I thank the Lord in Heaven that the SCP-Foundation found me. They take good care of me, make sure I get visitors, let me listen to music. I've been told that others aren't treated as well as I am, so I thank the Lord again. But for all their hospitality, my life is still a living hell.
I made a deal with somebody many years ago. At the time, I was young and foolish, and thought myself invincible. I performed a summoning ritual from an old book on a dare. The book said that if the ritual was completed properly, he who did so would be immortal. So I did, and have regretted it ever since.
The exact details of what happen have been blurred by the passing of years, but by the end of it all, something had placed a curse on me, and I started to turn to concrete. At first, I was happy with my situation. Immortal and invincible. It seemed like the perfect life. I bragged to my friends about how I would see the end of the Earth.
But as time passed, I found it harder and harder to move. Panic set in. I desperately tried to tell my friends, but they thought me mad. As they told me before I was thrown into the asylum, they had played along at first because they thought I was drunken. It had become too much for them, and they put me away, for my own safety.
For a time, it wasn't so bad. The people at the asylum took good care of me, and genuinely tried to help. Eventually, though, the doctors and therapists started to slip away. I was beyond their treatment, and did not appear to require any care. Finally, when the last one deemed me a hopeless case, they threw me into solitary confinement, and forgot me.
My life from then on out became a true hellhole. No, I should not say "my life". Life is being able to walk, and eat and drink and make merry. To know the presence of others and be free. But my time there was none of these things.
Immortal and invincible. The two qualities I had desired, and me, trapped in a small cell, unable to take advantage of them. In danger of going mad, I turned to God, praying for salvation, praying that my curse would be lifted. Praying that I would one day walk again a free man.
During the first stint in hell, it worked. I remained as sane as I could, for I knew that God would grant me reprieve. And indeed, one day, men took me away from my confinement. For the first time in ages, I knew the sun, fresh air, others' faces. True, I remained immobile, but the Lord could, no, would, fix that.
I was wrong. Shortly after my release, I was thrown into another, smaller cell, in another asylum. I thought God had taken me from my cell to taunt me with the prospect of freedom before casting me deeper into the pit. It was then that I thought myself mad. Since I never dreamed, my thoughts made themselves manifest through visions. Or were they real? I was never sure.
Thought after thought tormented me in my private circle of hell. What if the world ended, and nobody was around to tell me? I would be all that was left, and never know it. My body would remain the same whilst the world rotted around me, until nothing was left but me and my thoughts. And then those would decay, and I would be trapped within a hollow shell. I could scream all I wanted, but who would hear me? They had thought me insane, and now I was.
Eventually, the Foundation came, and took me away. They placed me in the nice room, with the music and the people and the light. I keep my outward actions normal, so as to not frighten them away. What else can I do?
But inside, I'll always go back to my own corner of hell, a place filled with nothing but darkness and myself. How can I be sure I ever left? I became mad. Sometimes, I'm not in my room, but back in hell. Eventually, I suspect, I'll go back there, and be there to stay.
If the Foundation is reality, then thank God for it. If my hell is reality, then that is all there is. No Foundation, no God, no anything.
Just me and my thoughts. And the dark.