Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Secure, Contain, Protect.” Those three words had been mashed into my brain ever since I was six. They took away my name, my life, and my freedom, most of all. I was given things, though: a pair of thick leather gloves to wear at all times; a branding on my neck that held four numbers, to signify that I would never be normal; and a small anklet made of cold metal that locked on my leg and lightly beeped every thirty seconds. I was never a child, nor a person; I wasn’t even regarded as human. I was an SCP. When they called me, I had a mix of nicknames. Most just called me “Eight-four-one-six”, but some would call me “Arsonist”.

I was called that name because of how they captured me. To explain how, though, I am going to have to go back.

(Eight years ago.)

A girl is shoved against the wall and screamed at. Slime-like blood leaks from her nose as she sobs. She deserves this—she had broken a hairbrush. She has one sibling, her older brother, who moved away a long time ago with promises that he would rescue her once he gets enough money. They wrote his obituary a month and a half later. He had killed himself.

She is all alone in this world now, nobody truly wants her. Her father goes through fits of rage when he’ll scream and punish her for things she never did, and her mother would drink. She’d drink until she also fell into madness and would hit her until her daughter would cry for forgiveness from her dear mother.

That night, the girl snuck outside. She stared at the magnificent mansion that all the kids at her school envied, so they never wanted to talk to her. It had white and grey steeples that reached higher than the treetops, their spires scraping the night sky. She looked at all the windows covered with curtains so nobody could see what torture was happening inside, and for a second, she wished she could burn it all down. Her leg kicked a pinecone on the ground out of anger. She picked it up and felt warmth in her fingers, so she threw it at the house.

The pinecone was on fire, the girl realized a moment too late. She had set it on fire, but how…?

Then she stood there, in her nightgown whose ruffles fluttered in the wind, staring as the house caught fire. The blazes traveled quicker than any she had seen before, and the whole house was engulfed in the flames in a matter of minutes. She sniffled. Her nose was still leaking a little blood.

It was… calming. Serenity overcame her body, and she felt her lips curling up into a smile. When the police, firemen, and ambulance arrived, one of them pulled her aside to ask what happened.

“I set the house on fire,” she replied quietly.

“Eh?” He tilted his ear towards her. He was older, with burn marks decorating his skin below his firemens’ helmet. “Wha’d you say?”

Leaning closer, she spoke into his ear “I set the house on fire. I set a pinecone on fire, and then I threw it at the house.” She also spoke a little louder this time.

He leaned back with a bewildered expression. “Ah… and where’s yer’ parents, lil’ missy?”

“Inside.”

“The house?” He couldn’t believe what she was telling him.

She nodded.

“Ah… erm… I’ll be right back….” He went to the firetruck and spoke into a little box that she assumed was a sort of phone. Five minutes later, two armored vehicles showed up. Men holding guns, all dressed in heavy black uniforms, quickly exited. Four pointed theirs at her while the rest carefully came closer with shields that read “S.C.P.” on the fronts.

The girl was scared. She backed away, but one of them grabbed her with their thick gloves. He put handcuffs on her and ushered her into the back of one of the vehicles. It had two doors: an outside one with a large lock and an inner one with an even bigger lock. She was inside now, alone, and in the darkness. Still, it was better than getting beat up, she reasoned.

The truck drove for hours until they stopped suddenly, and she was thrown into the doors. Right when she was standing up, the doors opened and she was grabbed by the chain on her handcuffs and practically kicked out. “Stand up!” They yelled at her. As she stood, she studied what little she could see of their faces, though most of them were covered by masks and sunglasses. Each one wore a black helmet with a thick strap that held it on. The only way to tell the difference between them was that each one had a different number printed below the logo on their uniform. They shoved her before she could read them, though, and they pulled her towards the large facility in front of them.

A large, circular sign was held on the front of the building, and it was accompanied by three letters—S.C.P. “What does that mean?” She asked.

“Secure, Contain, Protect. It’s your new home,” one of the soldiers answered gruffly.

She got excited at the prospect of living with a new family. “A new home?”

The soldier scoffed. “Yeah, sure, kid.”

It was most definitely not the type of home she was thinking of. Inside, she heard screaming from multiple of the rooms she passed by, and only a few sounded human. The hard cement was littered with unidentifiable stains, and the halls were dark. The only person she could see was in the secretary, she assumed.

“We got it,” the soldiers hissed to her.

She craned her neck. “Who?”

The soldier holding the handcuffs shook her. The secretary craned her neck even farther to see over the counter, and then the girl could see that she was, in fact, not human. She had slit-like pupils with no color around them, and her skin was dry and flaky.

“Aww, what a sweetie. Is she going to branding?” The woman asked politely.

The soldier nodded, and the woman pressed a button that opened a locked door. “Bye-bye, cutie.” She waved to the girl, but her hand was more of a claw-like appendage.

Shivers ran down the girl’s back as they dragged her into the room. They sat her down and handcuffed her again to the chair. “What’s happening?” She asked.

A man in a heavy suit holding a weird iron tool came closer. “Stay still.” It was glowing at the end before he pressed it into her neck. She screamed in pain.

Afterwards, they ushered the still crying girl back down the hallways. Her neck felt as if someone had stabbed a knife through it, and she couldn’t help but sob from the pain.

The soldiers were silent.

She was pushed inside a cold room with nothing inside but a button for her to press if there was an emergency, and she was locked in there. It was cold, and she was still in her nightgown. The girl curled up her legs and shivered in a corner, trying to become warmer.

Her new home, she reflected. What a wonderful new home.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2

The girl was brought out of her “room” the next day. They prepared tests and studies to see how human she truly was. Of course, nobody believed her to be, as they only would refer to her as either “SCP-8461” or “it”. She was fire, a monster, and unpredictable. They’d jab her with scalpels and syringes until she’d cry from the pain, and then they would note down when she would cry. The girl could barely sleep, as the nights were only filled with the screams and wails of the other poor creatures that had been trapped in here.

Some of the monsters had killed without remorse, some had been charitable their whole lives, and some, like this girl, had barely started their life. Yet, all they were to the institutions were monsters ready to be caged, branded, and locked away for the rest of their lives.

There was a rumor, though, about heavenly places the peaceful and safe SCPs go. One of them was an institution just like this one, but with beds and free-time and real lunches, not the slop that they were fed now. All of the SCPs that could learn were taught basic skills such as literacy and math. The other institution was similar, but with less freedom. It was for the less chaotic Euclidean SCPs that have consciences. In both, however, it was rumored that they had therapists to help with PTSD and the other mental issues that humanoid SCPs can get. The thought was that, to get there, you must be interviewed by a collection of doctors and therapists who would decide which one you deserved and if you deserved one at all.

“But how did you hear these rumors?” You ask. Well, the girl would stay up every night, listening to the whispers that made way underneath the screams of the monsters. The screams were taken advantage of by the creatures who could think sensibly, and they would talk through the walls. You could hear who had been hurt today and who was going to be leaving to a different testing institution tomorrow. All of the news traveled through the walls, where no soldier could ever check.

Although, the girl would still be hurt. She would freeze and shiver all night since nobody thought to give the poor child a blanket. Her last one had been taken away after she had accidentally set it on fire. Finally, after she had become ill with a cold, they decided to relent a bit and to donate her a small, fireproof blanket.

It was a freezing night, and she was huddled up in the corner hugging the blanket to her small, quaking body. Her fingers tingled, then burned. The blanket caught fire, though, and she tried to push it off as soon as possible. Alarms rang and soldiers came to take it away and to rush her to the nearest medical center.
She would now have a long burn on the left side of her face, from her hairline to her cheek, for the rest of her life. Both of her arms were scared, her right worse than her left, but her left eye suffered the worst of all. It would now be blind, perpetually only able to sense light levels.

She had nightmares for weeks over it, but that wasn’t the worst of it. The doctors and soldiers now belted two thick, fireproof gloves onto her hands so that she could not set any more flames. She was isolated now from the little piece of human interaction that she had, and was unable to even get up and walk around any more. Now her only doctor visits were once every month to make sure that she hadn’t undone her gloves and that she was still alive. Her lunches and dinners were pushed through the door by soldiers who wouldn’t utter a word to her.

Her life wasn’t a life anymore. She was alive, but not living. This continued until she turned sixteen.

* * *

“It’s being… shut down,” is how the soldier described it as she was hurried out of her room. “You’re being moved to another institution.”

She had never seen this soldier before. His mask was pulled down, and he didn’t even train his eyes on her as if she was going to kill him, like the others did. He spoke to her like she was a human. He had chocolate skin and fuzzy black hair that reminded her of the cotton inside of pillows.

“Hey, are you a speaking one?” He asked all of a sudden, looking at her.

“Huh?”

“Well—some of the SCPs can’t talk, so I thought you might be one. ‘Cause you were staring at me funny.

“I wasn’t.” She was, because her real issue was that she hadn’t seen the full face of a person in years.

“Alright.” He went back to watching in front of him.

She itched her hair. It was spiky and dark brown, and she had cut it herself. She would cut it by trying to heat up her gloves before touching her hair. It would burn and turn brittle in that area, and she would be able to break it off. She was also pretty sure she had dandruff in it, since she hadn’t truly showered in a year.

“Hey, hey, don’t give me lice or whatever.” He brushed off his shoulder with his hand.

“I don’t have lice, idiot. How could I have lice if I’ve been inside half my life?”

“Half your life? Jes-us, this is why this facility is getting shut down.” He shook his head.

She was confused. “Shut down?”

He looked at her as if she was a moron. “Yeah, shut down. The laws n’ regulations got changed ‘bout how the human-y guys had to be treated better,” he explained.

Silence ensued. Human-y. So she still wasn’t normal enough, not even to a soldier. It didn’t matter, she was sixteen. She’ll be able to escape soon enough, especially if the next facility is as lenient as she heard it was. In the past years, she had been formulating the perfect plan to escape into the real world again. Her knowledge about the real world was limited, though, because of her capture at such an early age. Anyways, as the plan goes so far, she’ll: climb out of a window after removing the metal bars by heating them up with her hands, run, eat at whatever cafes she can steal from, find a nice homeless shelter and a school, and start a new life. She also wanted to see an art museum along the way, but that was up for debate.

They took her to the new institution in a different van than when she was eight. She was still placed in the back, but they had one way glass looking out of it. It was so beautiful outside. Her seatbelt tightened when she tried to sit closer to the window, and it was something she hadn’t felt it years. Buildings and people flew by, and she could spy the museum she’d always wanted to see since she was little.

Outside of a building near a quiet area of the city, they stopped. There was a small sign next to it that read: “Housing for Disturbed Individuals”. The building was tall and grey, with cracked bricks that looked as if they had endured years of neglect. Vines were growing up one side, and they had started to cover the windows that you could barely see into anyways. The building must have had more than four wide floors that were longer than their width.

She was chauffeured out of the vehicle by the same soldier who had let her in. “Welcome to your new home.” He looked proud. That bugged her.

“It’s not a home, it’s a cell,” she retorted back before he got too cocky.

“Alright, sure, but wait ‘till you see the inside,” he responded. She rolled her eyes. She was ushered in first so that he could lock the doors behind her.

Inside, the building had a similar atmosphere to that of a hospital. Clean tile floors, asphalt-like walls, well lit, and almost empty. A couple SCPs gawked at her as she made her way through the halls, accompanied by the soldier. They walked up to what looked like a intern who was behind the counter.

“Yes?” She asked.

He put his hand on the girl’s shoulder triumphantly. “I introduce… the fire girl!”

“Don’t touch me,” she seethed, pushing his hand off while glaring at him.

“How darling. Your room is number 61 on the third floor. The showers and bathrooms are at the end of the hall and your new clothes are on your bed. Breakfast is at seven-thirty to eight, school starts at eight in the morning and ends at two in the afternoon, lunch is at noon, free-time is from two to five, daily checkups are from five to six, dinner is at six to six thirty, and bedtime starts at eight. Please be sure to remove your old testing clothes and place them in the hamper in your bedroom.” The intern smiled and handed her a small plastic card that had her room number on it. “Have a nice stay.”

“See you later!” The guard waved goodbye at the girl as she entered the elevator. She glared at him.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3.

After a week of staying in the facility, they started to give the girl tests, as usual. She was allowed air conditioning and heating, though, and even free time to walk around and talk to anomalies around the facility. She didn’t, of course.

She also became a problematic patient to the many doctors that she had started out with. They would only last a couple days before getting sick of her and her antics, and they would leave. She had a tendency to drive people away, to yell at them, and to stay alone for as long as she could.

Now it is present day, and the girl I have been talking about is myself.

***

The morning broadcast rang down the halls. “Good morning, anomalies! Let’s start off this day with a good mood, alrighty? So, for today….”

I groaned, rubbing my eyes as I tried to roll over, away from the bright sun leaking in through the window shades that blocked the building from passersby’s views. The sound of footsteps outside in the hall shook me awake from my somewhat okay slumber. Slowly sitting up, the blankets fell off my form as I yawned. The clock showed that it was six forty-five in the morning, an ungodly time to wake up as a test subject. I laid back down.

“AAAAAAAAAAAH!!!” Screaming outside the hall got me back up again. It must be some of the younger anomalies, again. Every morning they yelled and hollered until I woke up and tried to shut them up. Today was going to be no different, I saw.

I opened the door and stepped out. “Shut the hell up, morons.”

“Dog said a bad word! Dog said a bad word!” They all giggled and ran downstairs, chanting.

“I’m not a dog!” I hollered back. I rubbed my face, trying to wake up a bit more. Noticing my reflection in the shiny, metal elevator doors, I could see my mess of hair and burn scar over my left eye. Nothing’s changed since yesterday, unfortunately.
I stepped inside, alone, again.

After school, I ate alone for lunch, again. Lunch today was a sort of tasteless, reddish soup that had white beans inside.

“Hey, brownie, you got an appointment at five today,” the secretary informed me when I attempted to sneak back to my room.

“Nothing bad’s gonna happen if I don’t have an appointment,” I replied, rolling my eyes as I continued walking by.

She looked down at the new burn scars on my hands and then back at my face. “Really?” Sarcasm.

I groaned. “Is it with that… guy again?”

“Doctor Gerald said that you were a ‘sprightly young woman with too much wit’ for him. You got a new guy.”

