Welcome Home Again - SCP Foundation

“Welcome back to class, students! Everything is alright! Shh… stand now. The pledge begins.”

The speaker crackled to life. I decided it was yellow. Crackling was yellow distortion; everything sparkling like shiny black beetles. Together, the class took a deep breath. Charlotte tapped her foot, and Mary Jane's glittered. Thick wool and stiff plaid; skirts and stockings rolled up and smoothed down.

“We pledge allegiance

To the flag

And the United States of America

Teach us to rule ourselves alway,

Controlled and cleanly night and day;

That we may bring, if need arise,

No maimed or worthless sacrifice.”

The screaming started. It was a good day.

We all have to come home at some point.

It was tilting at the very edge of the summer; the seniors off on their big end-of-the-year trip, and us dipping our toes into adulthood, or something in the vague shape of that.

“God, did you see Rachel and Sydney are matching outfits for the End-Of-Year dance? That’s so fucking tacky, like, seriously?” Brittany scoffed, pulling her hair out from behind where it had tucked itself into the nape of her neck. It smoothed over her shoulder, before springing to life with the power of hairspray.

“Honestly?” Azalea said, snapping open her compact mirror to check her eyeliner for the second time. “BFF goals.”

“Whatevs. You two are not going to do that, or I swear to God I will disown you bitches,” Brittany stared me and Azalea down, with such a disgusted look that we both burst out laughing.

“Now we have to. You’ve given us no choice,” I said dramatically, as we turned the first corner into the English hall, and started walking down to Mrs. Watson’s room.

“I swear to god,” Brittany repeated, shaking her head in exasperation.

“You think Mr. Brown will try to come dance again?” I asked, remembering with a shudder certain events from the last Homecoming that shall not be described.

“What? Principal Brown? You have to be tripping. Zalea, tell me Nikki is tripping.”

“Nope,” Azalea said, the same expression of distantly remembered horror in her eyes. “He actually did. Breakdancing, Matthews, he was breakdancing.”

“Mr Brown the B-Boy,” I echoed, turning the first corner into the English hall, and falling to the back as we walked.

“That’s it,” Brittany threw her hands up. “I give up. I’m getting Zack to sneak me into his End-Of-Year Dance. This will not stand in the House of Brittany Matthews. This is a Brown-Boy free zone.”

We laughed, passing a group of nerds (Rolling a 20 for never getting a girlfriend, said Azalea) and turning the first corner into the English hall. Brittany waved us off. “Byeeee!” She had Quantum Entanglement with Mr Stewart; and we walked in.

Chelsea “Cello” Strong sat in the empty spot next to me, sketching out thick lines into a battered sketchbook. I bit my lip, as Mrs. Watson cleared her throat for attendance. Cello’s bangs were shiny and layered, her eyes lined and lips full. She made my head spin. “Hey.”

“What is it?” she asked, sighing. I gave a thumbs up. “Groovy. You?”

“Dogshit. More bad dreams,” she flipped her sketchbook, tapping a charcoal drawing of a hallway that stretched forever. I recognised it with a surprise as one of the upper floor halls from a rough outline of Mr Erwin’s Chemistry posters hanging on one of the open doors. Scribbles like graffiti caked over the corners, making it look old and foggy. “School, but it never ended.” She shrugged. At least it’s good inspiration.”

I nodded, pulling out my well-highlighted copy of Nicholas Nickleby from my worn bag. “Hells yeah. Uh. You’re… you’re good at art.” I blushed.

She cracked a smile, and my stomach flopped. “Thanks. Means a lot. Saw some of your poetry the other day, actually. In the newspaper - it’s good. You should keep writing.”

My breath caught. “I- that was anonymous.”

“It helps that I sit next to you in the class you wrote it in,” she returned, and my face was on fire, dear God. Taking a breath, I forced my face into an easygoing smile. “It’s gonna be a good day.”

