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Written by TheChunk



SCP-7095: If I Had to Perish Twice

Author: TheChunk

⚠️ Content warning: This article contains themes of drug abuse, sex work, and sexual violence.

⚠️ content warning

Item#: 7095

Containment Class: keter

Secondary Class: none

Disruption Class: keneq

Risk Class: danger

Special Containment Procedures

Investigation into SCP-7095 is being conducted as part of a joint operation with the FBI's Unusual Incidents Unit. All samples of SCP-7095 seized by law enforcement, along with all forensic evidence relating to its usage or manufacture, will be entered into Foundation custody.

Research into the origin of SCP-7095 is ongoing. Any information that may result in the arrest or prosecution of those involved in its manufacture is to be provided to authorized federal agents, except where such arrest or prosecution would jeopardize the Foundation's efforts to preserve normalcy.

Description

SCP-7095 is a unique formulation of methamphetamine hydrochloride1 which contains anomalous organic impurities. Analysis of the exact chemical makeup and origin of these impurities is ongoing.

SCP-7095 is currently used as a recreational drug, primarily among members of the MSM2 community. All documented usage of SCP-7095 to date has been reported within the cities of New York, Miami, New Orleans, San Francisco, and Los Angeles.

Since the initial discovery of SCP-7095, there have been 34 confirmed anomalous deaths associated with its usage. All deceased subjects have been young adult men and adolescent males of varying backgrounds and ethnicities. Most are believed to have been sex workers and/or transient youths. In all cases, death was due to spontaneous hemorrhagic stroke.

Medical analysis of affected individuals has revealed a number of comorbidities, including signs of severe malnutrition, dehydration, sores, and superficial lesions of the skin and mucous membranes. Autopsies of deceased subjects have revealed advanced fibrosis of internal organs, including the intestines, esophagus, heart, and stomach.

Furthermore, close examination of the brains of affected individuals has revealed the following properties:

Severely depleted levels of serotonin and dopamine within presynaptic nerve terminals;

Advanced necrosis of cerebral tissue in the brain's reward and pleasure centers;

Foreign tissue growth covering neurons in affected areas.

Biopsies have revealed these growths to consist of anomalous cerebral tissue. DNA testing has shown that these tissue samples are not a genetic match for the individuals from whom they were retrieved. Three distinct genetic profiles have been identified across 34 samples. No DNA matches for these samples have been found. One DNA match for these samples has been found.

Journal Entries, Recovered 10 September 2018

The following journal was delivered into Foundation custody on 10 September 2018, and was identified as authored by ██████ ██████, a chronic user of SCP-7095. Forensic analysis, combined with the details provided in this journal, resulted in the identification of Subject-37089, Simon Charlemagne, as a potential source of SCP-7095.

December 13, 2017

They never tell you California can get so cold. There's a lot of things they don't tell you, but when you finally work them out you're stuck with them. It took a lot of long nights and a lot of couches to get here, but I've got a room now, and while it may not be the Ritz-Carlton, it's mine. The window is stuck and it gets chilly at night, but when the noise of the crowds and the music from the bars downstairs comes in with the cold, I can't think of anywhere I'd rather be. The world is never too dark if there's music in it.

I haven't seen Carlos since we split in Reno, and at this point I'm sure I'll never see him again. He might be halfway back home by now or on the other side of the world, but I don't think I'll lose much sleep over not knowing. I guess I'll have to live the dream for both of us now. Or my half of it, at least.

December 25, 2017

I never quit Tina.3 I just sort of stopped. She was good company, but I could never put in the work to get addicted. Who has the time for that? I guess there's an upside to having commitment issues.

Tonight I found Tina's hot younger sister. From a client, of all people. I don't know why I tried it at all, when every ounce of common sense I had told me to say no. It could have been rat poison he was slamming me with, for all I know. But it was late, and I was tired, and he paid extra. If it was rat poison, it was the best rat poison I've ever had.

Carlos always said never to indulge with clients. Carlos always said never to indulge at all. Carlos always thought I was weak.

Carlos is gone, and I'm still standing here. So who's weak now, bitch?

I don't know what I was expecting. A high? A rush? What I got was transcendence. All last night, my body was filled with an energy I've never felt, coming from a place I never even knew was inside me. Every touch, every kiss, every stroke was a supernova inside my soul.

He was fast, but I wanted him faster.

He was rough, but I wanted him rougher.

He stayed all night, but I wanted him to stay for the rest of my life.

I don't know if I'll see him again. I've learned I'm not the only one in this city who fears commitment. But for now I'll keep my fingers crossed. A night like this is too good to have just once.

January 1, 2018

When I was a kid, they would ask me what I wanted to be when I grew up. As though I'd only ever get one choice. Imagine having 80 years to spend on this planet, and spending most of it with nothing else to look forward to.