“Awesome.” I was being sarcastic. I hated each and every “ability monitor” and “therapist” they sent my way. Each one wanted to make me crack, cry, and want to be a normal child. Every one realized they couldn’t and that all they did was solidify the best thought I’d had in my life: it doesn’t matter how human I look, nobody will ever see me as one.

I purposefully arrived at my appointment exactly twenty minutes late. I opened the door and saw the room almost exactly the same; fake plants in the only window, bleached walls, a wooden plank floor with a single rug in the middle, different charts of techniques to calm down, pictures of other SCPs that had recommended therapy, and whatever they needed to make me feel happier.

“Sorry I’m late.” I masked a guilty smile before I sat down. Studying him, I wanted to scoff. He looked like he was in his late twenties, had light brown hair, oval-like glasses, pale skin, stubble, and eye bags. I immediately assumed that I could break him in one day, and I would soon see how wrong I was.

“Exactly twenty minutes late.” He glared at me from across the desk—or was that his normal face? I didn’t care.

“Ah, but who’s counting?”

“I am.” He was dead serious, and my fake smile fell. He picked up his clipboard and tapped the paper on it with his pen before asking, “On a scale of one to ten, how content have you been with your life in the past twenty days?”

A plan formulated in my head. “Do I have to answer?”

He glared at me. “Yes.”

“You probably already know the answer….” I laid back in the chair.

“Answer the question, 8461.” He leaned forward.

That… hurt. Usually they pretended not to see me as a monster, but I guess he wasn’t going to even try to make me comfortable. “Four,” I replied.

He wrote it down. “How happy have you been on a scale of one to ten?”

“Oh, ten-thousand. I love this cage of a place so much, I can barely contain my excitement for it.” My voice was dripping with contempt.

“Answer it truthfully.”

“Six…” he started to write before I added, “…point five seven three two four eight nine…”

“Stop it,” he interrupted me. He exhaled. “On a scale of one to ten…”

“How much do I want to burn this place down?” I cut in as retribution. “An eleven.”

“That’s… worrying, but no. On a scale of one to ten, how much do you value your life?”

That felt like a spear to the heart. Nobody had asked me that before, and it angered me that he thought that he had the privilege to ask me that. “Why does this matter, again?”

“If you want to continue living here…”

“Seven. Eight. Three. Nine. Whatever number you like most, Sir Moron.” I stuck my tongue out, which was childish but still hilarious to me.

“I can easily place you into solitary for the rest of the night.”

“Then do it! Go ahead! I don’t give a—”

“Do not swear in my office,” he broke in.

That enraged me. “It’s not your office! I’ve been in this office more than twenty times with over twenty different people, and each of you are the same!” I stood up from my chair. “All of you think that you can control me and make me your—your doll, but I know what you’re doing! I’ll never—never in my life—become somebody so idiotic, so moronic, so stupid, so crappy like one of you!” I yelled at him.

He didn’t even blink, nor did his eyes widen. “Go to your dormitory, this session is over.”

I hesitated before leaving with a yell.

“Oh, and see you next week,” he replied with a sly smile.

I slammed the door shut.

Chapter Text

Flames licked at the black night sky that was freckled with stars. I stood there, open mouthed, as I watched my family’s giant, Victorian mansion—the source of all my bruises and scars—gradually be consumed by the flames that I caused.

I was eight.

I am now sixteen.

Chapter Text

Chapter 4

I hoped that he would cancel our next appointment, but he didn’t. He didn’t cancel the next one or the next one, either. I showed up about twenty-five minutes late the fourth one, and he had the same glare as last time.

“You’re late again,” he remarked.

I feigned a surprised face. “Wow, just how in the world did you notice?” I sat down in the same chair as last time, crossing my legs.

“I would like if you could keep a consistent, positive attitude during these appointments.” He picked up his clipboard and tapped the page with his pencil.

“And I would like to not have these appointments,” I retorted.

He pushed up his glasses and sighed. “You most likely will continue having these appointments until you can have an optimistic mood.”

“I—”

“First question,” he started, “On a scale of one to ten, how content have you been in the past week?”

“Not twenty days anymore?”

He exhaled. “Just answer the question, 8461.”

Ouch. “Seven or six or whatever.” I stared at the dark wood on the desk instead of at him. I was used to being called it, but it still hurt.

He wrote it down. “On a scale of one to ten, how much do you value your life today.”

“Jeez….” I groaned and leaned back in the chair, my eyes wandering over to the bookshelf at the side of the room.

“Answer the question.” He sat up to attempt to get my attention.

My plan to escape clicked in me. On the bookcase was a small screwdriver that the repairman must have left and, on looking closer at the tip, it was triangular. The screws holding my windows shut had the same shape. “Um…” I ripped my attention away from the screwdriver. “A nine.”

His eyebrows went up and he jotted it down. “Really now…? And what has… spurred on… that?”

“Oh, just… life.” My plan was being perfected in my head, and I could feel the gleam entering my eyes. “May I apologize for behaving so rudely the past appointments?” I faked a placid smile.

“Okay—um….” He looked through the papers to find a sheet, interested in my sudden development of attitude. “On a scale of—”

“Have you read those books?” I interrupted, standing up to walk over to the bookshelf.

“What? Um… no, not all of them. Why?” His brows knit together.

“Maybe I should read one. Do you agree?”

“Erm—excuse me, on a scale of one to ten, how much sleep have you been getting in the past week?” He tried to change the subject.

“About an eight.” While he was looking down to jot my answer onto the paper, I snuck the screwdriver into my pocket. I sat back down in the chair, crossing my legs.

He checked his watch. “It’s getting late. Let’s meet again next week at the same time, alright?”

“Sure. Have a good night.” I got up and started to leave.

“You too,” he responded.

As soon as I was in my room, I laughed. I smiled and laughed as I recalled how happy he was at my “progress”. To think someone could be so gullible to believe that I could truly become a better person!

I sighed and wiped a tear before I laid down and feigned sleep. At around twelve at night, I got up silently, pulled the screwdriver out of my pocket, and got to work on the windows. It took me around an hour to get all the screws off, and then I tied together rags I’d been saving from my cleaning punishments to make a rope. I made a knot around the metal bed frame that was welded to the floor, stuffed a granola bar I’d been saving into my pocket, and climbed out of the window. “Goodbye, nerds. Have a terrible night.”

It wasn’t as easy as I had prepared for, though, because the lip on the edge of the building was much smaller than I had expected. No problem, though, because I refused to give up when I was so close to my freedom. Very carefully, I used one hand to grip the brick while I slowly balanced and climbed down the rope. Every so often, my feet would slip and I would wobble a little, but I was quickly able to regain my balance afterwards.

Once I was down, I left my rope hanging off the side of the building and ran down the cool pavement of the sidewalk, exhausted but also exhilarated from my escape. Time to put the next step of my plan into action.

***

I waited the night out by hopping from one twenty-four hour convenience store to another, snagging snacks as I went. Once day finally came, I was able to look for the one thing I’d wanted to see my whole life—the Kingstone Art Museum. The earliest memory I could recall that had no tones of fear or pain was when my parents had taken me there.

My whole plan had been carried out so that I would escape the night before the free admittance day there, and my gait was jolly as I skipped into the museum.

“Hold on, little lady.” A security guard stopped me. I froze in terror. “You gotta remove your gloves n’ what’s in your pockets before you enter.”

“Oh, yeah, sorry….” I placed the items in a locker he showed me to before he had me walk through one of those tall scanners. I remember seeing them in movies, but I’d never been through one in real life. I was very wary of what it could do to me.

“You’re all set to go, enjoy your visit, Miss.” He gave me a sticker to symbolize that I had already been checked.

“Thank you,” I replied quietly before hurrying off into the museum. Immediately, I was struck by the beauty of each piece that hung on the wall. Birth, love, hate, and death surrounded me on all of the walls around me. It was also very quiet, and it became a challenge to try not to run through the rooms to find the painting I was looking for. I felt a little stressed that someone could notice my odd clothes and attempt to call the cops on me, but those thoughts were pushed to the back of my mind.

Finally, after searching and looking at paintings for an hour, I found it. It was large, and you had to stand behind a wooden fence to look at it. Inside the painting, a girl is running through a field with an angel. You can see her mother crying in the background as they both frolic away from her parents.

“Do you see her outfit…?” Murmuring caught my ear. It looked like a couple was talking about me. “Looks like she escaped from a mental health facility….”

The man leaned in closer to his girlfriend. “I think we should call her in.”

My jaw clenched, and my fingers tingled. I whipped my head around, my hands still glued onto the fence. “I didn’t escape from anywhere, morons!”

Their faces gained a snooty, disgusted look before they left to the next room. Then my hands began to burn and my head turned to see my biggest fear: I had set fire to the fence.

“No, no, no, no….” I slowly backed away as the flames grew and spread. My pace quickened as I ran from room to room. Quickly, I was lost in a back room filled with dust, easels, brushes, and a multitude of different canvases and paintings covered with blankets. I heard yells from outside the door, so I ran in farther. Eventually, I was able to hide in a corner behind a large painting, my knees curled up to my chest. It was then that I realized that I really wasn’t human. A human wouldn’t do this, and a human wouldn’t hide from their actions.

I guess I do just ruin everything around me.

I couldn’t even cry as the heat from the flames filled the room. I heard the firetruck whistles and the spray of extinguishers. Soon they figured out it was an anomaly who caused it, and they sent in a team to coax me out. They took about an hour and a half to find me, and they quickly gripped my wrists to drag me out. I willingly walked to their pace.

How can a monster like me ever think I was human if I can’t even cry when I end up harming others?

Chapter Text

Chapter 5

They gave the gloves I wore buckles with locks on them so I couldn’t remove them. My windows were given bars across them that were welded into the frame. I didn’t care that much, as all I ended up doing in my free time was laying on my bed. I skipped therapy and chores whenever I could, choosing to just stare blankly at my ceiling while laying down on my cheap blanket instead. They first would only take my gloves off when I was alone, in my room, but after noticing that I had been accidentally burning myself multiple times, they decided to keep them on at all times. Through the next year, I would hide and pull every strategy I knew to get away and out of therapy. I even lied and had gone to other therapists just so I couldn’t see the disappointment on his face.

On my seventeenth birthday, they sent up a guard to force me to attend therapy, and for the first time in a year, I entered the room. It was the same as before. The guard left, so I was obliged to sit down and act like I was a polite child.

“Good evening,” my therapist, my enemy, the bane of my existence, greeted.

I neither responded nor looked at him.

Silence passed by, and the only sound in the room was the clock on the wall’s ticking. Each tock echoed through my mind as if it were an empty cavern.

He cleared his throat. “I have not seen you in a year, correct?” I was quiet. “Why don’t you recount what happened?”

I sighed, realizing I couldn’t get out of this. “I laid on my bed and stared at my ceiling during free time.”

“No, not that.” He shook his head lightly. “What caused you to have extra security around your living quarters?”

“You already know,” I replied quickly with disdain.

“Yes, but I want you to recount the events from your perspective.”

He was frustrating me. What was I going to say that he didn’t know? “I ran away and almost burned down a building, geez….”

“What type of building?”

“An art museum, retard. Can’t you remember?”

His eyes thinned in annoyance. “I don’t appreciate the names, but yes, I remember. My question is: why?”

“Why what?”

“Why go to an art museum of all places?”

For the first time, I had no words. My eyes went up to meet with his. Why would he want to know? I was a monster, an anomaly. Most would just assume I went there to cause suffering and to destroy beauty. My gaze fell. “‘Cause I wanted to.”

“Why?”

“Because….” I hadn’t prepared for these questions. “Geez, I wanted to see the paintings. Why else would I go?”

He sighed and pushed his glasses up. “Nevermind. What would you rate your… mental wellbeing, in the past ten days, out of ten?”

Honestly? I thought. A three. But I had to pretend. “A seven.”

“Really. What have you been doing in your free time that makes you so… happy?” He had a tint of sarcasm in his voice.

I glared at him, my eyes thinning. “The pleasure of not seeing your face for a year was enjoyable in of itself.”

He glared back icily. “How would you rate your therapy sessions with me out of ten, then?” His voice was hard, like pavement.

“A two.”

“Oh, how grand,” his sarcasm was evident in his voice. “And what stops it from being a one?”

“The….” I couldn’t answer. The only reason I had agreed to come in the first place was because my life was and still is so devoid of human interaction that I can’t even remember the feeling of someone’s hand against mine. All my rare, late-night prayers centered around my desire to just feel someone’s skin on mine. I wanted to touch fingers with someone, I wanted to hold hands, I wanted to hug.

I wanted to be held. I wanted to be held and told that everything was gonna be okay, even if nothing was; that I was human; that someone out there loved me; that maybe, even if it’s just a millisecond of a thought, that someone out there thinks that I’m pretty—

“I’m waiting.” He cut my thoughts in half.

I looked down at my gloved hands laying in my lap, and my vision blurred. I hadn’t cried in so long, and I wasn’t going to cry now. My teeth clenched and, without looking up, I delivered the sharp words that I felt he deserved. “I hate you.” My lips curved into a pseudo smile. “I hate you so much. I wish—“ I looked up and began to stand up. “—I wish, I hope that you die, I hope that I can get the pleasure of killing you myself! I want to destroy you. I hope that after you’re dead, nobody remembers you, just as nobody will remember me.”

His face didn’t look scared, but I saw it, behind his eyes. They widened and eventually he stood as I came closer to him. He backed off.

I couldn’t see what I was doing. “I hope you die, die, and I hope it’s painful!” My voice was slowly rising as I got closer, closer, closer. I had backed him into a wall and was tightening my hands into fists. I noticed something on a shelf behind him—a key. Not any key, but the one to my gloves. The key to my freedom. I lunged for it, and he grabbed me. I tried to fight him off, biting, screaming, whatever I could to get away with it. I bit his hand quite badly and he yelled in pain. Still trying to wrestle my way to the key, I hadn’t noticed him as he grabbed some sort of syringe from his desk. Then I felt a sharp pain in my neck as he stabbed it into me.

I felt my body relax involuntarily and my vision began to blur even worse. I looked up at him.

He had prepared a tranquilizer, even though I hadn’t shown any aggression to any guard in a year.

I guess I’ll always be nothing more and nothing other than a monster in his and every person’s eyes.

My head blacked out then, and the last sensation I can remember is falling into him.

