but I shouldn’t lie to myself. Quite honestly, I don’t entirely remember what I was talking about.

All of these questions soon get tainted as you learn more and more about what you’re doing. I once again say like this isn’t a territory I wasn’t walking for years.

We found a stupid hole. We got curious, as kids would. We tossed a rock in, but nothing happened. We should have gotten bored and left, but nope. Luna volunteered to test our hypothesis and they stepped into it. The hole leads to another hole, trapping Luna in, taking their energy as she disintegrated. Her screaming still echoed in my mind. It disappeared after taking my classmate friend. We never saw her or the hole again. I didn’t know if I had the right to call them a friend. I didn’t know her that well, and they were generally a loner. I wasn’t the friendliest. I still feel bad about it. Though, that’s just how things go. You never get over it, but you learn to push it aside. After all, that’s what counts, right?

Ironically, I didn’t even know about the Foundation or the world of anomalies at the time. Something that was ever so enticing, yet just another death sentence. Nothing I could walk away from once I stepped into it. That wasn’t even mistake number one in the grand scheme of things. Though, if I listed them all we’d be here forever which is another thing neither of us wanted. It was, however, Mistake Zero. The thing that would forever open my eyes. That’s what I call it anyway.

I lingered on the other question. My brain was slow to recall but it was catching up. I couldn't remember the question number that I ironically gave it, but it was the first SCP I was assigned to study. It was right after asking a coworker why people make art that is meant as a weapon. We were tasked to answer the original question: how does it work?

Every single one of us could tell you that from the second we laid eyes on it. It scooped out my wet, goopy insides and crawled into my hollowed out chest while I was still alive. It snaked its way into my brain, and started using a frying pan on it. It pulled on the worst parts: memories of people I loved, people I’ve lost, anything I ever cared about. It ripped them all in half in front of me. Lit on fire, stomped on, strangled, opened in front of me. As much as it stung, there wasn’t much to do. They had pretty much lied to us, never said we shouldn’t look at it. I suppose that was a given. A few of my team broke free long enough to look away. Like that would save any of us from the visions we saw, the slimy snake was still in our brains.

That was Mistake Twelve. Ironic I call it a mistake, normally that label is for when people die. I mean, somewhere in my mind they did. It wasn’t the only time people “died,” yet it sticks out as not only the first but the most important.

I learned something from all of the questions-turned-mistakes. Some stuck longer than others; I started keeping a journal. It kept me safe, taught me what I knew, and held what I thought was important. It held all of my non-confidential notes and anything else I needed.

There is a mistake I keep reliving and relearning. It was a pit in my stomach that pushed me to continue my games. It was a dull angry pain that never really stopped screaming. It loops back to a question I asked when I was 12. It was a question that would kill me, if none of the others I asked on a daily basis did. Truth be told, I came to terms with it when I started the whole adventure. It was a question. I had the curiosity that pushed me to try it. Though, I can’t say that’s what it really was.

The curiosity, like all questions I’ve lived through, turned dark. It became a sort of on-and-off game I would play with myself. See how long I could go. See if I could push myself further, and I did. Days turned into a week, that week turned into almost two. Dizziness overtook me constantly, and I broke down and ended the game. That was the longest I went, and it was at 16. It was always so easy to dance with death. To play with my life in my hand, heart on my sleeve, and pride in my chest.

That was what made it so easy to work at the Foundation. Constantly teetering on the razor thin line of life and death, not knowing you had already tipped far over it until it was too late. I took that fact in stride. I felt that I could see through it all. The haze in my brain, the redactions on the page, and hurt in my heart. I walked on clouds letting myself be drunk on ego and pain. I didn’t care.

It always broke down, I played my game, danced in blood and puke, then built myself back up. Questions really will get you far, and most people don’t realize that. I suppose you need a level of follow-through to get those questions answered. It never mattered how many times my life went dark, I could see it through or use my self destructive behaviours until it all resolved. I knew where I stood, knew I was right at death's door with the amount of work I took and the stupid games I played.

None of them were really games. It was easier to approach them that way though. Easier to lie to myself. Easier to claim it was nothing. Everything was simpler to break down. It’s just a game, games can’t be bad. My logic was flawed, but that didn’t matter. I was always the type to examine it, then toss out my observations.

I was sick. But truth be told, I never wanted to get better because playing with danger was comfortable. I embraced the darkness at the corner of my eyes, always expecting it to be my last.

Maybe this time it was.

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