Am I grown up yet? Is there nothing left to be?

The train outside my window goes by at all hours of the night, but it never bothers me. All I can think is that there are a hundred different people on that train, and each one is going to a hundred different places. How many of those places have I been to? How many are left to see?

I think I'll go back to school this year. But should I go for law or medicine first? Mom always said I'd make a good doctor. Carlos said it too, but he really meant it. Carlos never said anything unless he believed it. He'd believe it so hard I would start to believe it too.

Looks like I'll be studying law.

March 30, 2018

He doesn't ask anymore before he doses me. He doesn't ask anymore before doing anything. He doesn't ask and I don't stop him. Because it doesn't matter what he does: once he takes me to the other side I'll beg for more.

Once he takes me there, I am a worm beneath the heel of the Colossus. Once he takes me there, I am a thousand virgins, naked and chained at the altar of an ancient king. Once he takes me there, I will die for the sins of a thousand nations, and beg to be reborn so I can suffer their burdens anew.

William Blake said that the road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom. If this is the palace of wisdom then I guess I'm the Dalai Lama.

He always asks more of me than I want to give. Never by a lot, but always just enough that I know he knows. And then I always give him more than that.

I don't ask how much he gives me anymore. He used to tell me: a quarter gram, half a gram, more if he was feeling frisky. He used to tell me, but I could feel he was lying. When he slammed me twice in one night, he said I was imagining it, that I was just high. (And I was high. (But I'm not stupid.))

When he gave me a whole rock I thought I would die. He didn't say a thing as he slid it in, and once I felt it inside me, it was too late, and my heart was spinning, and my stomach was racing and my mind was churning, and I was falling towards oblivion. I reached deep into the darkest corner of my spirit for strength, for hope, for something to hold on to, but there was nothing there. There was nothing there but the fear, and the panic, and the falling, and his jaws deep inside me to devour every ounce of my being from within. He has made a home in my body and infested my soul.

I guess I'm the Dalai fucking Lama.

May 2, 2018

Mom called again today. It feels like years since the last time she called. I don't know if she'll call again. I pretended I wasn't home.

I know, you can't pretend you're not home with a cell phone. You're always home, everywhere is home. So I pretended I wasn't anywhere. I just sat for hours and pretended I was nowhere until the phone stopped ringing. And I did such a good job that when I was done I realized I wasn't pretending.

He's coming tonight. Booked early. He's coming tonight and I have a thousand things I need to do first. I need to take out the trash, and do my laundry, and clean up this place, and buy groceries and go to the hospital. I can't do all of it. Maybe I won't do any of it.

Last time he came, the hospital bill was more than I made that night. I'll have to ask him to be more careful this time. He won't be, but he likes when I ask.

I can wait. It doesn't hurt anymore. At least, not the way it used to.

July 29, 2018

Of all the things I could have done today, I did none of them. Of all the people I could have been today, I was none of them. It's as though there was no today at all, so I have nothing to say about today.

But tomorrow…

Tomorrow I'll take the ten thousand things I've never been, and the ten thousand more I'll never be, and pile them up on my bed until they're spilling over the sides. I'll wrap them up in my blankets and light them on fire. I'll laugh, and I'll dance, and I'll sing all the songs my heart remembers but my lips have forgotten. I'll laugh and I'll dance until nothing is left but ash.

Tomorrow I'll take the passports from under my mattress, and the thousand dollars I never knew I had, and I'll fly. I'll fly to Peru and walk the Andes, I'll climb to Machu Picchu in bare feet, and I'll sleep for days, and I'll dream, and I'll pray. I'll drink Ayahuasca with the shamans, and I'll scream, and I'll cry, and I'll dance, and I'll walk out beneath the stars, naked and alone, and I will be clean.

Tomorrow I'll go home. I'll take the first Greyhound at the station and ride it all the way to the end of the line, where the corn is tall and the wind is warm, and everyone is waiting for me. I'll be home in time for Sunday dinner, the table set, the game on TV, and I'll eat with nothing much to say. There will be nothing to repair, nothing to replace, and nothing to explain; I'll wash the dishes without complaining, I'll be in bed before midnight, and I will never dream again.

July 30, 2018

When he came over today I didn't even remember we'd had an appointment. Maybe we didn't. Maybe once he got me going I didn't care.

We partied for hours. Then we played for hours. Then we slept for hours. The last part is a lie–I didn't sleep at all. When he's around it's like I'll never sleep again.

How many hours was it? How many could it have been? If I'm charging by the hour I should really keep track, shouldn't I?

For all I know it could have been days. It felt like days. Weeks. The sun never came up for all that time, but the sun never rises when we party. When I party. When he's around me, and inside me, and within me, the whole night is silent, and all the world is black.

