VIII

The next few days moved in a blur. I was taken in and out of my new room multiple times. I had my blood drawn more than once. I had several scans across all my body. I had to talk to seven people about what happened in the room. I could recite the events by memory now. I could not forget them. I wasn't allowed to. I spoke with several doctors, or at least men and women in lab coats, blacked out glasses, and binders. Every day, they would leave me in the room without explanation. I don't know how long I've been here.

After an uncertain amount of time, the door opened but no guards came in. I sat up in bed, watching the open doorway as if staring at a dream. Eventually, someone entered. A bittersweet feeling sat in my stomach as Thompson entered. He looked around, seemingly avoiding eye contact. He wasn't smiling. No light in his eyes. He seemed vague. I laid back down.

"Hey," he offered.

I didn't respond.

"I…I'm sorry."

I sat up again.

He rubbed the back of his neck, still avoiding eye contact. He leaned against the door frame, arms now across his chest. He sighed.

"You weren't supposed to actually get killed," he grumbled. "I was just trying to prove a point."

"I know."

He perked, finally looking over at me. I must've looked like hell as he soon turned away.

"You're lucky," he chuckled lightly. "He usually kills everyone in the room with him when he's doing surgery."

"Surgery?" The word seemed fake. It was a lie. "What happened…was not surgery."

"I…We know. That's what he calls it. SCP-049. He says he's curing people of…pestilence," he commented, entering further. "He's been doing a lot better after a weird thing between him and…another SCP. Guess you were lucky."

"I don't feel lucky."

Thompson lingered in front of me, eyeing the floor and mumbling under his breath. It was odd to think he was the closest thing to a friend I probably had in this situation, and I wasn't entirely sure Thompson was his first or last name, or even his real name. Names were meaningless in this place after all, right? Thompson sighed, finally raising his eyes with a scowl.

"I'm here…" he mumbled, "I'm here to take you back out."

Those words stung my very soul.

"No."

"You can't say no to this," he huffed. "You either come with me, back to work, or you get shot in the head and your body gets to be used for science. I, personally, would go with the option where you live because, well, living is important to anyone's well-being, right?"

"You even been down here?" I snapped, standing up. I felt like I had grown as I stood in front of him. Maybe that was just my imagination.

"No."

"I've been through hell these last few…days? Weeks? I don't even fucking know how long I've been down here! I saw a man die and ripped open right in front of my eyes and you expect me to just go back to work like nothing happened? This place is hell and you expect me to go back to it without at least a verbal resistant?"

"No. I expect you to make the tough choice."

I felt like crying, but I didn't want to. Not in front of him. He didn't deserve it. I felt my heart beating in my chest, pounding against my ribs as I panted in my anger. I could still feel the things presence. I could close my eyes and see the man die I the arms of that monster. I could feel it. It was real. It happened, and they were quick to sweep it under the rug like he never happened, but it happened. It was real.

"You'll be given simple jobs for the next few days. Feeding safe SCPs, testing safe things, like you did with SCP1230 and 2396. Easy stuff. You'll be seeing a doctor once a week for the next month or so…"

"Whatever…"

I marched out of the room. The cell. Who was I kidding, it was a cell. There was an elevator just down the hall. I was familiar with the floor's layout by now. Thompson trailed behind me. We reached the elevator in complete silence, riding it up several floors before reaching the old floor I'd started on. I let out a breath, somewhere between a sigh and a gasp. Everything was coming back in flashes. It wasn't just the events of late but everything to the truck ride to now. It was everything. My life to this point. It felt like I was going to die.

"Am I going to work right now?" I whispered.

"Yes."

"Where?"

"SCP 1723."

"That was one of the options…"

Thompson looked at me. I remained focused on what was directly in front of me.

"You gave me an option. 1723 or 049. I chose 049."

"R-r-right…"

We exited the elevator, walking down the hall, again in complete silence. I felt out of place, walking in a dream. People passed us. They didn't even look at me. Was I even real? I could feel Thompson beside me, his hand within reach of mine. I could feel his fingers twitch, inches from mine. Was he trying to say something?

"I'm sorry," he whispered, barely heard.

I didn't say anything.

He led me to a door. It was like all the others, labeled on the side with SCP 1723. He opened the door, revealing a small, elderly woman sitting in a wheelchair. She was just sitting there, head leaned back as if to look at the sky but her eyes were closed. She looked like your typical grandmother, worn by time and huddled together in her small frame. Thompson motioned for me to enter. I stepped in carefully.

"She sleeps mostly," he sighed, "but she does like to talk sometimes."

"Who is she?"

"She's SCP 1723."

"No. Who is she?"

He shook his head.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "If you need me…just ask."

He stepped out, closing the door gently. I sat on the bed, watching as the elderly woman slept. This felt wrong. She was just an old woman; how did she wind up in a place like this? What could she do that these monsters dragged her into this place? I sighed, looking around. Such a small room. Bed, desk, toilet, shower, and yet it didn't feel right. A camera sat in the upper right corner, watching us with a steady red dot. I relaxed slightly. Oddly enough, this felt like the most normal thing I'd done since I got here.