Rituals of Self-Justification - SCP Foundation

I don’t know, maybe the nicotine just doesn’t help anymore.

It used to, back when I was first getting into the swing of things, and thought I knew what it felt like to feel helpless. I was still starry eyed then, when they told us that the Unit were the underdogs in a bigger game than any one of us were prepared for. I guess I liked the way it sounded then, being the underdog. Everyone likes a good success story, after all.

And when things got difficult then, I’d strike up a Marlboro somewhere high up with a decent view, look out into the city lights, and vent out for a good half hour into the beauty. It helped back then, when my biggest problems were how some in-too-deep junkie had gotten away because he slipped through a crack in the wall the size of my thumb, or how my supervisor thought it would be a grand idea to put me at the front of six cases at once because we were “low on manpower” in my Field Office. I took it in stride though, because we were the underdogs, and I had my ritual to relieve stress. I didn’t bring it home with me.

But nowadays, I don’t think that helps as much anymore. Last night, I shot a man in the back of the head outside of Sedona. It’s weird how casually I can say that now, isn’t it? Here’s one for you: I watched as, for a moment, he looked at me with this sad, confused look, as if I had just knocked over something he was carrying. And then, apparently realizing that he was supposed to be dead, he collapsed, right into a ditch. By the time he hit the ground, his lights had finally gone out.

He was collateral. I keep telling myself that he knew too much. It’s something that, back in the day, I would have envisioned coming out of the mouth of a “bad guy”, but shit, he really did know too much. He really did. It was either I shoot him right there, right then, or he’d realize eventually that I wasn’t who I said I was, whether that take a few hours or minutes or even seconds, and then all it would’ve taken was a few words muttered from his mouth, and I would be dead within ten seconds. You take that case and compare it to most others, and his death was justified by comparison. Self defense, cut and dry. Sometimes, someone knows the “secret words”, or some other important detail, or a way to quickly compromise you, or hell, just knows someone who knows someone if you’re really unlucky. Those are the tragedies, not this one.

So yeah, I fucking shot him. I didn’t know what else to do. I shot him right in the back of his skull, split it open like an egg, and left him there for the coyotes. I don’t even know if I regret it or not. How the hell are you supposed to arrest someone like that? What was the alternative, that I ask him kindly to turn himself in? What about the others? Was I supposed to just kindly ask that they don’t leak details about the case that revolved around a few words that could kill thousands of people if they managed to get it onto a radio station? Should I have sent them a strongly worded letter demanding silence, as if that ever worked for anyone who hated the government? No. I did what I had to do, and nobody can, in their right mind, with the full context, rightfully blame me or condemn me for it.

So instead, I read the local newspaper, check the obituaries, and boom, there’s a familiar face. Sometimes, there’ll be mention of a funeral in the back pages, describing the person as a victim of ongoing gang violence. I guess it looks like that most of the time. And then, if you’re really lucky, his fucking kid will be paying for a spot to make a personal statement on the paper. And I read every single line three, four- hell a dozen times. I stopped smoking for comfort after the first few bodies. This became my new ritual. A way to get closure and accept it.

But two weeks ago, I watched as two Skippers sprayed a man with what looked like a can of mace, and he just went blank. Problem solved. Isn’t that something? Or, for the worse cases, slip them a pill, and boom, an entire day wiped from their minds. They did it so casually, too, just showed him back into his house as he drooled on the carpet, laid him out on the couch, and left. No coyotes. No newspapers. No orphans. Just spray, wipe, and be done with it. Like a fucking cat who just got too close to a vase. Ain’t that just…

…I’m tired. Desperately tired. Beyond repair, maybe? I don't know. I just don’t like being the underdog anymore.