I can't say for certain whose blood stained the sheets, or why there's so much of it this time. I can't say it for certain, but I know: it's mine. It's always mine. But all the time we played together I barely noticed. All night I didn't sleep, but I barely noticed. All I noticed was the feeling of my head on his chest, listening to nothing but the silence of his heart. All I noticed was his smell–he didn't smell of sweat, or cum, or the thousand other fluids men smell of at night. He smelled of corn. Raw corn, still on the stalk: the kind that bends in the breeze and surrounds you for miles on all sides.

I don't remember when he left. Maybe I was too wasted to notice, or maybe I slept more than I thought. I never saw him leave, but I know he took something with him when he went. Lots of men steal. Sometimes they take money off your dresser. Sometimes they grab a book off the shelf or a bottle from the fridge just for kicks. I don't know what he took. All I know is that there's less of me now than there was before. When I close my eyes I know it's missing, but it's so far gone I don't even know what it was.

He left another 3 grams. Another 3 grams to tide me over. Another 3 grams to say he'll be back. They always come back.

August 8, 2018

I can't stand the smell of this place anymore. Something is rotting, and I can't find it. Something is rotting, like a mouse that died behind the fridge.

But I looked behind the fridge. I looked under the sink. I looked behind the bed.

I crawled on the floor behind every corner until my mouth cracked and my stomach burned, but there was nothing there.

Maybe I'm the mouse.

August 27, 2018

I never cared about my birthday. At least, not much. I've never demanded a big party or a ton of presents, or the whole day off just to celebrate. Who cares? There will always be more parties, and more presents, and more celebrations to come. No one needs to be greedy about it.

But does anyone even know it's my birthday today?

It's been a quiet day. As quiet as any day I've had before. I have a hundred contacts in my phone. A hundred silent contacts. A hundred different chances to matter to someone. A hundred chances to be human. And yet there's never been a day as quiet as today.

Being alone isn't having no one to call. Being alone is having no one to call you.

…

Being alone is having one person to call you.

I don't want him to call. I don't want him to, but he will. I don't want to answer. I don't want to, but I will.

If I could still feel, I would fear him. If some part of me were still human, even for a moment, I would run. But I've had a thousand chances, and every single one of them has led me here.

Today is dark. The world is quiet. There is nothing left of me to pray for.

The following letter was delivered to Carlos ██████ on 28 August 2018, along with a handwritten copy of the above journal.

Dear Carlos,

I know I've been silent for a long time. Please don't mistake my silence for indifference. I never wanted to be silent. I just had more to say to you than I could ever begin to say. I still do. But I think it's too late to start.

There was always some part of me that I knew you liked. There was always some part of me that I hoped you would love. I thought that over time you had come to like it less and less. Now I think that maybe I had less of it to give.

I want to give you everything I have left.

He's taken my past and he's taken my future. Heart and soul, body and mind: he's taken them, and I don't think I'll be getting them back.

But I won't let him take this journal. It's yours now, for eternity, and I need you to keep it until eternity runs dry.

The only time I ever knew for sure that I mattered was when I was in your arms. I need you to hold these pages. I need them to matter.

I would ask you to come see me, but there's nothing more to see. My heart rarely beats anymore, and when it does, it's a sound I don't recognize. There's a lot I've forgotten how to feel, but I remember what it feels like to live. I remember it well enough to know that this is not life.

There's a train passing outside my window. On it are a hundred different people, each going to a hundred different places. I used to hope that I could see every last one of those places. Now there's only one place I want to be, but there's not a train in the world that can take me there.

I guess you're stuck living the dream for both of us.

— ██████

The above journal was delivered into Foundation custody following its seizure from local law enforcement by federal agents. ██████ ██████ was recovered from his apartment on 12 September 2018, and is currently being held at Site-67 for further study. In addition to severe physical impairments consistent with usage of SCP-7095, ██████ exhibits diminished brain function, and limited ability to communicate. Attempts at treatment will continue, but to date no medical interventions have been deemed effective.

The other individual described in this journal has been positively identified as Subject-37089, Simon Charlemagne. DNA testing has revealed Subject-37089 to be a genetic match for anomalous tissue samples recovered from over a dozen users of SCP-7095. No genetic matches for the remaining samples have yet been found.

Subject-37089 is currently being held in FBI custody pending investigation into his possible role in the deaths of multiple individuals in the San Francisco Bay Area. Owing to his high profile as a political donor and prominent figure within his community, Foundation access to Subject-37089 is highly limited.

Reports of usage of SCP-7095 have continued to rise following the detainment of Subject-37089. Containment efforts are ongoing.

Footnotes

1. Otherwise known as crystal meth

2. "Men who have sex with men"

3. Slang for methamphetamine