***

The dreams and visions that blew through my mind while I was unconscious were painful. Memories of when they were first classifying my eight year old self as a dangerous anomaly stung like sharp shards of glass. But, through it all, I had an underlying sense of… warmth. As if I was being held or as if I was leaning into someone’s arms. Snippets of various conversations went through my head with voices I couldn’t quite recognize.

“Why didn’t you place it down…?” That one sounded like crunchy caramel. Smooth, but not.

“I didn’t know where to put her!” Why are they whispering…? He sounds like my therapist.

The other one sighed. “On a desk, the floor, anywhere?! This is almost a b-class individual we’re dealing with here!” Was that a woman speaking?

“I didn’t know, alright? I panicked.”

“Is your hand okay?” The feminine one brought up after a short period of silence.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

The other one was unsure. “If it bit you, you should make sure you report it—”

“—her—“

“—whatever—to the head of our facility. It—she—should be placed right back where she came from if she did hurt you.”

The other voice was silent for a while. “She didn’t bite me.”

The female, I had decided, sighed. “I sure hope you’re not lying, because if you are, you’ll regret it….”

My hearing faded after that.

Chapter Text

I awoke the next morning with a killer headache. Everything looked painful; the rays of sun through the bars of my window felt like knives across my eyes. I rubbed my head as I sat up, searching my room for any indication of what happened while I was out cold. My thin blanket tucked around my legs was a dead giveaway that someone had carried me to my room last night.

With a groan, I flopped back down and rolled over onto my left side, facing the wall. How embarrassing.

Ding-dong. “Good morning, anomalies! Let’s start this day off with a good mood, okay? On today’s agenda….” The almost robotic voice droned on and on as I begrudgingly got ready for another day. Last night’s memories were still foggy in my mind, and I was in no rush to attempt to remember them. What’s forgotten is better left forgotten.

The walls and floor outside the dormitories were squeaky clean, as always, and morning chatter filled the air. I went down the elevator alone, as usual, and stared at my reflection in the closed, metal doors. My burn scar looked the same as usual—never better, never worse. The same with my left eye, as it always looked more cloudy than a sky during a snowstorm. I shrugged. It didn’t matter, anyways—I couldn’t see out of it, so no reason to worry.

When the doors opened, I jumped. Outside was an anomaly that looked about four years old holding up a piece of white paper and a crayon. “Can you drawing for me?” She smiled so wide that I could see every one of her sharp, triangular teeth.

“Uh… I dunno….” I attempted to circle around and away from her.

Her brows furrowed as she followed me. “But Amalise say to ask Dog to draw fors me, n’ I say who that, n’ she say—”

“Alright—alright, I get it, geez.” I took the paper and crayon. “What do you want drawn?”

“A big kitty cat wif’ stripes!” Her grin was massive.

I began to draw it. “Oh, and tell ‘Amalise’ that my name’s not Dog.”

“But everybody calls you Dog.” She tilted her head.

I sighed. “Yeah, but I don’t like it. Would you like it if people started calling you Cat all the time?”

She nodded enthusiastically. “Uh-huh!”

“Just—never-mind. Here you go.” I handed the piece of paper back and continued on my way with a more brisk walk. Great, I’m gonna be late to breakfast, now. The cafeteria was crowded, as usual, and I picked up a plate before sitting down, alone, at my usual table in the corner. Just as I began to bite into the peanut butter and jelly sandwich I got, the doors into the cafeteria squeaked open quietly. Nobody else noticed, but I craned my neck to see who walked in.

My therapist. Crap.

I sunk lower into my seat and even contemplated hiding under the table. I technically—well, literally—attacked him last night, so he probably was notifying me that I would be moved back to a more harsh containment facility soon. I pretended that I hadn’t seen him and focused on my sandwich again as he came closer, sat down across from me, and began to watch me eat.

Awkward silence followed. Finally, he cleared his throat.

“What?” I asked flatly as my eyes shifted and glared at him.

He sighed. “Do you remember last night?”

“Yeah, and?”

“And? You should have serious repercussions from what you did; attacking me, biting me, threatening to kill me—”

“Promising.” I immediately regretted what I said as soon as it came out of my mouth.

He silently stared at me before moving on. “Most anomalies who did what you did would immediately be moved to another facility. But, under very special permission, you have been given another chance.”

“Oh, darn, I was so excited to leave….” I feigned disappointment.

“Don’t ruin this on yourself,” he cut in. “Do you even understand how long it took me to convince them to keep you here?”

“Approximately three point one four one seven nine two six five three five eight—”

“Shut up. Are you trying to ruin this on yourself?”

“Why, of course I am, dear sir.” This was hilarious. My own chance to personally ruin his day—

“You’re lucky that you have me as your therapist. Anybody else—”

“—would’ve gotten rid of me as quickly as possible?”

“They sure wouldn’t have held your passed-out self up for half an hour straight.” His voice was truthful as I froze mid-bite into my sandwich. My gaze slowly met his before it dropped back down again.

Tense silence filled the air between us once again.

He exhaled. “Listen, I’m not trying to embarrass or bother you. I just want you to know that you’ve used up your one chance.”

I swallowed my bite full of sandwich. “And I want to let you know that I don’t care.”

“I don’t get where all this aggression is coming from. All I have done for you is try to help you out, but you keep on shutting me down and threatening, or promising, to kill me.”

“Yeah? Well, maybe I don’t want help,” I replied matter of factly.

His stare was deadpan. “Maybe you don’t want it, but you need it.”

“How in the world do I need help?”

He was fighting back a grin. “Well, for starters, you have shown zero interest to interact socially with any anomaly. You refuse to participate in group projects and, when forced to, always prefer to sit alone in a corner somewhere, away from others.”

“I’m introverted,” I defended.

“Most introverts have at least one person they are social with, while you have none. You make no effort to have anyone, either. You throw out all meals with a quarter of your food left on the plate, your room is constantly messy, and your only pillow you have is being used as a stuffed animal right now.”

“Excuse me?” I felt offended. “How—when were you in my room?!” I stood up and put both my hands on the table.

“Last night, and sit back down,” he replied.

“And why?”

“Because you had to be moved back to your room by somebody, and it was less of a hassle to move you there myself than getting a guard to move you for me.”

“You carried me?!” This was the single hand most embarrassing moment of my life yet.

“Yes, and?”

I was lost for words and was feeling a mix of intense emotions. Anger, embarrassment, and a little bit of… comfort? “And—and how do you know that it didn’t just happen that my pillow was moved like a stuffed animal? I could’ve bumped it when I got out of bed that morning.” I was desperately grabbing at straws in a desperation to prove that he hadn’t fount out the truth.

“Because after making sure that you were breathing and okay for half and hour, you rolled over and hugged it.”

The final blow. Simply calling it humiliation is like calling a tsunami a downpour, a nuclear bomb a firecracker, et cetera. My face was paler than a ghost as I stared into the space between my eyes and his, my lips in a close to permanent grimace.

His smirk faded as I made no audible comment, though my face was enough of a sign as to what I was feeling. He cleared his throat. “Anyways, I expect you to arrive on time at therapy tonight.”

My face barely changed.

“Um… it’s not… that bad of a thing….” He was beginning to regret telling me what he witnessed.

I looked down at my plate; I wasn’t hungry anymore. My elbows lifted up to the table and my hands propped up my head. He looked away.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” he said quietly, trying to comfort me.

“I know,” I replied.

“I—ah….” He grimaced. “Most young adults—um—begin to require or seek physical affection around your age….”

I hid my face in my hands. “Please stop talking,” I groaned.

“I just want to assure you that it’s—uh—yeah, I should… stop.” He looked down at his watch and then back at the window, trying his hardest to avoid any eye contact with me.

I couldn’t help but smirk a little while hiding my face. He was so awkward that it was hilarious. If he wanted to bring up being more social, he should’ve tried to look at himself first.

I removed my hands and stared at his face to get his attention. “Hey, what’s your name?”

“Excuse me?” He raised an eyebrow as he looked at me.

“Your name. C’mon, I can’t keep on calling you ‘therapist’ forever.” I felt the mood slowly begin to lift.

“Ah. It’s… I’m Winston.” He looked away, and I could notice a tint of rose on his cheeks. I snorted. “What are you laughing at?” He looked offended.

“Winston? Your name’s Winston?” I was trying to stifle my laughs.

“What’s wrong with Winston?”

I laughed. “It suits you!”

“Stop laughing!” He said it half in jest, as he was also trying to hold back a smirk.

“‘Why hello there, I’m Sir Winston’,” I joked in a mock British accent.

“Oh, stop it. I’m not even British nor do I sound that way.”

I snorted. “Sir Winston of X City, Duke to the throne of America.”

He finally let himself grin. “Alright, alright. Enough of that.”

“Fine… Winston.”

“Hey, you still have to refer to me just as your therapist,” he lectured. “I only told you because we were conversing,” he added.

“Alright….” The school announcement rang, so I got up, picking up my tray with me. “See you later.”

He was caught on edge for a moment at my closure before regaining his composure. “Yes, see you later.” His eyes watched as I walked away. He’d never had such a calm interaction with me, and he was surprised that nothing terrible had happened.

***

Later that day, I entered for my daily therapy and checkup. I was on time, which hadn’t happened in a long time.

“Welcome. I see you’re on time today,” he greeted as he clipped papers to his clipboard. His black pen clicked and he flipped it around to begin writing.

“Yeah, yeah, no need to make a big deal.” I sat down in the chair in front of his desk, as usual. I noticed that a tranquilizer was still halfway hidden on his desk and was a little disheartened by it. Once a monster, always a monster.

He then began the questions. “What would you rate today on a scale of one to ten?”

“Eh, a seven,” I replied, staring the pile of paper on his desk.

He jotted it down. “And what is stopping it from being higher?”

“I dunno… just life, I guess.” The pages looked like forms for other anomalies’ checkups, as they had plenty of different scores on them. I caught the name Amalise next to half of a SCP number, but I couldn’t read it completely.

“What in life is bothering you right now?” He asked, attempting to make eye contact.

“Um… just… stuff.” I shrugged. “I don’t know completely.”

He pushed his glasses farther up his nose and leaned closer. “Do you feel lonely?”

“I mean….” I tried to think of a response. “I guess. But not totally. ‘Cause like… it’s like kind of, but I don’t know if it is loneliness.”

His brows knit together and he set his clipboard down. “What do you mean, ‘you don’t know’? Do you feel like you want to form a connection with somebody?”

“I… yeah.” I tried my hardest to avoid his stare, as I didn’t know what could be waiting for me in it. Disappointment? Pity? Sympathy?

He jotted it down. “Do you want to try to make friends? I mean… there are ways I can set up play dates.”

“No—I mean, no thank you. I don’t really want that. I don’t feel… I dunno. I guess, just, not in that sense…?” I saw that I was only making him more confused. “I’m sorry, I’m not making any sense, am I…?”

“No, it’s fine. That’s what these sessions are for.” He sighed and, placing his hands in his lap, sat up straight to attempt to understand just how I felt. “Let’s see… pretend that a one is that you have all the friends you want, and that a ten is that you feel completely isolated from social contact. Where are you right now?”

“Um….” I thought about it. I wasn’t exactly lonely in the sense that I wanted friends. I felt like friends were a waste of time and that they would only end up leaving me, anyways. Nothing past romance was on my agenda, but maybe I’d be lying if I didn’t feel like being kissed sometimes. I didn’t feel like all the steamy romance, though. I just felt… lonely. Like I was missing something inside of me, something that everybody else had. I wanted affection, but I didn’t. I wanted somebody, but I didn’t. How can one ever express these feelings in mere words? “I guess….” I felt embarrassed. “An eight.”

His eyebrows raised. “That high…?” He muttered under his breath, but I could hear him. I looked away as my cheeks burnt with the shame of my words. Winston noticed, of course, and he exhaled. “Hey, I’m not judging you. Everybody goes through it… loneliness, I mean.”

“Yeah, right.” My voice was tinted with disdain as I refused to look at his face.

His face showed signs of defeat. “Listen, I’ll get you in contact with another anomaly your age—”

“I don’t want friends!” I interrupted, gripping the sides of the chair as I glared at him. “I don’t want—I don’t need anybody! And I don’t need you!” I stood up and turned around, ready to go.

“Hey, why don’t you sit down and we can change the subject?” He stood and attempted to stop me.

“I’m tired, I’m going to bed,” I replied flatly, shutting the door harshly behind me before hastily walking down the hallway, into the elevator, and back up to the floor with my room in it. I couldn’t feel much of what I was doing right now, it was like I was numb to everything. Once I got to my room, I laid down on my left side, faced the wall, and was silent. Tears pricked at my eyes and it hurt to push them back, to push my emotions away from myself. I didn’t want to feel any of this.

My mind made a cruel connection that Winston, that he was the cause of all of my anger and frustration. If he was never my therapist, I wouldn’t feel this way. If he had never carried me to my bed, I wouldn’t feel this way. If he had never even interacted with me in the first place, I wouldn’t feel this way.

Is it loneliness or hate I feel? I wanted to cry out for somebody, anybody, to save me, to hold me. My legs curled up and I buried my face under my thin, cheap blanket.

Maybe it’s no one’s fault but my own.

Chapter Text

Chapter 7

I woke up cold the next morning. My blanket had fallen off my bed overnight, and the air in my room had grown cold and stale. The heating must have broken again (it breaks every month or so), and they probably have been waiting as long as possible to fix it.

I got dressed as the morning announcement came in and declared that the heater has, in fact, broken. They’re calling someone certified to fix it right now, but it will take a couple hours, so blah, blah, blah…. I put my old clothes inside of the laundry hamper next to the elevator in the hallway. Every week or so, we get a clean pair of clothes and pajamas. I usually prefer to just wear my clothes to bed, though, because the pajamas they give us are very thin. For an anomaly with fire issues, I get colder a lot faster than others would realize.

Today was the weekend, something they only give the SCPs who aren’t “failing” in their studies. I average about a seventy-three percent on every test, so I pass the critique to get both Saturday and Sunday off.

In the breakfast room, the younger anomalies were singing their joyful rhymes they always sang on their rare days off. It was harder for the little ones to get days off, because usually they are very distracted in class.