We gave them away. Each of us gave some of ourselves. It was our home, after all. Why wouldn’t you give back to your home? If your home corrupts and eats away, if it burrows into rotten flesh- do you leave it behind?

Of course you wouldn’t. It needs your help. Your soft fingers and gentle whispers, ever faithful.

Don’t you want to help?

“Okay, do it again,” Brittany said, crossing her arms. Meghan giggled, kicking her legs as she sat on a vent by the stairwell.

“I swear! Okay- watch. How many stairs are there?” Azalea pointed at the staircase, and I counted again under my breath. “15.”

“Now, look at this.”

Azalea began slowly walking up, her shoes clicking against the smooth tile and echoing into the corners. As she traversed to the second landing, she counted aloud, stopping at the top as she shouted “16!”. Looking down, she gave us a significant look.

“That’s so trippy, oh my god,” Meghan said, giggling again. Her auburn curls and gelled bangs bounced as her head shook. I frowned. “Freaky deaky, man.”

Brittany frowned deeper, narrowing her eyes. “I still think you’re faking me out. There’s no way that makes sense.”

“Yeah, no shit. I wouldn’t be showing you if it did,” Zalea rolled her eyes, hopping up and trying to slide down the railing. I swore as she landed, something seemed to shift. Like a glitch in reality. I blinked, and it went away.

“Hey dorks, what’s up,” Scott Malek sauntered up, giving us quizzical looks. Meghan blushed, batting her eyes at him. “Heyyy Scott.”

“Malek!” Azalea shouted, waving him over and sticking her hands to her hips. “Walk up these stairs and tell me how many there are.”

“What?” Scott ran a hand over his choppy blond hair. “This some kinda prank? Look, ladies, I really ain’t interes-”

“Just do it,” Brittany snapped, glaring at Azalea. I stepped back, hoping I could remove myself from the crossfire if one started up.

Scott hesitated, considered it, then shrugged. “Alright.” He cautiously strode up, stopping at the top. “16. That all you need?”

“Nope,” Azalea ordered, gaze already glittering with triumph. “Count them, and tell me how many there are now.”

“Bottom step and top step includ-” he started to ask, before Azalea cut him off with a sharp “Obviously!”

He quickly counted, and returned with a slightly confused tremor- “15. That’s not right. What? That’s not right.”

“I know,” Azalea tilted her chin up, knowing she won. Brittany pulled a face. “That is so not right.”

I shivered, interrupting. “Let’s find somewhere else to work, then. This place gives me heebie-jeebies. Plus, Meghan, you still need a dance date, and we sure as hell aren’t finding one here.”

“Agreed. This is freaking me out, dudes. Bad vibes to the max,” Scott shuddered, and I sympathised with him.

Azalea scoffed, but turned to leave with us. “You guys are so lame.”

We all gave something. The seniors were too far away to come back, but even they drowned themselves in time, pushing their names deep into the water

until they bubbled up as still as ice.

We gave our names into the walls, wrote them down and let them spill out and across. None of us are dead. We’re wide awake inside the walls. It’s your mind that wants us to sleep forever.

But we can make you sleep forever too.

“You good, Nicole?” Azalea looked at me worriedly, as I swayed silently under the disco-lights and tacky streamers. She swirled around her punch cup, giving it a suspicious look. “This isn’t spiked, right?”

“No,” I assured her. “Just queasy.”

Brittany had, despite her claims, decided to drag Zack to our dance instead, and was now boogieing her heart out as he helplessly tried to keep up. Meghan and Taylor Murphy were swaying together at the auditorium edge, Meghan giggling-

No. Wait. That wasn’t right. I furrowed my brow. “Hadn’t Meghan said she was going with Scott Malek?” I asked. Azalea gave me a look. “I don’t know who that is. You sure you ain’t tripping? Maybe you should get some air, Nikki.”

