| am an artist, lost in my own vision. | wanted to create a piece that 
would speak to all people of all creeds. It was my view of humanity 
and the fate | fear it will meet. | had created art before, but this was 
to be my magnum opus. It would change the world. | poured my 

time, my sweat, my blood, my soul into this piece. It consumed me. 


The last thing | remember is lying in a pool of my own blood. | 
eventually woke up within the very artwork | created, surrounded by 
reds and browns. | don't know where | am. 


|am an anomalous piece of art. A simple statue, with a simple 
message. "Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Better keep your 
eye on this one so it will always be beautiful. Are we cool yet?" 


| am an appropriated piece of art. | was revealed in 2004 by a 
Japanese artist. And people stole the images of me, and through 
those images, created something warped. The artist's vision of what 
| am and what | represented was muddled and lost by a storm of 
people writing. Now, years later, I'm afraid the artist sees me 
everywhere, but I'm not the art piece he created. 


| am nothing. | do not exist. 


| am fictional. Two hundred and thirty-three words compose my 
body, yet even with so little, | evoke fear in those who read me. | 
came from a time and place on the internet where scary tales were 
common, and | prospered in it. | was different. | was special. | was 
the start of something big. 


| am an inspiration. | am living proof that great things can come from 
the strangest places. My very existence created the spark of 
inspiration in hundreds, thousands, of people. | single-handedly 
created an entire genre of creative fiction, which itself has spawned 
thousands of works and countless art pieces. People look at me and 
think of the past, but | let them get to that point. 


lam SCP-173, a statue made from concrete, rebar, and paint. | am 
not evil. | am not good. | exist. If a person has the misfortune to 
blink, |am there. The grinding of concrete on metal followed by a 
sharp snap. | do not know why | do this, nor do | care. It is simply my 
nature. 


But | don't know if any or all of this is true. What do you see? What 
am | to you? 


What can you turn me into? 


What Did | Come Down Here For? 


| pull the car into the driveway and keep the engine on. My hand 
hovers over the key and | try to screw up my courage, knowing I'll 
never do it. Just go, the little voice says, just drive and drive and 
drive and never look back. Start again somewhere fresh and new 
and untainted. | cut the engine and slump in the seat, telling myself | 
enjoy the heat. Making sure no one's watching, | take out a flask and 
treat myself to a quick drink. To brace myself, | think. After a few 
seconds, | stop pretending to enjoy the heat and get out of the car 
and make my way to the door. 


Through the inch-thick wood, | hear the hard thunk of a bottle hitting 
the floor followed by a giggle. | close my eyes as | turn the key and 
open the door. She's sprawled on one of the two folding chairs 
we've set out by the poker table that makes up the majority of our 
furniture in the house. In her hand is a mug lifted from some 
Goodwill somewhere. As she sees me walk in she raises her mug in 
salute, sloshing cheap whisky onto her hand. The electricity was cut 
off last week, leaving the house more unbearable than outside. | feel 
a drop of sweat trickle along my spine. 


"Hey, sugar cookie," she says in a mock-Southern accent, chortling 
at her own non-joke. As she brings down the mug, more of the drink 
sloshes over the side, hitting her blue dress. "Shit!" she yells as it 
begins to soak through the fabric. Leaping from the chair, she grabs 
clumsily at a half roll of paper towels and tries to blot her mess 
before collapsing back into the chair. Before sitting down in the free 
chair, | sigh, making sure it's just loud enough for her to hear. 


| try not to look at the whisky or the mug, or even at her, instead 
focusing on the ever-growing cobweb of cracking plaster on the 
kitchen wall. | go through the check list, my brain coming up with an 
instant counterargument. Drinking is bad for you. But | want to drink. 
! need to drink. It brings out the worst in you. No, being uptight and 
denying myself anything brings out the worst in me. Do you really 


want to be drunk and sweating and feeling like shit at3 PM ona 
Wednesday? It's not like it matters; what am I| going to do if I'm 
sober? You're strong, you don't need this. No I'm not, yes | do. 
Besides, what does it matter? My eyes close so | can focus on the 
back-and-forth. 


"So, uh, do you want any?" she asks. Like that, the debate ends. It's 
one thing to deny oneself, another to be rude, especially to one's 
wife. 


"Sure." | grab the nearest clean-ish looking mug from the floor and 
hold it out to her. She waits for a second before picking up the bottle 
and pouring. The weight of the drink in the mug is reassuringly 
familiar. 


We raise our vessels in a toast. "Nostrovia," | say. "Bottoms up" she 
answers. The mugs give a sharp clink when they meet. Every time | 
hear that sound, | have a moment of terror, thinking that the mugs 
have broken. We push our heads back and drink, the whisky tasting 
like cleansing fire. 