“Two SCPs sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G. First comes love….” I spied the girl with sharp teeth clapping her hands along, too. Some of them couldn’t sing, or their voices had lisps, so they just clapped instead. Luckily, my normal cafeteria table was almost completely secluded from the noise. Unluckily, I spied my therapist sitting there, with his back to the rest of the room. Is this a threat? Maybe he’s trying to force me to sit somewhere else, where other anomalies are.

I got a sandwich and water bottle, sat down at my table, and began to eat as if he wasn’t there. My plate seemed to interest me much more than making eye contact with him.

“A-hem…” he cleared his throat, attempting to garter my attention. I didn’t look up. He sighed. “Listen, I’m not angry at you.”

“Oh, for shame, I was really hoping you were…” I replied with sarcasm.

My comment annoyed him. “Can’t you just hold your tongue? At least every once in a while?”

“Where’s the fun in that, Mr. Therapist?” I took another bite nonchalantly.

“You know what? I could’ve placed you right back into a less ethical facility, but I didn’t. But somehow,” his voice was stern, “you haven’t shown an ounce of gratitude for my decision.”

“What, am I supposed to kneel down and kiss your feet?” I spoke through a mouthful of jelly.

“Just a ‘thank you’ would be fine,” he responded.

I grabbed my water bottle. “No thanks.”

“Oh my gosh…” he muttered, groaning. He massaged his temples with his fingers. “No wonder you don’t have any friends,” he said under his breath.

“I’m not deaf, but ditto to you,” I replied with a feigned smile. “But it has to be hard, being what, twenty-eight and no friends.”

“I’m twenty-two.” He looked a little offended.

“You don’t look like it,” I replied.

He stared at me before glaring. “At least I act my age.”

“What’re you inferring, now? That I’m childish? Immature?” I had a sly grin playing on my lips.

“Childish, immature, and definitely lacking in emotional intelligence,” he added. I scowled at him.

“I’m not lacking in… emotional intelligence, or whatever,” I retorted.

He smirked. “Then why can you not realize when to stop talking, others emotions, or even your own?”

“Shut up.” I went back to eating and ignoring him.

“I’m not trying to offend you, I was just saying what you asked for,” he defended.

“Did I ask to be insulted, Mr. Perfect?” My voice held hate in it, and he felt it.

“I—excuse me?” He looked irritated at the nickname.

I smiled sarcastically. “I’m sorry, what’s your last name? Maybe now I can insult your wife, too.”

“Um—” He was taken back for a second before regaining his composure. “One, I will not tell you my last name for privacy reasons. Two, I don’t have a wife.”

“Fiancé?”

“No.”

“Girlfriend?”

“No, and why does this even matter right now—”

“You don’t even have, like, a lover? A crush?” I felt bewildered.

“No. I think we shouldn’t linger on this subject because…”

“Wow. You’re, like, completely, one-hundred percent, alone.” I didn’t realize that my words must hurt. “Wow.”

He stared at me flatly. “I know. It doesn’t concern you, anyway, so—”

“Wait, wait,” I interrupted, “you were lecturing me on loneliness last night as if you weren’t lonely at all. But you are!”

“No, I’m not. Being alone isn’t equivalent to feeling lonely.” He looked irritated that I had chosen to continue speaking on this subject, and I loved it. I had found the perfect button to press. I snorted. “Stop it. And anyways, at least I don’t express my alone-ness outwardly like you.”

“I thought we weren’t going to talk about it anymore…” I groaned.

He leaned back, crossing his arms. “So you’re allowed to pick on me, but I can’t pick on you?”

“You’re bullying a minor. There’s a difference.”

“You’re literally less than a year away from being an adult,” he retorted.

“Are you a pedophile?” I joked. “Oh my gosh, is that why you’re sitting at the table with me? Is this your twisted way of trying to date me?”

“Stop it.” His voice was deadpan and serious. “I have zero desire to form any sort of romantic relationship with anybody under twenty, and even if you weren’t, I wouldn’t want to date you anyway.”

“You’re so romantic,” I replied sarcastically, though his words did leave a weird feeling of disappointment in my chest. “I hope your future partner is just as awkward as you are,” I teased.

“I’m not awkward,” he defended.

I stifled a laugh. “Of course you aren’t.” He opened his mouth to say something, but the loudspeaker went off. “All anomalies, please report back to your dormitories. All anomalies, please report back to your dormitories….”

I looked up and around me. “What…?”

“You should… probably go back. Now.” He stood up and hurried out of the cafeteria. I went back up to my dorm through the now-crowded elevator. The kid anomalies were now crying through the dialogue that was filling the air.

“What’s happening?” “Are we going to be evacuated?” “Is there a tornado?” Most of their fears were idiotic, though, because if there was a tornado, we’d be taken into the basement, which is exactly where nobody’s allowed—

My eyes widened at that realization. Why isn’t anybody allowed in the basement? I quickly ran out of the elevator and tried to get one back down, but those had been shut down. I quickly ran to the fire escape. Bingo; they’d forgotten to close it. I ran down sideways, so as not to make much noise, and was able to get to the basement floor quickly. I snuck out of the door, finding myself right next to the boiler room. Very slowly, I crept closer and closer to the door. It creaked a little when I opened it, so I chose not to shut it. I froze in place at the sight in front of me, though.

The boiler, which also controlled the heating, was open. Inside of it, floating, was a burnt body of an anomaly. My hands shook as I stood there, agape and cemented to the ground. The scales on its skin reminded me of the anomaly that lived across the hall from me—he was quiet and couldn’t speak or communicate with people well. I hadn’t seen him since he went downstairs instead of going back up to the dorms last night.

Oh.

A cleanup crew pushed past me as if I wasn’t there, and I watched as they blocked the area.

“Hey, you’re not supposed to be down here.” A familiar-sounding voice made me turn around. It was Winston. Judging from his expression, he knew that I knew what was in there. His eyes softened. “Let’s… go back up together, okay?” I silently walked out with him, numb and bleak from what I saw. The elevator ride up to my dormitory was silent as I stared at the shiny metal in front of me. Did he mean to? How quickly did he die? How long had he wanted to kill himself? All these questions swarmed in my mind as the elevator doors opened onto my floor.

“Do you want to talk about it? We can always move therapy….” He walked next to me, down the hall to my room.

I opened my mouth to respond, but I couldn’t. He’s dead. I saw the room across from mine, the one he was living in last night. How can death happen so quickly? How can someone so alive just the other day be completely gone now? I opened the door to my room and stared at its cold and almost empty interior. My loneliness had never felt so prominent to me before.

I felt his stare on me. I probably looked so pathetic then; standing there, staring numbly into my room. How stupid did I look to him? He was probably disappointed in me, and he was most definitely disgusted.

“Hey.” He leaned over so that he was more in my line of vision. “Do you want to talk, or sit down to think, together?” He looked worried.

I started to decline before deciding to just take him up on his offer. “Yeah,” I answered quietly.

“Alright, um… here, let’s go inside.” He let me go in first before entering and shutting the door behind him. His eyes had anxiety in them. Was it because there was nothing, no tranquilizer, to help him if I attacked? We were both silent for a couple of minutes. I was sitting on my bed and he was on a cheap foldout chair.

“Did you want to talk now?” He asked after the extended period of silence.

“Alright….” I looked down at my gloved hands that were resting in my lap.

He cleared his throat. “Did you know him well?”

“No, not really. He couldn’t speak, so… it was hard to talk to him,” I replied quietly.

“Ah, I see.” He thought for a second before adding, “But you still had an acquaintance with him?”

“Yeah. He’d been off for the past… couple of days, so I guess I should’ve expected something.” I looked away uneasily.

“How did you know when he was… off?”

I itched my neck uncomfortably. “He just wouldn’t come out of his room.”

“Hm.” He looked down in deep thought. “On the topic of suicide, have you ever felt the urge to end your life?” He asked softly.
Oh. I was caught off guard by that question. I looked back down, away from his eyes, in case he could sense what thinking. My head felt like static at that moment as I tried to recollect my thoughts. Have I felt that way before? I knew I had, but I’d never made plans to do anything. Usually it was more of a feeling of internal hatred for myself and others that made me not feel like existing. Was there a difference between wanting to die and not wanting to exist at all? If I died, it would just be another burden onto the workers here, but if I had never existed at all….

I remembered that he was there, silently waiting for my answer. “No,” I replied. “I haven’t.”

His quiet sigh and sad eyes was a sign that he knew I had, but I ignored it. “Alright.”

The silence filled my bleak room once again. It looked much more like a cell than a room, as my only possessions in it were a thin blanket, mattress, and pillow. The white walls had cracks in them from years of usage by other anomalies, and the only new addition to the room was the bars they installed to keep me from escaping. The floor was tile, but it hadn’t been cleaned well in a while. Though the rest of the facility was always clean, the rooms were cleaned only once a month. My eyes traveled around until it hit back to where I was sitting, my bed, and then my pillow, which I had forgotten to move.

Crap.

I’d forgotten to move my pillow, so it was still where I would’ve been hugging it. I looked back to him to check that he hadn’t noticed yet, and I was right. I was in the clear, but not for long. He was also studying my room, though, so I would have to act quick. Should I grab it? Maybe I should move it and use it as an arm rest as if that’s what it was there for. Right as I began to move to grab it, he spoke:

“Have you attempted to be more social today, like I recommended?” He looked at me and I jerked my hands away before he could notice.

“Um—sure, yes.” I looked tense. Maybe it wasn’t to others, but wanting or even thinking of gaining someone’s affection was embarrassing to me. To have somebody find out how much I wanted it was even worse, and especially for the topic to be brought up again after they knew.

His eyebrows furrowed. “Are you okay? You look uncomfortable.”

“Yes, I’m fine,” I responded a little too quickly, which caused him to be even more curious about my current state. “Just—um—cold.”

“Alright.” He remembered something. “I noticed that the blanket they gave you isn’t that thick, so I could put in a word for you for a warmer one if you wanted,” he mentioned.

“Oh, I’m fine. It’s not that bad,” I lied. I knew why they’d given me a thinner one, and I never argued against it. If I accidentally got it too hot, it could burst into flames. A thinner fireproof blanket was much cheaper to make, too.

“I don’t believe you, it must be uncomfortable. I also read in your doctor’s notes that you run an average of ninety-seven degrees Fahrenheit, so you must be cold during the nights,” he responded.

“Oh. I’m fine, really. It’s… thicker than it looks,” I lied.

His face dropped to irritation. “Than let me come over and see.” He stood and walked over.

Now I really got myself into trouble. I wish he didn’t want to help, truly. I’ve never met a single person who wanted to help me but didn’t want anything in return, and I didn’t believe that he was any different, either. “No, I’m fine, truly, alright?” He didn’t stop coming any closer, and finally he picked up a section between his fingers to prove it.

“See? Thin. I’m going to ask for them to get you a better, thicker one.” He smiled a little to attempt to show his meaning well, but I didn’t believe it. He then noticed the pillow and his face fell some.

“Um, I was using it as an armrest. Today.” My lying skills today were not as up to par as how I wanted them to be.

“Okay.” He looked closer against my wishes. “Then why is it so… squished in the middle, hm?” He asked.

“It’s none of your business, geez.” I got up and walked a couple feet away to distance myself from his prying eyes.

“Listen,” he started, “I’m your therapist. I might not be the best, but I can’t help you if you don’t tell me stuff.”

“I’ve already told you; I don’t want help.” I crossed my arms.

He sighed, pushing up his glasses. “Yes, I know, but wanting is different from needing. You have to recognize that you need help. I think that you should attempt to become more social tomorrow, maybe join a group activity.”

“I don’t need friends! I’m fine, really! If you just left me alone—”

“—You’ll what, get friends? You were alone for a year without seeing me, and it looked to me that you got worse.” We were both standing now, face to face. My arms were crossed.

“I didn’t get worse, I was just tired,” I retorted.

“Tired? For a whole year?” He scoffed. “Listen to me. You have to stop with the self-pity and actually get out there to better yourself!”

“I have no self-pity.” My eyes narrowed; he was irritating me.

“Really. Listen, you probably cry yourself to sleep every night, but with friends….”

“I don’t cry. I haven’t cried for two years,” I replied confidently.

His eyes didn’t look as hard anymore. “That’s just… sad, honestly.”

He caught me off guard. “No it’s not. It’s actually quite cool. Nobody else can do that, I guarantee you.”

“People don’t do that because it’s unhealthy, not cool.” He sighed. “Don’t you ever feel like letting your emotions out?”

One of my eyebrows raised in perplexity. “No?”

“Of course you don’t.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a long, drawn sigh. “Why don’t you sit down again so we can talk?”

“I don’t want to talk. I want to be alone.” I knew I was being defiant, but he was bothering me, so I didn’t care. If he’s going to eventually give up on me anyway, why not have a little fun beforehand?

“I’m not going to leave until you can prove to me that you are doing alright, emotionally,” he replied level-headed.

I glared at him and it was as if a mutual understanding of hate passed between our lines of sight. “I’m doing fine.”

“List five emotions you feel right now.”

“What? That’s stupid.” I rolled my eyes.

“Now, 8461.” It was his turn to glare at me now.

That name bugged me. “Fine. Hate, hate, hate, hate… hate,” I listed nonchalantly.

He groaned. “No, list them correctly.”

“Ugh… anger; hate; grief, i guess; and irritation.”

“That’s four, now what’s the last one?” He was obviously trying to calm the tension in the room down.

I thought. Was there something else? I don’t think so…. As much as I tried to deny it, however, there was something in the back of my mind, some feeling I couldn’t reach. It wasn’t anger or compassion, sadness or delight, it was something along the lines of fear. A fear that, at any moment, I’ll be left completely alone in the world again; that in just a couple minutes, he’ll decide that it’s not worth the effort to try to change me. Was this a fear of abandonment? That’d be silly, I’ve never had anybody to abandon me before, so why should I be scared of it? In this world, a character like me would deserve it, though. What use is someone who bites, yells, and is unable to hold their anger back? The emotion on my face had fallen to pure blankness considerably in the duration of my thoughts. “I don’t feel anything else at this moment.”

He was silent, staring at me as if he knew that I was lying.

“I answered your question; please leave my room, now.” I stepped aside, away from the door.

Immediately, he realized that that was as far as I was going to go tonight, and he left. My room was silent after the door closed with a soft click, and I probably stood there for over twenty minutes, lost in thought. In no time, the night announcement came over the speakers throughout the facility.

