Breaking On A Floppy Disk

Link to article: Breaking On A Floppy Disk.


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There are types of darkness that can be hard to get out of your head.
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**This work contains CWs for:** ideations of suicide/self-harm, and mentions of drugs.

Breaking On A Floppy Disk by [[*user xexnoncores]]
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A text file found on a floppy disk taped to a book in the Wanderer’s Library. It has no distinguishing features besides being covered in granite dust, with “PROP”, “1998”, and “MC&” written on the front with faded marker.

Its author and owner are [https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/doubt-on-a-cd-rom unknown.]

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I think to myself of what it means to “move on” in the most violent ways possible, the most egregious ways possible, the most demanding ways possible. Insomuch as one’s self-contained hatred of their own body poisons the well of all their endeavors, so too does it inform and venomize the rules which such bodies are instructed to act under.

It is in the nature of “moving on” to have been hurt in the first place, to bleed. And oh how easily I bleed, how easily my lungs and mouth pour with scarlet when smashed against the flesh of others. It is easy to fool me into a self-administered fugue state, bordering on the line of sanity and helplessness, into useless breakdowns of no help to anyone. Into displays of non-functioning miserable enough to push onlookers to a self-hanging, because I am a grown adult who slipped the facade of normality. It is so easy to force my skull wide open with the twisting sensations of my chest, of a freeze-response that only works halfway, because even a deer in the headlights can jump out of a car’s way to watch the crash.

Does this make me someone who is doomed to forever reassure myself of unassailed slights against my person? An ouroboros of neuroticism at every stray look, every neutral response, every hanging message that goes unanswered? Shall I state to my coworkers the plain truth that when they forget to do something for me that I dream of the noose, for their disapproval of me could lead to a string of complaints that I’ll never be able to stop? In what universe can I tell my boss that his flat “alright” makes me consider slitting my wrists because of the pain his imagined disappointment causes me? If he’s not satisfied with my every move, I feel like a failure. I need his endorsement to do my job. It’s his invisible signature on all the checks I’m carrying.

I’m good at my job. I am allegedly good at my job. People smile at me, rank me highly in peer reviews, I keep getting bigger and bigger bonuses—but none of it matters. None of it adds. I am only subtracting from myself as I continually work and interact with others; I am only waiting on them to respond to me, to praise me, to end the thought cycle in my head of “Do you like me? How can I make you not hate me? Please don’t hate me. Please. Please. Please.”

I have to “move on” every day from these unintentional failures of theirs. These //expected// failures of theirs, because I can’t be a madman and ask them 24/7 about this. They do not mean anything by their inaction, supposedly. That’s the most logical explanation, because they have jobs, families, and obligations too. I do not think they care about me around the clock—they shouldn’t, actually.

That both brings me great comfort and great pain, because it means //I// should not care, that their machinations are not as embedded in my fate as I imagine, but what if I should? What if I should say something to avoid them all ostracizing me at the Christmas parties? Should I confront one of them about their habitual cold shoulder? Confront the one who makes niceties with me in front of the bosses but refuses to say a good word about my work otherwise? Will that get me in trouble? Will that have been for the greater good? Will I have been brave, or will I have done something stupid? That determiner will be up to the other person, because it is under them I must consider such a path forward. No man is an island.

“Moving on” is difficult when I don’t know who I am. What I come off as to people. It’s nauseating, and wholly unproductive for me to consider this line of inquiry when I am seriously working, for when I’m not interacting with any face—but it still gnaws at me. It still cleaves me in two as I beg for mercy, for a silent relief from others, a relief I know is juvenile, and not theirs to give, but why has my cursed brain assigned to them such a function? How can I not know who I am and yet care about what others think of me?

Is something wrong with me?

I don’t think people are supposed to live like this. 

Why can’t I exist like a normal human being?

I’m so pathetic.

I don’t know if I’m evil for being like this. If some demon is gnawing my heart as I type.

Someone must have wished me harm when I was born, because why else would I be like this?

One of our suppliers sent us a dossier today about some new drug they’re developing. Says it can make people read minds with the downside of a chance to turn you into stone, more-so with repetitive use. And it’s a big chance, apparently; they’re not sure if they can scrub that out enough to make it desirable enough to market.

It’s been tempting me for a while now. I’ve been clean ever since I started this job (which has been a challenge—nobody in the office will stop you as long as you perform) but how much does something like this…count towards that? Don’t people take medication for stuff like depression and anxiety in manageable doses? This is just like that, isn’t it? Isn’t it?

Just one time…

I know how stupid it is to imagine that something like a pill could fix me, but if I knew whether everyone was telling me the truth or not, I think I would be happy.

I think I would be stable again.

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Breaking On A Floppy Disk

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