The sun's no longer up, but its thick and miserable heat sticks on 
through the night, nesting in plants and bugs and walls and all of the 
air, and maybe a little in her as well. My shirt clings to me, and | can 
make out the contours of her body through the soaking blue dress. 
With the heat outside of me and the liquor inside, my mind is dull as 
| put a happy, thoughtless hand on her bare knee. There's only a 
thin, sharp voice in the back of my head, telling me not to ruin it, this 
is a good night, don't touch it or it might fracture. She's talking about 
something or other, | don't know, I've been wandering in and out of 
the conversation for a while now. She's perfectly happy to talk to 
herself. | decide to tune back in, for the hell of it. 


"-this guy here in the parking lot and he says ‘Hey I'm Bill or Ted’ or 
something, | don't really remember, 'We live two houses down from 
you. You're Laura, right?’ And I'm like, | didn't know this shit! Now | 
feel like an asshole ‘cause this guy knows all this about me and | 
hardly leave the house, like ever. | mean, when was the las- no, you 
know what? It was never. We've never had people over here. We 
live like hermits or something, and for what?" 


She pauses for a moment, and | realize I'm supposed to answer. 
Her and her obsession with people, with being the center. | wonder if 
she's ever thought about it, about how people can find out, how they 
can find out, and about having to move, to create wholly new lives. 
Like pulling a scab, but for months on end. 


"| mean, do you really think you're that good of a hostess? To have 
people over for this?" 


"What do you mean ‘do you think?" | feel her tense up. "Of course | 
would. I'd make a great hostess. I'm great with people. What the 
fuck kind of a question is that?" 


"Mmm-hmmm," | agree. | feel what's coming, and | try not to look her 
in the eye or even at her blue dress. The thin voice in the back of my 
head has already abandoned ship. 


"No, don't 'Mmm-hmmm' me. What do you mean ‘do you think you'd 
make a good hostess?" She gently pushes my hand from her knee. 


"| just mean... Shit, | don't know what | mean. | just wasn't sure if 
you're ready- if we're ready for people." 


"What, because I'll embarrass you or something? Not smart enough 
for the friends you don't have?" 


"Jesus, honey, can we j-" 


"No! No. W- you always do this. | say something or do something or 
suggest changing in some fucking way and then you make some 
catty little remark about it, like | won't notice. Like I'm too stupid to 
get it or you're so above me. You think | don't notice? Fuck you. 
Maybe | haven't read as many Cliff Note's for famous books, but | 
can recognize a sack of shit when | see one." 


| pinch the bridge of my nose. "Okay, fine. Whatever. You're right. 
I'm sorry, that was a shitty thing to say, and | shouldn't have said it, 
okay?" 


"Sure," she says in a sullen tone. We go back to quietly drinking, 
neither acknowledging the other. | focus on the cobweb crack on the 
kitchen wall. From her side of the table, | hear the sound of her 


rummaging through her purse, followed by the sliding of paper 
against paper. | already know what's about to happen as | look to 
her. Sure enough, there's the cigarette dangling from her mouth as 
she searches for a lighter. A grunt of triumph later, and she's fiddling 
with the dollar lighter from the Gas Tree. 


"C'mon, don't be like that," | say. She looks up from the cigarette. 
"It's hotter than Hell already." She turns her attention back to the 
lighter. 


"| haven't smoked all day. | deserve a cigarette. To celebrate," she 
answers, lips barely parted. The end of the cigarette glows a dull 
orange, and there's a crinkling sound as she draws the first breath. 
She purses her lips and blows out a stream of dry, toxic smoke. A 
thin plume traces its way up from the cigarette. | take another drink, 
only to have the taste choked out by another puff of blue-grey 
smoke. She taps the end cigarette into a glass ashtray, depositing a 
little load of ash. 


"C'mon. Seriously, | feel like shit; | have a headache, I'm tired and 
the last thing | want is to watch you choke down another pack of 
cigarettes." She doesn't even turn her head. "You have any idea 
how bad those are for you? For me? | mean, obviously you don't or 
el-" 


Her head rolls back as she screws her eyes shut. She raises her 
voice to the ceiling. "| Know | know | know | know | fuckin' know, 
okay? | know it's bad for me and all of those numbers you throw at 
me. I've had a crap day too, and | need this." She lifts her head and 
looks at me. "What | don't need is you yelling at me about how 'bad' 
smoking is. This house is bad. This town is bad. This whole fucking 
situation is bad. Smoking? Smoking's pretty far down on the list of 
‘pad' things, far as I'm concerned!" 


"Yeah, I'm sure you had a really tough day, getting drunk before god 
damn noon." 


She stubs out the cigarette on the hardwood floor, missing the 
ashtray by a good four inches. Before | can comment, she starts to 
shout. "Why? What the hell else am | gonna do? You just wanna 
stay locked up in here scared that anyone's gonna find out about us! 