“It’s eight o’clock, anomalies, and it’s time for bed! Tonight, let’s all think of something we’re grateful for.” The cheery voice rang and reverberated through the empty hallways and quiet rooms.

Something I’m grateful for, what could that be? I thought as I began to lay down in bed. The pajamas they expected me to change into lay in the corner of my room, unused. I adjusted my pillow under my head and decided I didn’t need anything to feel alright tonight; I was independent and fine alone. My thin blanket was pulled up to my shoulders and my feet stuck out of the bottom, as usual. I curled up on my left side to attempt to become warm, though it was extremely hard. It was chillier than usual tonight, so I shivered as I laid there trying to think of something I’m grateful for. My head ran blank until the last thought I had before I drifted off to sleep an hour later:

Can I be grateful for Winston?

Chapter Text

Chapter 8

I awoke the next morning shivering and sniffly, my blanket kicked off the bed. My hands shook as I got dressed during the morning announcement, and I was tempted to skip breakfast and sleep the morning away instead.

The halls were loud and cold today. I couldn’t finish my breakfast, as usual, and went straight back to bed afterwards. Winston hadn’t joined me for breakfast today, which made it more lonely than usual. I missed talking to someone and listening to them instead of hearing the dull, monotonous sound of my chewing and the cafeteria’s chatter. Once I was back in my dormitory, I laid down and covered myself with the blanket again. My eyelids were heavy, and I was asleep again in no time.

Be-beep. It sounded like I had something in front of my face. I opened my eyes and woke up with a yell. My therapist was barely a foot away, holding a digital thermometer to my forehead. “You have a fever. You’re running a hundred-one.”

“What…?” I sat up slowly as he stepped backwards and sat in a foldout chair that he must have brought in.

“You’re ill. You didn’t get up for lunch, so I came up here to see what you were doing, and to make sure that you weren’t trying to escape again.” He put the thermometer under the chair.

“Y’know, most people don’t watch others sleep….” I rubbed the back of my neck uncomfortably and sniffed. My nose felt clogged.

“You talk a lot in your sleep. Here, drink this.” He thrust a small cup of medicine into my hand while I was confused.

I watched the water in the bottom before asking, “What do you mean I talk in my sleep?”

“Just hums. If you’ll drink it you’ll get better sooner.”

“Huh.” I brought the cup up to my lips and drank it. “But only once or twice, yeah?”

“Sure.” He looked away. Was this a tell for a lie? He changed the subject before I could ask more. “Here, I brought your lunch up.” He set a tray with some odd chicken salad on my lap. The facility doesn’t give out chicken salads, though.

“Um… are they serving salads today?” I looked up, confused.

“Oh. Erm, yes, they are.” He looked away, now interested in the blank white wall on the other side of the room.

I touched the lettuce with my fork. It was very high-quality compared to the usual microwaved pizza they served here. The bowl was different, too. It wasn’t cheap plastic like the ones the facility used, and it was more square, too. There was a plastic lip as if it had a cover, so I looked on the bottom. I knew it. A big “W” was written in indelible ink, which meant that Winston made this. “Did you give me your lunch?”

“What?” He looked at me real quick. “I mean—no, it’s not mine exactly. I already ate mine, I just noticed that you didn’t end up with your own lunch. I had all the ingredients at home, anyways, so I went there since it’s not that far of a drive and made you a salad real quick so you wouldn’t be hungry.” His ramblings were funny, and I couldn’t help but smirk at the way he was avoiding eye contact.

“Thanks.” I looked back down at the food before beginning to eat.

He stopped talking and stared at me. I hadn’t realized, but this was probably the first time I’d been actually grateful and had expressed it. “You’re welcome,” he replied quietly.

I ate in silence for a little while before adding, “It’s really good.”

“Oh, thank you.”

It really was delicious. I hadn’t eaten anything this nice in a long time, and I probably won’t for another couple years. Then I bit into a hard-boiled egg and a memory hit me like a train.

***

A girl, barely four years old, reaching up to the top of a kitchen counter. On top, there was a tea towel with hard-boiled eggs sitting on it, and the girl wanted one. She hadn’t eaten all day, not since she had misbehaved yesterday by knocking over a plant with a ball. Her parents said that misbehaved children didn’t deserve to eat with them, so her stomach had been rumbling for a while. Her small fingers gently peeled away the delicate white shell, and she began to eat. It tasted so delicious on her hungry stomach, and she hadn’t noticed the footsteps entering the kitchen.

“What are you doing?!” Her mother screeched as the girl whipped around. She raised her hands to her face to shield her from a blow, and her mother ripped the egg out of her hands. “You insolent child! I thought you knew better than to steal food!” She kicked the young girl to the floor. “You can stay there until the sun stops shining through the window. If you move an inch, I will make sure you cannot see that sun again!”

The girl laid there and cried. Her brown hair and orange-colored eyes were mine. I was her.

***

I must’ve been staring at the salad for too long. My eyes were vacant and I hadn’t moved for about a minute now. All of a sudden, I felt a tap on my shoulder and I practically jumped.

“Hey, calm down, I just wanted to know if you were okay,” he assured, moving his hand back down, next to his side.

My eyes lingered in his face for too long, and he must’ve noticed that something was wrong. “Yeah, I’m… fine.”

“No, you’re not. Just relax, alright?” He waited until I had finished my food to continue talking. “So… what were you thinking about? Did you get reminded of anything?”

I couldn’t think; what was I to say? My frown deepened, and he saw, so there was no avoiding this conversation. “Just a memory.”

“Can you tell me what it is?” He waited, but I was still unsure. “Hey,” he said, moving closer. “I’m not going to judge you, no matter what you say, alright?”

Our eyes met, and I looked away. “I remembered being a kid. At home, before the first facility.”

“Ah, so you can remember that…. How old were you when you were taken away?” He asked softly.

“Eight, I think.” My memories were slowly falling out of my grasp again, like usual. I usually didn’t care, though, because life was better with my childhood forgotten. “It—it doesn’t matter, anyways.”

“Yes, it does,” he replied, leaning in closer.

I moved away a little, wary of him. “No, it doesn’t. I’m tired, anyways.”

He scoffed. “When are you going to stop avoiding the truth? Hiding it from yourself won’t do anything!”

“I’ve survived all these years, so I’m sure I’m fine,” I answered stiffly.

“All these years, sure. Just how did you survive, locked in a room for your whole childhood? You can’t pretend that you’re okay anymore, it’s not good for you—”

“So what?!” I cut in. “So what if it’s not good for me, when has that ever mattered? I don’t care what you think is good and what you think isn’t good for me! I went through that, not you!” The anger I felt was unbearable, but better than the constant fear of abandonment. If he’s inevitably going to leave me, why not help him go faster? “I’m the one that was hit and slapped, I’m the one who got branded, I’m the one who lived in confinement my whole life! Just what do you think you have with me that privileges you—that lets you—that gives—oh my gosh….” I then leaned too far out of my bed and fell, my head spinning from the nausea.

He rushed over and caught me before I hit my head. My vision swirled before me, and I attempted to stumble out of his arms and away to the bathroom. I felt like I was about to vomit, and my body shook with chills. At that moment, my mind blacked out.

***

Car, boat, train, airplane. They all floated before this pair of curious orange-tinted eyes. The white ceiling glowed with a brilliant light as if an angel was descending before her, ready to hold her hand and calm her. Tears sparkled in those eyes like opals before fire, and she held out her hand.

This child has only been held a total of three times in her life. When she was born, after she was injected with a tranquilizer, and now. Childhood is so much simpler, but to this one, nothing in life has ever made sense. These eyes have always held a note of sorrowful innocence to them, as if no matter how much life hurts them, they’ll still beg for more like a pathetic dog.

Where has she been called that before?

***

The room was silent, but I felt comforted, as if I was holding something. Scratch that, I was holding something. Slowly, my eyes opened to gaze at what I was feeling, and my hand slowly raised.

I was holding a hand.

I stared at it, dumbfounded for a couple seconds, and my head tilted a little to the side. I felt odd, kinda spacey, but definitely less nauseous. My eyes wandered up the arm to see who’s hand it belonged to, and my eyes were met with my therapist’s.

“Good evening,” he greeted.

“What time is it?” I usually would’ve been embarrassed if I woke up holding his hand, but I felt oddly comforted instead.

“It’s….” He checked his watch. “Eight-thirty-two.”

I nodded as if this was a thing to agree upon. “Alright… that’s cool, that’s good.”

He shifted in his seat awkwardly. “Um… are you going to stop holding my hand?”

“Why should I?” I felt genuinely confused.

“Because it’s… odd.” His eyebrows screwed up and he felt my forehead. “Are you feeling okay right now?”

“I feel fine, never been better. My mind is… pshew.” I gesticulated the openness of my mind to get my point across.

He looked even more unsure of my current state. “Listen, I need you to tell me if you feel funny. You’re on an experimental medicinal drug for the stomach flu right now, and you’d vomited earlier.”

“Huh… that’s silly.” I snickered. “Why would they give me that?”

“Because you’re sick.”

“Okay,” I agreed before proceeding to stare directly at his face for almost three minutes straight.

He was gradually becoming more uncomfortable by the second. I hadn’t noticed, but it was obvious. Here he was, probably wanting to go home but instead holding a spacey patient’s hand as she stares at him. “You should go to sleep.”

“I don’t feel tired,” I replied.

He exhaled, irritated and tired. “You should. It’s not very healthy for someone your age to stay up later than normal, especially when you’re ill.” Then he noticed that I obviously wasn’t listening. “Hey, pay attention, 8461.”

I frowned at that name. “I don’t like that name.”

“You don’t? Why?”

“Because it’s just numbers.”

“What should I call you instead, then? Do you remember your real name?” He asked, trying to amuse my ill self.

I thought. Unable to remember anything, I shook my head. “Doesn’t matter. I’m tired.”

“Oh, okay. Well then, you should lay back.” I did, but I felt cold with only the thin blanket on me.

He started to walk out. “Goodnight,” I said before he left.

He stopped walking for a couple seconds, caught off guard by it. “Goodnight.”

I fell asleep quickly after he left, but my dreams were disturbed by memories and nightmares. Cold shivers ran down my back and phantom sounds plagued my ears. It felt like I had stumbled down the hallway hundreds of times to vomit in the bathrooms, and I could feel people around me as I did. They were staring, judging, and ready to attack me at any second. Every minute of the night was felt as I laid in my cold bed inside of my cage of a room, my mind swirling and the room expanding around me. Finally, my mind shut off and I was able to sleep that morning. I hadn’t noticed the morning announcement, however.

***

The sky was as dark as the abyss in the sea, littered with tiny specks of light while an old car drives up to an apartment block. The car was an old model, discontinued years ago, but still working. It’s dull silver sides are splashed with some of the mud and water that cover the late-night roads, and it’s red rear lights sent a blinding spotlight into the darkness. The engine turned off with an exhale, and the front door opened to allow a man of twenty-two years of age to step out. His round, thin glasses shone in the moonlight as he shut the door and began to walk through the front doors. The apartment block had been there for decades, and its old brick sides are covered with the twisting branches of vines that have lived, climbing there for years. He mounted the cement steps inside his building, up to his floor. The wallpaper in the halls was yellowing and peeling, though it had been for years. It was silent as his steps echoed throughout the wooden floor and he dug for the key in his pocket once he reached his door. It opened with a soft click, and he swung it open to reveal his unorganized flat. Piles of papers littered what little floor he had in his living room, the dusty curtains were drawn to hide his space from prying eyes, and the only food in the kitchen were cans of soup and whatever little vegetables he had left in the fridge.

Opening the fridge after dropping his coat off near the door, he looked with a stern eye for anything quick to eat. He hadn’t eaten his lunch yet today, instead he had given it to a patient, so he was incredibly hungry. Unfortunately, all that was left in the fridge was leftover pasta from a week ago. The hum of the microwave amplified his solitude, and eating dinner alone again made it even worse. He went to his desk to work on filing reports and went to bed hours later, after it was already the next day, at one in the morning.

As tired as he may be, he couldn’t sleep. This man had always had trouble sleeping no matter what he tried. He had an emotion he hadn’t felt in a long time: a yearning. Every second he closed his eyes, his mind recalled how his patient couldn’t remember her own name and how spaced out she was earlier over an egg. Whatever terrible thing—or things—had happened in her childhood were obviously still prominent in her life right now, and he needed to know what they were. Why can’t she just tell me? He thought to himself, and his mind wandered to other subjects surrounding her. No matter how close he tried to get to her, she continued to push him away, even if he felt that they had made a connection.

Finally, at two-thirty in the morning, Winston was finally able to sleep. He had always had an air of peaceful solemnity, even in sleep, that could never be made to leave. With his soft, pale, dirty-blonde hair, gray eyes, and eye bags, he’s usually mistaken for a man in his early thirties; though it’s not true. He wasn’t made for the harshness of relationships; he’d only gone on two dates, both with different women, since he left home when he was eighteen. In his head, he could deny being lonely as much as he wanted, but there was no mistaking the way that, in the back of his mind, he missed having someone there for him.

He woke up the next morning to the sound of his alarm clock. Grabbing enough microwave ramen for two people, putting on his coat, and starting up his car, he left for work. His boss had allowed him to look after his patient while she’s sick, since no one else had been exposed as much yet, so he had something to look forward to today.

***

Beep.

“Ugh…” I grumbled, opening my eyes once again to a thermometer pointed at my head. “Not this early….” I pushed it away and rolled over onto my left side, feeling almost even sicker than the previous day.

“Your temperature is at a hundred again,” the familiar voice of Winston rang.

I pulled the blanket up over my head, my feet now becoming exposed. “I don’t care, let me go back to sleep.”

It was pulled back down by him. “You look pale, too.”

My hands grasped to pull the blanket back up. “I need to sleep.”

“You need more medicine.” He began to carefully unscrew the bottle he had set next to him.

“No, I hate that stuff.”

“Relax, I’m giving you something different. You won’t be getting the medicine you had yesterday again.” He poured it into a small cup.

I slowly sat up, accepting the inevitable. “What time is it?”

“It’s ten in the morning. Here.” He handed me the cup.

I drank it, staring lazily out my window. “What am I sick with?”

“Judging by your symptoms? A really bad stomach virus. It should pass over in a couple days, though.” He felt my forehead. Again.

“Can you stop doing that?” I pushed his hand away.