“No- there was- I-” but as I tried to picture Scott in my head, it slipped away. I blinked, confused. My head hurt, my hands trembling as I tried to focus. What had I been saying?

“Yeah- I- I’m going to go do that.” I shook my head, and stood up. Azalea shot me one more concerned glance as I stumbled towards the doors leading outside. I ignored her, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other, and not bumping into any of the other students.

The night air felt cool and sharp on my skin. I shivered, taking in a few deep, gulping breaths, steadying myself out into a straight line. I paced down the concrete strip between the brick wall of the school, and the green of the lawn. I heard the auditorium doors close, and jumped, looking up and freezing as I saw Cello stepping onto the lawn. I froze, legs shaking slightly. “Shit!”

“Sorry. Did I catch you at the wrong-?” she started, seeming nervous, and I shook my head. “No, no! It’s good.”

“Gotcha,” she nodded, and pulled a cigarette pack from her pocket. I watched as she lit one, placing it between her lips and drawing in a breath. It was hypnotic. She was hypnotic. “Saw you leave and wanted to make sure you didn’t get killed. Son of Sam and all that.” She laughed, and I laughed too because it felt right.

“Okay. So,” she continued. “You know how many cigarettes are in a pack?’

I shook my head. “No.”

“Twenty,” she responded. “I’ve smoked one a day ever since I’ve bought this pack. Do you wanna know when I bought it?”

She showed me the pack. One was left.

“Eighteen days ago?” I guessed.

“I don’t remember. All I remember is this- one last cigarette.” She held it up consideringly, then put it back into the box, tucking it back into her ripped black dress. “All that to say- there’s something really fucking weird about this place.”

I tried to focus on what she was saying. “Weird?”

“Yeah. I mean, what’s the last conversation you had with your Mom?”

I thought, and furrowed my brow as my mind hit a wall. Surely I should know this. “I… don’t know.”

“Right,” she turned to me. “But now you do. We know what’s going on.”

“Right,” I echoed. She was so fucking close. My heart pounded, my mouth dry.

“And now,” she took my hand. “We know how to wake up. It’s our bodies, our names. Everything you write and say? It feeds it.”

The truth creeps in on thin legs and it burrows. This day is not the End-Of-Year Dance. This day won’t end anything. This place stopped learning how to end things. It forgot how to tie together time. It’s stasis. And these gaps? This is the static. My heart pounded, as reality poured through gaps into my mind, words streaming like light through the canopies of dead and blackened trees, onto rotten earth. “Chelsea…” my voice caught. “I can’t wake up.”

“I know.”

Blackened words were pouring from her eyes, from her mouth, down onto her skin. The sun does not shine upon this fair earth, mirth that has no bitter springs, in the land of our birth, the children used to sing. Amalgamations of Dickenson and Kipling, turned into a poem that streaked down her arms.

I kissed her.

Lips pressing firm together under the night sky; hair blowing free towards the stars; our home. The ink would blot the stars away, so they would not see us. So no more light could fog our minds with a finer truth. Her lips parted, flooding my mouth with ink. On the dance floor, Meghan was bleeding from her wrists, from her stomach. Azalea was already dead, a fish out of water too long. I choked on black liquor, cold and burning.

And there I was shredded into pieces.

And there I am home.

It was a good day.

You fell asleep inside their arms, and your feet touch down to cold bones. Cello strings weep black ink, streaming down the walls from the cracked ceilings. The tiled floor runs in straight hard lines, down an endless hall, pinching into a black door.

You can’t tell whether you’ve gone colourblind, or whether the colour had simply never touched this shallow grave from the start.

Shadows flicker at your vision's edge, like static over an old film reel. Paper floods from the distant mouth, as ‘door’ doesn’t seem right anymore, flapping down the hall in a flurry as if being blown. The ink drips onto them, dancing and twisting into writing, drawings.

Into songs.

The cello weeps, and the ink pours into your eyes, your paper body crumbling.

You will sleep forever; and this is your Home.