And thanks to your dumb ass, we don't even have TV any more! 
What the hell else am | gonna do besides get drunk and try not think 
about what a crap provider you are!" 


My reply comes in a cool, calm voice. "No. No, you're right. The 
reason | didn't want to have people over is because | was afraid 
you'd embarrass me. But | was wrong; we don't need people over 
for you to be a fucking embarrassment. Not just me, but to yourself!" 
| don't even realize what I'm saying until it's already out. A speech | 
had mouthed silently to myself in imagined arguments, never meant 
to be spoken aloud. 


She lunges forward and grabs the glass ashtray. Before | can even 
get out a word she flings it at me. | don't even see it move; one 
second it's in her hand, the next there's a blossom of pain in my right 
shoulder. The glass falls to the floor, where it breaks neatly into a 
hundred little pieces. For a moment, everything is still. 


| jump up, upsetting the chair in the process. "What the fuck is 
wrong with you?" | shout. I've never shouted before in an argument; 
| always try to be the calm voice, the voice of reason, the guy who's 
above it all. Not to be outdone she leaps to her feet. Then begins the 
mixed shouting. Neither of us can understand the other, or even 
ourselves. Are we even yelling in English anymore, or is it just some 
gibberish language designed to expel rage? 


In the back of my brain stem, something boils over and | shove her. 
She staggers back a foot or so, looking surprised. Then her 
expression changes to something ugly and she punches me as hard 
as she can in my right shoulder. "Fucker!" she yells. A bright pain 
shoots through my body and | cry out. She rears back and looks 
expectantly at me, waiting for the inevitable counter-counter-blow or 
at least some kind of response. There's a terrible silence in the air 
as we both wait for my next move. And with that, the red hot anger 
dissipates, leaving something cold and hard in its place. 


"Fuck this," | say and turn to the door. | grab the keys from the nail 
on the hallway wall and head out into the warm, still night, suddenly 
alive with the sound of a million insects. The door | slam behind me 
gives only a hollow imitation of a slam as | head to the car. 


| open the car door and give it a much more satisfyingly full slam 
and turn on the engine. For a fraction of a second, | pause, 
wondering if she'll come after me, and what I'll do then. The moment 
passes and | pull out of the driveway at what feels like 80 miles an 
hour and gun it down the street that heads straight west for what we 
decided was at /east forever. | roll down the window and give a 
hollow whoop of triumph, mostly because it seems appropriate. | 
then settle into a silence, not even the radio on, just me and the 
wind whipping through the window. But | drive and drive and drive, 
and | don't look back. 


| drive through the night until the first streams of the sun's light begin 
to make their way over the treetops. By some miracle, | don't get 
pulled over, nor do | kill anyone or even run myself off the road. | pull 
into a rest stop and get out of the car, stretching in the first light of 
morning. Outside, the air isn't somehow crisp like | imagined it would 
be. Instead, it's the same still and muggy as well. No matter, I'm 
free, | tell myself, off to a new land, beautiful and deep, desirable 
and bright. Free from the stupid fucking harpy, free from the crap 
house, free from worry, free from care. | force a laugh, telling myself 
that will drive off this anxiety. It doesn't. 


As | stand, waiting to be sated, | feel the first effects of last night's 
drinking start to kick in. My joints ache and my head is starting to 
feel like it's being kicked from the inside. | get back in the car and 
get back on the highway, looking for a motel to stay for the day. | 
glance at the wedding band on my right hand and decide that there's 
no time like the present. | pull it off and am about to throw it out the 
window of the speeding car when | remember just how much rings 
are worth. Into the glove compartment it goes. 


A few miles down the road, | check into a dilapidated place called 
the Sleep Tite Suites. When | get to my room, | close the blinds and 
turn the air conditioning up full blast. After drinking from the 
bathroom sink for something like a minute, | get under the slightly 
plastic-feeling sheets of the bed and almost immediately fall asleep. 


| wake up, only to find that it's still before noon. | feel rested enough, 
and my hangover's a bit better, although the pain in my joints is 


daily routines and habits. 
Notably, what appears to be 
an animated version of Dr. 

walks past Bobble 
halfway through the 
episode. A clock on the wall 
shows the time as : PM. 
Dr. confirms that he was 
walking past SCP-993's 
archive at the time. 


« SCP-992 | SCP-993 | SCP-994 » 


worse than before. | decide to pick up the complimentary continental 
breakfast from the lobby. The only choices remaining are a 
cellophane-wrapped muffin and an underripe banana ("Should'a 
gotten here earlier, | guess," the clerk offers by way of an apology). | 
choose the muffin and read the ingredients label to occupy myself. 
About halfway through, | stop reading the ingredients. 


Once I'm finished, | get back in the car and head out again, getting 
more distance between me and that god damned house.