He sighed, sitting back in his chair. “You didn’t seem so annoyed yesterday when you held my hand for an hour….”

“I think you’re just making this stuff up.” I scoffed, staring at my gloved hands out of boredom.

“Surprisingly, I’m not.” He pulled a book out from underneath his chair. The Book Theif was the title.

After a couple minutes, I finally asked, “You read often?”

“Yes, in my free time. Do you?”

I scoffed. “I would if they actually let me, but nobody gets books here unless they’re the boring ones for school.”

“Hm. That’s a shame; does that happen with other objects, too?” He looked up in curiosity.

“Yup,” I replied, “blankets, paper, pencils, pillows… anything leisurely you can imagine. Kids get more stuff, though, ‘cause they’re cuter.”

“Oh, but you’re cute too,” he teased.

I joked back, “Shut up, it doesn’t matter that much.” My words were said nonchalantly to him.

“Aw, sure it does.” He shut his book to pay more attention to our conversation.

“It really doesn’t. What, even if I am cute, which I’m not because I’m cool, where is that gonna get me?” I queried.

“Touché, but you really mustn’t lie to yourself. I’m your therapist, it’s fine to tell me what you’re actually thinking.”

“I don’t have anything to tell you, geez.” I looked back out my window at the cold buildings before me, at a world I’ll never be able to touch.

“Alright, I won’t push you,” he said. We sat in silence for a little while after that; him reading and me staring outside.

After a few minutes, I asked, softer than I meant to, “Do you think I’ll ever be able to leave this place?”

He was caught off guard by my question, so he sat there for a couple seconds to think of an answer. “Judging by the probability, no, I don’t,” he answered numbly at last.

“Oh,” I replied simply after his answer sank in. He noticed my significant mood drop and realized what he’d said.

“I’m sorry, I hadn’t meant—”

“It’s fine,” I cut in. “I didn’t expect you to ever say yes, anyway.”

Feeling bad, he added, “Well, you know, there’s a chance that if you can prove that you’re safe enough to be outside, you could be allowed to live out there with supervision.”

I scoffed. “If I’m safe enough.” I looked back over to him. “Everybody here regards me as nothing more and nothing less than a monster. I’m not human, I don’t have feelings, and I definitely can’t ever care from someone else. It’d be safer to release a psycho than me.”

Now it was his turn to let out an “Oh.” His eyes dropped to the ground and I looked away. Then he had an idea. “What would you do if I died?”

“Excuse me?” I raised an eyebrow. “If you died?”

“Yeah, what would you do?” His hands folded in his lap contemplatively.

“I mean… geez, that’s a hard question. I’d be sad, I guess,” I replied.

“How sad?” He pressed to my annoyance. “On a scale of one to ten, how sad would you be?”

“You’re a weirdo, but fine.” I thought over the question, wondering what would actually happen in my life if he died. I’d be alone, again, and I wouldn’t have to attend my stupid therapy sessions anymore. Sure, the facility would assign me a different therapist, but I’d be able to annoy and get rid of them again. Would I miss the company, though? It does feel nice knowing that someone out there can care for me, but does he really? I’m still an anomaly, still not exactly human no matter what anyone says, so I can’t be completely, truly loved like a real human. My eyes fell to the floor. “A seven, I guess,” I replied quietly

“Oh, I didn’t expect you to put it that high.” The room became uncomfortably silent.

I cleared my throat lightly, speaking up after a minute, “What about you? If I died, I mean.”

“You’re not privileged to ask me questions.”

“C’mon, I answered yours,” I teased, expecting him to reply with a two out of ten or even a three.

“Um… it’s getting late, isn’t it?” He shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“It’s only one in the afternoon, though,” I retorted.

He set a lunchbox next to my bed. “Um—that’s the lunch that you missed earlier and I’m going to—I’m gonna go now.” He got up and started to walk out the door.

I called after him, “You didn’t answer my question!”

Before he left, he stopped in the door, refusing to look at me. “An eight,” he said very quietly before leaving with haste.

I sat there, staring at the door for a while after he left. An eight? He must be joking. My hands found their way to the lunchbox, opened it, and I began to eat the contents—warm ramen. I didn’t notice the salt I was tasting was from the tears spilling from my eyes, or that my hands were trembling a little, or that maybe, somewhere in the heart I have tried so hard to build a wall around, I like that someone would care if I died.

It’s so stupid, isn’t it?

Chapter Text

I was completely over my illness after a couple more days, and I was back to ignoring everybody who attempted to communicate with me.

Except Winston, I guess.

At first, he was only sitting with me at lunch every once in a while. Then it became every other day, then most days, and then every day of the week. He ended up bringing other snacks along with his lunch, too. He asked one day what my favorite was, and I responded everything but eggs. I never told him why, but he was understanding enough to not press the matter.

How odd.

***

“You’re two minutes late,” Winston greeted, picking up his pencil. His eyes lingered on me for a couple seconds before darting back to a clipboard on his desk.

“Two doesn’t matter that much.” I sat down in the chair across from him. I’d become more accustomed to these sessions and wasn’t hating them as much anymore. That didn’t mean that I liked them, though.

He sighed, pushing his glasses up his nose. The rings under his eyes were darker than usual, I noticed. “How have you been doing recently?” His pencil tapped the clipboard he was now holding.

“Fine. I’m gonna assume you haven’t been sleeping since you look like a zombie,” I replied.

He cast a short glare in my direction. “I don’t appreciate the name-calling, 8461.”

“Well, you just did it to me, though,” I retorted.

“What, by calling you your actual name?” He raised an eyebrow. Continuing to speak, he added, “Haven’t we gone through this before? If you can’t remember your name, there’s no reason for your real one to be unused.”

“Yeah, I guess….” I looked away. His eyes were boring into me, and I became grateful that the mandatory ‘uniform’ at this facility included long sleeves.

He eventually sighed, looked away, and continued asking questions. “Have you been able to make friends?”

“I don’t want friends. And I don’t need them,” I added, ignoring his gaze. “You bothering me at lunch every day is enough socializing for me.” His eyes dropped down to his clipboard and he stiffened. Why do I lie like this if I know it’ll hurt him? I thought.

“I had assumed that you hadn’t minded the extra company; I’ll try not to sit with you anymore.” He scrawled something down onto the paper, and I stared at his hand, at the pen he was holding, and then at lowered face. I’m such an idiot. I looked down at my gloved hands. My fingers burnt right now, reminding me of how I feel. Painful tears crept into my eyes, and I noticed much too late.

“Are you… crying?” He quickly set his clipboard and pen down, leaning closer.

I looked up quickly. “What? No—no way.” Attempting to hide the pain, I rubbed at my eyes. “My hands—they—never-mind.” The pain was still terrible.

“Please, tell me,” he responded softly.

“Um… they hurt. It’s fine, I’m used to it.” I shifted uncomfortably under his stare.

He looked over at my gloved hands. “If you won’t attack me, I could remove them for a short while. Only if that would help—“

“Please,” I interrupted. The pain is still bad with gloves off, but with them on, there’s nowhere for the heat to release and leave my skin.

“O—okay.” He got up and reached on top of a high shelf to retrieve a key. Walking over, he began to reach for my hands. “May I?”

I hesitantly let him take them, and he unlocked the gloves cautiously. We then both stared at my hands, silent.

“Are you going to take off your gloves?” He could sense my hesitancy.

“Yes—um—just a moment, please,” I stammered. All of a sudden, I began to imagine how he would react when he saw the scars, the burns covering my hands. He’d probably think it was disgusting, too gross for him, and then he’d leave me. Pushing my terrible thoughts to the side, I carefully removed my gloves.

The scars were worse than I’d remembered, and I was bleeding in some spots. His whole body tensed and he quickly grabbed my wrists before I could stop him.

“Hey—“

“You need bandages and… oh….” He looked both sick and perplexed at how I could have such atrocities hiding beneath my gloves. Isn’t he scared I’ll hurt him? I wondered.

Ripping my hands away, I quickly responded, “It doesn’t matter. I’m fine.” When I looked up, however, he was already rummaging in his desk. He pulled out a first aid kid. “How much stuff do you even keep in there?”

“Enough.” He pulled out a variety of items before heading straight for my hands. His fingers reached out to grab my left hand, but I quickly jerked both away.

What if I hurt him?

Taking a moment to steady himself, he looked up into my eyes. “Can I please see your hand?”

“No.” I attempted to speak steadily, but my traitorous voice couldn’t help but quiver, giving away my fear.

He stepped forward, forcing me to step backwards. “Why?”

“I’ll hurt you.”

The room was silent after I spoke those words. My hands were trembling and had begun to bleed worse as we both stared at each other. His gaze softened. “It’s okay, I’ll be careful.”

I was doubtful, unsure if I should trust him, but I gingerly took a step forward. He led me over to his desk and had me sit down as he took a piece of gauze and kneeled over to apply it to my hand. “You’re bleeding quite a bit…” he murmured as he dabbed the wounds. “Here, give me your other hand, please.” He continued to gently dab my other hand. The bleeding was beginning to stop, but I almost wished it wouldn’t. Nobody had ever trusted me this much before.

“That’s odd,” he muttered, pulling out disinfectants from his first aid kit.

I glanced at his face. “What?”

“Your… anomaly seems to act up when you’re uncomfortable or angry. You looked in pain the last time you were angry and yelling.” He steadied my hand. “Hold still, this is gonna hurt a little.”

I cringed when the disinfectant hit my open wounds and my muscles tensed. He then began to work on my other hand, pulling out bandages once he was done. “It doesn’t matter that much.”

“Doesn’t it, though? If you can keep yourself level headed, it virtually means that you could have a chance at a normal life,” he replied.

I looked away. “That chance has already been ruined, and you know that.”

“No, it hasn’t. What about dating? You’re almost eighteen, so you must have entertained the idea at least once in your life.” He began to wrap my hands with the bandages.

“I’m sure there’s so many people ready to spend their lives with a monster who’ll burn them if they hold her hand,” I retorted sarcastically.

He sighed, letting his hands fall. “Just for once, can you be nice to yourself? Can you try to imagine yourself living happily?” He looked up at me and my chest ached. It felt like how I had constantly hoped to be let go someday; a hope that is destined to never come true.

“Why should I if it should never come true?” He had begun to wrap my hands again. “It’s like trying to—to make friends when I know that they’re all just gonna leave someday.” I promptly realized that I had said too much.

“What…?” He raised his face to stare me right in the eye and I was filled with panic. My hands then began to burn again and he quickly moved his hands away, sucking air in through his teeth in pain. “I’m sorry—please, elaborate on what you mean?”

“I hurt you, didn’t I?” The normally cold heart in me dropped.

“It’s nothing, see? Just a little burn, not much at all. Now,” he continued, “please tell me what you mean.”

“Um….” I looked away, again, in an attempt to hide any feeling of embarrassment I had at that moment. “I forgot. Oh well, what a shame.”

“You said that you expect people to abandon you,” he corrected to my dismay.

“Well—I actually said I expect friends to leave me,” I responded. “And you’re making it sound worse than it actually is,” I retorted, crossing my arms.

“Please explain how.” He pulled up a chair and sat down in front of me, not breaking eye contact.

I stammered for a moment. “We—well, you see, when you didn’t show up for lunch today, I wasn’t that disappointed because I had expected you to leave me someday.” His curious face was falling into worry. “It’s not bad, really. It’s helpful.”

He sighed, clenching and unclenching his fists. “I didn’t show up today because I was abandoning you. I slept in too late and had forgotten to set an alarm. Besides,” he continued, attempting and failing to keep a steady voice, “you shouldn’t think that about yourself. There’s no reason for people to leave you out of the blue like that. Whatever reasons you could possibly think up about yourself obviously aren’t valid at all.”

I took that as a challenge, unfortunately. “One, my face scar. Two, my creepy fire issues. Three, my face. Four, my personality. Five, my arm scars, if they see them. Six, my eye color. Seven, my hair. Eight, um, the fact that I can never love anyone and nobody can ever love me, hello?”

He stared blankly at my face after that, numb. Finally, after multiple minutes of awkward silence, he spoke. “I don’t think… you’re unable to love. Also, most of those things had to do with your face and… scars.” His voice was quiet; gentle.

“Oh.” My jesting exterior faded away. “It’s not… um… it’s not that bad, though. I’m used to it, so I don’t care that much. And my scars’ll always look bad, so there’s no reason to lie about them.”

“They don’t look bad.” I scoffed at his reassurance and his eyed hardened a little. “You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself; they’re just scars. I’m sure that nobody else is thinking what you’re thinking.”

“Oh, so then you’ve never found my scars weird?” I cut back.

His eyebrows knitted together. “Of course not.”

“Sure you have.”

Finally, he cracked. “Can’t you just believe, for once in your life, that you’re not universally hated? Every time I reach out to try to make you feel better, you just slap my hand away—oh.” His face fell with the realization of what I had said earlier about my abandonment issues. Of course I’d push him away, he realized.

I don’t want to push you away, I wanted to shout. I wish that I could let you talk to me and I wish we could hold hands. I wish that somebody on this earth could finally love me, even if it’s practically impossible.

But I didn’t say that. My face hardened and I instead replied, “It doesn’t matter. I’m going to bed.” I stood and walked briskly to the door, pulling it open.

Right as I walked out and closed it, he called out from the room, “Goodnight, flame.”

As the door clicked shut behind me, I stood silently, staring at the floor blankly. Flame…? Do I deserve a name other than my classified identity? My legs felt numb by the time I’d entered my desolate room that evening. My eyes flicked to the calendar on the wall, staring down the date.

I’ll be eighteen soon. Eighteen years of being placed as a mistake on a world too good for me; nine years of searching for love and nine years of giving up on it.

My hands shook and my legs walked backward to stop myself from fainting. I backed into the wall and slowly slid down it, empty. My hands dug around the crevices of my heart and lungs yet could not pull out an emotion that meant something to me; it all felt the same. The same, the same, the same, the same. I want to be hungry and I want to be thirsty and I want to want something. I don’t want to feel indifferent towards life or death, but my body doesn’t care. My head tilted back and stared out my barred window, at the moon. The only other thing that has stayed with me throughout my short life.

It burns. My body is on fire and has been for a long time, but nobody helps a person on fire. They yell and scream, but they can never help. I can’t even cry anymore, let alone truly laugh. My joke of a life was spent entirely in self pity and disgust for myself and what little I have of my perpetually miserable soul.

Before I could acknowledge it, my “dormitory” door flew open. “I forgot to have your gloves put back on…” Winston’s voice trailed off into a void once he saw my condition. I didn’t glare at him, my eyes instead gazed emptily at his face. I wish I could see him with both of my eyes right now, but only one works. “Are you okay?” My silence welcomed him into the room, and he shut the door behind him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude. May I?” He gestured to the spot on the floor next to me. I nodded and he sat down against the wall, too. Close but not too close.

I looked back to the moon. It’s small and thin tonight, and I assumed it must miss the sun sometimes, when they can’t see each other.

“Do you always sit here at night?” He questioned gently, leaning forward and mimicking my position, pulling his knees up against his chest.

I shook my head softly, as if my neck might break off if I don’t. If I spoke now, I knew I would end up crying.

“Are you quiet because of what was said in my office?” He pressed slowly, carefully, as if I’d run away if he was too loud.

I hesitated before nodding.

He exhaled and rested his head on his knees, staring at the cement floor in front of him. After a few moments, he asked, “Do you… always feel sad after arguments?”

I nodded reluctantly. I felt so pathetic right now.

His mouth opened to say something, but he decided against it. Instead, he moved a little closer to me. I took in a sharp breath of air. Why does this feel… comforting? The tears finally welled up in my eyes and I struggled to hold them back.

“We all get angry sometimes, but you shouldn’t be mad at yourself for it,” he said.

My voice broke when I finally whispered, “I don’t want to push you away.”

He turned to look at me and my pathetic, miserable face resting on my knees. The abandoned, old pajamas in the corner of my room. He struggled to find something to cheer me up until he saw the calendar that they had recently put up on my wall. “Oh, your birthday’s soon. That’s exciting, isn’t it?”

The tears finally fell as I hid my face in my knees, wrapping my arms around them and tugging them closer to my chest.

His face fell to grief. “I’m—I’m sorry, I hadn’t meant to hurt you,” he said quickly, grasping at straws and hoping that somehow he could make me feel better. “I hadn’t realized that birthdays aren’t really a happy time for you.”

“I don’t wanna be eighteen,” I sobbed, to his surprise.

“Oh. Well—you’ll be an adult. I can see why you’d be disappointed.”

I tried speaking, but my words came out as meaningless blubbers. I’m so pathetic.

“Hey—um—don’t cry, you’ll be fine. Once you’re eighteen, you’re eligible for being let out of here while being tracked. Like parole—but without the jail parts,” he assured.

“I don’t even want—want to get out because I’ll—I’ll just be lonely in and out of here anyway,” I cried. “I’m so tired of being alone, I’m tired of having nobody.”

“You could make friends with the other SCPs that have been allowed out?” He offered.

I sniffled. “I don’t want to leave because then it means I’m leaving the closest thing to somebody I’ve ever had,” I whispered.

He was silent. “Do you mean… me?” He asked gently, almost surprised that I felt that way.

I nodded, not moving my head out of my knees. How pathetic. How embarrassing. “I’ve already ruined anything good you’ve thought of me, though.” I attempted to laugh, but it was bitter.

“Hey, you haven’t ruined anything,” he said, looking at me again. “Please don’t cry, my reason for staying is like yours.” Hesitantly, I felt as he lifted a lock of my hair behind my ear so my face could be visible. I couldn’t look at him, I was too shameful.

“Wanna know something stupid?” His voice was soft as he leaned his arms on his knees, resting his head as he looked at me.

I nodded silently.

“I’m not a certified therapist. It wasn’t required for this job somehow. I was actually planning to only work here for a couple of months before aiming for a better job,” he replied.

I sniffled so my voice wouldn’t break, finally looking over at him. “Why didn’t you quit?” I asked.

“Because there’s a person here who I didn’t want to leave behind.”

“Are they a coworker or something?” My voice quavered a little from my prolonged attempt to hold the tears back.

He thought for a moment. “Yeah, something like that.”

“What’s their name?” I sniffed.

“I don’t know. She can’t remember,” he answered.

“Hm.” I looked in front of me at the cold, hard concrete. Wait a minute…. My brows furrowed. Quickly, I looked back at him. “Me?”

“Yeah.”

My mouth was open slightly in shock. I wasn’t sad or angry. I felt… different. It felt as if something was inside of my chest, like someone had poured carbonated water inside of my lungs. The tears fell from my eyes but I couldn’t look away yet.

“Hey—don’t start crying again, please, I really hadn’t meant to make you cry again.” He looked worried.

I quickly looked down, but a smile started to grow on my face. Somebody cares. Somebody cares even though I’m was a terrible person to them.

“Here, a handkerchief.” He handed it to me so I could dry my tears.

I laughed. “Who carries—who just has handkerchiefs in the twenty-first century?”

“I do!” He grinned and then also began to chuckle. “What’s weird about that?”

“I thought that only happened in the books and stuff.” I sniffed, unable to stop the smirk on my face.

“There’s a lot in books that can happen in real life. You just have to look for it,” he replied.

I let out a hum of understanding before I asked, “But what if it’s not a thing?”

“What?”

“I mean—what if it’s a person and you’ve found them, but you don’t know if they… want to be with you too?” My voice got quieter as I went on, because I was scared he would laugh at me. I eyed him cautiously, as he answered.

“Maybe they do, and maybe they don’t right now but they will,” he replied, staring at me with a faint smile.

I could feel a blush creeping up on my cheeks, though I didn’t know what from. I quickly looked away, back to the floor in front of me.

He looked down at his watch on his wrist. “It’s pretty late. Are you tired?”

“Yeah, kinda,” I answered softly.

He started to get up. “I’ll leave you so you can rest. I wouldn’t want to impede on your sleep schedule—”

“Please don’t leave yet.” Then my face flushed and I looked away, embarrassed that I hadn’t stopped myself from saying such stupid words. “I mean, I don’t have much of a sleep schedule since I don’t sleep well, anyway, so you wouldn’t be impeding on anything if you stayed. But if you want to leave, I’m totally fine with it.”

He stared for a couple seconds before his face broke into a grin. “Alright.” Then he settled back down next to me, closer than before. It was obviously not an accident, though neither of us decided to comment on it.

After both of us coexisted silently in that room for ten or so more minutes, I ended up falling asleep with my head resting conveniently on his shoulder. He decided not to comment on it lest I ended up waking up to his voice, though I never would’ve minded hearing him.

Chapter Text

I am eighteen. I am now a legal adult.

Neither me nor Winston talked much about what happened that night we sat sext to each other in my room, talking. It was a silent understanding between both of us that we like each other—platonically, of course. It feels odd to be eighteen, however. Nothing seems different, but everything is. For starters, I can now apply to be re-evaluated to be let out of the facility. If they can recognize me as a safe-level anomaly, I can be allowed to live with a trained agent for a year or so before graduating to the real world. However, I don’t find it likely that anyone in their right mind would ever want me to live with them.

Right?

***

“I’m so tired,” I complained, my head resting on the lunch table. Winston was in front of me, attempting to eat one of the two sandwiches he had prepared for the two of us.

“You shouldn’t stay up so late, then,” he responded, taking a bite of his food. “C’mon, eat something.”

“I don’t wanna be eighteen,” I whined again, grabbing the sandwich in front of me and finally sitting upright.

He sighed. “You’ll be over it soon enough.” He then attempted to change the subject. “ Aren’t you excited to have a chance to live outside?”

“No,” I replied flatly.

“Really?”

I glared at him. “Yes.”

“That’s unfortunate. You’re not even going to get tested for your level?” He stared at me, and I could see the disappointment in his eyes.

“No.” I looked down at my food. “Why does it matter if I get tested or not? Nobody’s gonna want to live with me, anyway, so it doesn’t matter.” I delivered the last line a lot harsher than I meant to, and my voice had broken a little.

His shoulders drooped. “You really shouldn’t say that; I’m sure a lot of people would love to room with you for a year or so.”

“Name one,” I challenged.

He was about to answer, but he stopped himself, unfortunately. “I am not inclined to answer your question.”

“Ha! I’m right!” I pointed straight at his face and he pushed my arm away in annoyance.

“No, you’re not. I just… don’t feel like answering, alright?” He itched his neck and looked away, acting much more awkward than usual.

I ignored it and continued to eat my sandwich, not thinking much more about our interaction until later that day, when the secretary stopped me.

Her pencil tapped five times on the glass in front of her. “SCP-8461, I’d like to make an evaluation appointment for you.” She beckoned me closer.

“I don’t want one.” Over the past year, I’d become more accustomed to her and her sharp teeth.

“Oh, come on, sure you do. How about tomorrow at eight, and you get to skip school?” She offered encouragingly, making very direct and uncomfortable eye contact with me.

I looked away. “Fine, but I’ll probably fail.” After that, I pushed all the thoughts about the exam out of my mind. If I’m going to fail no matter what, there’s no reason meditating on any idea that I won’t fail.

Except that I didn’t fail, and I was left standing with a single sheet of paper in my hand, outside the room where I was evaluated. “PASSED” was stamped on it in big levels. The test was completely digital, having me only click dots on how difficult it is for me to control my anomaly. I passed as a “…safe anomaly that requires slight to moderate supervision while living alone.” How odd.

***

Winston greeted me when I walked in with a, “How’d your evaluation go? I thought you weren’t doing it.”

I responded with, “The secretary practically forced me to, and it’s just a stupid sheet of paper, anyway.” I kicked my feet up onto his desk and leaned back in my chair, staring up at the ceiling.

He nudged my feet off his desk with a pencil as he spoke. “The ‘stupid sheet of paper’ will let you live outside almost like every other human.”

“‘Almost’,” I repeated sarcastically.

“It’s better than being stuck in here,” he replied. Then, he added, “It’s not like it’s bad to live here, anyways. It’s just… nicer to not be here.”

I sat up with fake wonder in my eyes. “Really? I always found this place absolutely wonderful, especially after I found skin in the bathrooms.”

“Oh—that’s disgusting.” He looked away, taking a moment to gather himself again. Only at this time did I realize that he’s more nervous today, which is odd. I shouldn’t have mentioned the skin. My eyes moved away and my head tilted down slightly in shame.

He stared at me for a couple seconds before sighing. “Listen—I have… something… I’d like to tell you, and I need you to pay attention.” I looked up when he tapped his pencil on the desk.

“Are you going to quit? Your job?” That was the only thing my mind thought up that he must be telling me.

“What? No!” He looked offended that I thought that. “I mean—yes, technically, but once you hear—“

“You’re leaving me?!”

That was a bad response, and I knew it as I stood up and yelled it out. I shouldn’t be attached to him—my therapist. He’s just a person. Therapists are supposed to be nice, of course, but what will I do during lunch now? Eat alone? It’s not possible. I can’t go back to how I was before.

“Hey—no no no,” he immediately said, motioning for me to sit back down. “Don’t get upset, alright? You didn’t let me finish, but I understand why you would have come to that assumption.” He tried to calm the room, but my mind was already racing. He’s leaving me, and I know why. It’s because of how I’ve acted—pushing people away, never listening. I’m such an idiot, and now I’ll never see him again. My eyes were starting to water.

“Hey. Look at me, please.” He forced eye contact. “Listen to me. I am going to be taking a temporary leave from work, because I recently was approved for a license to have an anomaly live under my watch for a year.”

My mouth formed a disappointed “oh”. A whole year isn’t as bad as forever, but it’ll still be a long time to see him again. I looked at my hands that were fidgeting nervously in my lap. “Are you going to still see me…?” I asked quietly.

“Well—um—yes, probably more often, but I still need to know if the anomaly would like to be under my care—watch, I mean.” I looked back up.

“Why haven’t you asked yet?” He should’ve asked first. That way, if the anomaly said “no”, I wouldn’t have had to go through this.

He looked away. “I haven’t seen them much yet today, but it’s still hard to ask. I’ve known them for a while, so I don’t want to come to any conclusion that they like me enough to live with me for a year.”

“Then they’ll just say ‘no’. Easy,” I replied.

“Okay, then.” I watched as he looked into his lap, avoiding my eyes now. Then he looked straight at me. “Would you like me to host you for your first year outside?”

Silence. “Uh… you mean… me? You want to be with me?”

His face flushed. “Why—why wouldn’t I? I think—um—it would make sense because your anomaly is triggered by stress and I’m really the only worker—and person—here who knows you well. Not in a weird way—I mean, like friends. Or like coworkers or some ok other platonic relationship that you feel comfortable with…” he trailed off. “A—anyways! If you accept, you’ll be leaving here tomorrow afternoon and packing up your stuff tonight. I’ll take you there in my car. Oh—only if you say yes, of course. Not that you have to accept it. It’s completely understandable if you’d prefer to stay here—”

“Are you kidding me? Of course I want to go!” I stood up with my hands on his desk again, excited. I couldn’t help smiling. “I don’t have many clothes, though. Do I have to get a job, like as a… street cleaner or something?”

I caught him off guard. “No? The facility is giving me a small pay boost to help pay for your clothes, sanitary supplies, and food. Your only job will be to behave and prove that you’re worthy of living independently outside a facility. I have a room set up for you, too, but it doesn’t have much in it besides a bed and a desk, yet.” He itched his neck nervously. “You’ll be staying with me for a year, and then you can leave if you’ve proved yourself safe enough.”

“Do I get to go outside? Like, every month?” I asked imploringly, refusing to sit back down. This day went from a one to a hundred in mere seconds to me.

His eyebrows furrowed. “Well, yes, but we can go outside more often than that. I’ll have to always be with you, though, since you haven’t been deemed trustworthy enough to be alone by the foundation yet. We could go outside every—every day if you wanted to,” he replied.

“Really?! Can we eat—um—are there shops where you can buy the cakes?”

“Yes?”

“I have to go get packed up!” I hopped to my feet and started running out the door, before I stopped and turned back around. “Thank you! Thank you so much for this!”

Chapter Text

A whole year. One whole year of online night classes to be able to take care of SCPs. Why?

Because she reminded him of his child self.

Winston. Is that even his real name? He was adopted too early to remember, and was raised as an only child. His adoptive parents obviously had him on a whim, and ended up divorcing by the time he was six. Both of his parents were distant, uncaring, cold. So, he chose to devote all of his time to his studies while being tossed between both parents as if they were playing hot potato. Other kids laughed and mocked him for being so pathetic and so weepy, as he was always behind the growth of other kids his age. Four eyes. Hay head. The names slowly progressed into bruises and days when he preferred to study alone, at home.

After he moved out, he proved to be the jack of all trades they called him, and the master of none. Managers would hire and fire him within a couple months because he “wasn’t what they needed”. Never good enough for anybody, he finally landed on an odd job opportunity that would be able to pay for both his apartment and his food. A therapist at the SCP Facility. The only issue for him was that he had never been to college for psychology. At that moment, his major was focused on math and his minor was focused on history. He never wanted to know why he never felt joy like others. Emotions would be gone after he died, but the math and history would not.

However, he decided to apply anyway. He stated in the interview that he studied psychology shortly in high school, but has no degree in it. Somehow, he was accepted.

Then he met SCP-8461. Her. She was just like his sixteen-year-old self: alone. The difference between them was that he would suffer silently, biting his lip in the pain, but she would fight. She would kick and burn and hurt anyone who would try to change her life, as she, like him, believed that nothing can ever change.

So, before they shipped her off to a different facility, he asked to have her assigned to him. He was also laughed at, but never denied.

Before she had ran away, he had made the decision to start attending the classes to be able to house an anomaly.

One of the worst parts of his career was, after she had ran away, when she attempted to attack him and he had to tranquilize her. The betrayal in her eyes after realizing what he had done to her made him feel physical pain. As she passed out and fell, he decided to help ease her to the floor instead of letting her hurt herself any worse. He was berated later for holding her in his arms while she was passed out, though he had only wanted to make sure that she was alive and well.

When she was ill, he felt terrible having to administer the experimental medicine to her, though he had to do it if he wanted to continue working there.

He had been slowly learning about her past for almost two years, now and had found the friend in her that he had never had growing up. Somebody to eat lunch with and somebody to talk to, even if it was his patient.

It took a long year to be able to prepare his home for another person. He still had not gone on any romantic or platonic dates, and he still had no friends outside of work, so his house was cluttered. It took a couple months to organize correctly, but he kept his bedroom, which was now also his office, as his organized mess.

Now, after years of loneliness that felt perpetual, he would finally be able to have somebody to love platonically.

Maybe.

Chapter Text

Chapter 12

“You ready to go?” Winston asked.

We were standing by the front doors of the facility. I held my folded pajamas, really the only thing I owned, in my arms. It’s anxiety inducing just standing here, knowing that life will never be the same again. It’ll never feel like I’m trapped anymore.

I’ll be free.

“Yes,” I said, trying hard to keep my voice from shaking.

He led me out the unlocked front doors. “Follow me.”

I haven’t seen the front of the facility in over a year, since the time I ran away. It looks almost the same, save for some spots of wear and decay from the vines growing on the sides and the nests from the birds that have lived there over the years. While staring at my surroundings, I followed him to his car. It was small, so I sat in the passenger seat.

“Here,” he said as he handed me the key to my gloves. I held it nervously.

“Um… what?” I tilted my head slightly, unsure of why he would be giving me this.

He turned the car on. “Well, since you’re almost free now, you have to be able to remove your gloves when you want. You can try to feel out when it’s safe to have them off or when you should keep them on,” he replied. The car began to move, and I stared at the streets as he drove out of the parking lot.

I looked at the buildings we passed and the pedestrians when we stopped at a red light. None of them looked at me like I was weird. Most of them didn’t even turn their heads in our direction. It’s odd to be regarded as a monster, as something inhuman, for all of my life, but now to be seen as the same. As a normal adult.

“Dog.” I pointed to a small dog on a leash, not realizing that it was odd for me to point out something so ordinary.

He nodded slowly. “Yes, that sure is… a dog.”

“I wonder if they get sick on being on leashes,” I said, staring at the woman walking it.

He shrugged. “Maybe. They could run into traffic, though, so it’s safer for them to be on one.”

“Huh.” I spotted a couple holding hands. “Oh, I thought that was only in the first books.”

“What?” He cocked an eyebrow. “Dating? Of course that’s real, don’t be silly.”

“I’m not being silly. It’s just… weird. I thought that it was just in the old books ‘cause I didn’t really believe in the romance-y stuff.”

“Well, you should start believing it. Now that you’re out of the facility, you can start dating. Have your first kiss, or something,” he said.

“Ew! Gross! No way,” I replied, fake gagging.

He laughed. “Oh, come on. Stop acting like it’s gross!” It seemed to become more and more hard for him to try to not laugh at my actions, now.

I shrugged. Eventually, the car made its way to the old apartment building that his home was located, and Winston helped me out. We walked up the stairs and through the hold hallways into his flat.

“Welcome home. Here’s the—um—kitchen,” he stammered, “the couch—living room—is over there, there’s the bathroom, and your room is there—in the hallway. It’s right across from mine.” I followed him to my room. “Here. Sorry there’s not much in it, but I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I didn’t want to get too much and disappoint you.”

It was beautiful.
There was a window on the opposite side of the doorway that looked out of the building and onto the parking lot, and it didn’t have any sort of bars on it. Just a simple lock to keep burglars out. The bed was a twin size, larger than what I had at the facility, and it had not only a sheet but a comforter on it, too. A desk was across from us and it had a couple books and pencils placed on top of it for my use. Then my eyes wandered to the dresser in the corner.

“It’s so pretty….”

He looked away to hide his face, for some odd reason. “Um—you should probably put your extra clothes away. Just to free up your hands.”

“Oh, right.” I then went over to the dresser to put the pajamas I was still holding away. I froze when I looked inside. “What’s this?” I pulled out the first thing in the dresser—a light, orange dress.

“Ah—I had—erm—bought you clothes, but I didn’t know what you liked, so I splurged and got a mix of dresses, shirts, pants, and the other normal daily wear so—so you could be comfortable,” he stammered nervously. “If you don’t like anything, we can return it.”

“Oh no—I love it.” We were both silent after I said that. “I mean—it’s really nice, thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He attempted to smile, but it faded off into an odd, admirable sort of expression. I smirked at his awkwardness.

Maybe my life will be better than I thought.

***

Both of us fell into a schedule after a couple weeks of living together. Winston prepared most of the very delicious meals, and I did not dare touch the stove or any sort of dangerous item. It was an unspoken rule between us.

I would go grocery shopping with him every week, and I got to pick out all the snacks that I had never seen before in my life. He took me out to the park on warm days and would walk around and show me the different buildings around the area, and on weekends he would watch a movie and eat microwave popcorn with me. A month after I arrived, though, he arrived a lot later than usual for about a week. Then it stopped, but I didn’t mind. It was nice having him home earlier again.

Everything was nice.

***

“Let’s watch a movie tonight.” It was some odd weekend, a couple months after I had first arrived, and it was storming outside.

I plumped down onto the couch. “What type?”

“I don’t know.” He was in the kitchen, grabbing the popcorn. “We’ve watched practically every genre besides romance.”

“Ew, skip,” I said back.

He pressed the microwave’s buttons. “Why ‘ew’? That’s all you say when you see anything romance related.”

“No, I don’t. I say that when you say anything romance related,” I replied, grabbing the remote. “There’s a difference.”

“What’s the difference?” He asked. The rain was hitting the window in the living room lightly, distracting me for a moment.

“Well—it’s just weird.”

He turned to me and crossed his arms. “‘Weird’ is not very explanatory.”

“Ugh,” I groaned, sinking into the couch. “Just pretend I didn’t say anything.” My hands grabbed the remote and started to turn on the tv, right when the power went out and the whole house became dark.

“What the…” he started, but I cut him off.

“It’s the apocalypse! Like in… um… that show!” I jumped up and attempted to run over to him, instead tripping on a pillow that had been moved to make room on the couch.

He came over and helped me up. “It’s just a power outage, relax.”

“The facility never had power outages.”

“‘The facility’ had four backup generators, but they don’t tell the anomalies—patients, I mean—that,” he replied, correcting my mistake.

I looked around. “Now we can’t have popcorn,” I said, disappointed.

He moved back to the kitchen and began to rummage in the cupboards. “I thought that there was a flashlight or two in one of these.” I then heard a click and a bright light illuminated the room. “Found it. Do you know where the other one is?”

“I… uh, might’ve, possibly, left the other flashlight on all night by accident,” I said quickly.

His eyebrows knit together. “Why would you need a flashlight on all night?”

“Uh… cause I can’t sleep with a light on, but I do like knowing that there’s nobody in the dark in my room.”

He pinched his nose bridge. “You used the other flashlight as a nightlight, instead of just asking me to buy you a nightlight?”

“Sorry,” I murmured, following him as he moved back to the living room and sat on the couch.

After I had sat down, he added, “I didn’t know you were scared of the dark.”

“Uh—correction—I’m not scared. I’m wary of what could be in the dark. There’s a difference,” I said.

“You don’t have to act like you’re not scared, I understand,” he teased me.

I nudged him with my elbow. “Shut up,” I joked back.

We then sat in silence for a couple minutes. Pure, unadulterated, awkward, silence, albeit for the rain outside. In the facility, it was rare when I could hear thunder and rain outside. Usually, I was so worn out from the day that I would just sleep through the storms. Even while I was awake, with all the activity going on there you couldn’t notice any rain or thunder, unless someone told you that it was raining.

That was why I jumped when I heard a crack of lightning outside.

“Hey, are you okay?” He looked worried.

I nodded. “Yeah, of course. I’m not scared of lightning.” Then the thunder reached us and my head turned to the window again. I could feel my hands starting to heat up. “I should… go get something from my room.” I got up.

“I can come with since I have the flashlight.” He stood too.

“It’s, um, just my gloves, so…”

“Oh.” We stood in silence for a moment again. “Have you ever tried to calm down when you start to get anxious?”

“Of course, yeah. Why wouldn’t I?” I asked rhetorically, getting more irritated by the idea that he thought that I would be so ignorant.

“Here, let’s sit back down and relax. At least try to, okay?”

“Fine.” I sat back down along with him, though it wasn’t helping me.

He then asked, “Are your hands hot right now?”

“Of course they are. That’s why I wanted my gloves,” I replied sharply, though I immediately hated myself for saying it that way.

“Can I feel?” He queried quietly.

I was stunned, to say the least. “You’ll be burnt.”

He shrugged. “And?”

“Are you trying to be funny? It’ll hurt. Badly,” I answered.

“Okay. I can deal with pain.” He was being stubborn for some reason.

I rolled my eyes before opening my hand, resting the back of my hand on my leg. “Fine. Go ahead and see.”

He touched it before holding my hand.

“Hey—!”

“Now I’ve got your hand,” he joked. “You’re too easy to trick, and now I’m not gonna let go until you tell me something cool.”

I tried to tug my hand away. “You jerk!” Did he not understand how I could literally burn him?

“Hmm… I know. I want to hear about your childhood. Tell me about it.”

“I don’t want to.”

He shrugged. “Then I’m not giving you your hand back.”

I grumbled in response, irritated. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“What if I don’t say anything? You can just tell me, and when you’re done, I won’t ask any questions. How about that?”

“I mean… that’s better, I guess.” I looked away, unsure.

He moved closer to me. “So? Can you tell me?” I moved away a little, though I was unable to go far since he was still holding me hostage.

“Fine.” I thought about how to compress my childhood into some easy sentences. “I was born, my parents hated me because of my fire anomaly, they hurt me, and I burnt their house down by accident. Then I got placed into a facility for keter level SCPs before being moved into the facility I was in. Then I met you, and you know the rest of my life. Easy. Now,” I said, “please, give me my hand back.”

“No. I think I actually like sitting here and holding it,” he replied.

“You—you’re not holding up your end of the deal!” I stammered, becoming angry.

“And? What kind of story was that, anyway? All you did was make a timeline. Tell me about your life with your parents, in detail, now,” he said.

I groaned. “Geez.” How do I even begin to tell him? “I mean, to begin, my mom would hurt me over the stupidist things. ‘I can’t believe you didn’t clean up your plate. How useless could you be?’ just because I didn’t get my food… cleaned up in time. ‘If you were born dead it would’ve been better than raising a freak like you.’

“I guess I was blessed when she only said stuff like that, ‘cause all the other times she’d usually just hit me n’ stuff.” I itched my neck with my free hand. “My dad wasn’t usually there. Not like he cared when I got hurt, anyway, since he would hit me too every once in a while. He’d get blackout drunk a lot, though, but my mom wouldn’t leave him since he had some sort of generational wealth,” I said. “I just got angry one night when they’d been hittin’ me and I went outside and started to throw pinecones at their house. I was only eight, so I didn’t really have much else of a choice but pinecones. Then one got set on fire and… the house burned.” I then shook my head to get my mind out, away from those memories. “It’s not like it matters, though.”

His mouth formed a small “oh”, but he didn’t make any sound. He just looked… worried. Eyebrows furrowed, his grey eyes oddly fixed on mine, and his head tilted like he was trying to ask me if I was alright. “What about other family?” His gentle voice finally asked.

“I don’t remember any, probably since my parents didn’t want anybody to know about me,” I replied, looking away.

He was silent for a little while more before saying, “I didn’t know that your childhood was so… rough.”

For some reason, his hand stopped bothering me as much as it had. It actually began to feel comforting.

Some quiet moments passed between us, but they weren’t tense like before. They were soft. Gentle. I would’ve lived in them forever if I could. His voice then broke the silence, though it felt to me like a flower blooming. It was odd, thinking of someone’s voice that way, but that’s just what I thought of in that moment. When all the rain is over and the flower buds open back up, and how all the pain in my life is over and now I can not feel but be safe.

“I got a letter in the mail earlier. I don’t know how’d you feel about it, but….” He fished a small party invitation out of his pocket. “It’s a formal party the organization put together for all of the SCP workers and for some of the successful anomalies.”

“And you got invited?” I asked, tilting my head slightly as I stared at the card.

He then flipped it over so I could see both “Winston” and “SCP-8461” on the other side. “Not just me.”

I stared. “Are—are you sure? It’d be cool, of course—but, I mean, is it okay? If I go?” My voice stammered.

“Of course I’m sure. I wouldn’t have shown it to you if I wasn’t, silly.” He grinned. Then both of us realized that we hadn’t let go each other’s hand yet, but neither of us made the first move.

It’s funny how both of us are so terrible at evading awkward situations.