Epitaphs of Mine

Link to article: Epitaphs of Mine.

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  --header-title: "SCP Foundation";
  --header-subtitle: "Secure, Contain, Protect";
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:root {
--header-title: "SCP Foundation";
--header-subtitle: "Secure, Contain, Protect";
--lgurl: none;
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[[=]]
Co-written by [[*user JakdragonX]] and [[*user Ralliston]]

**[https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/jakdragonx-rage-collection JakdragonX's Authorpage]**

**[http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/ralliston-s-authorpage Ralliston's Authorpage]**

**[http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/ongoing-incident-jakdragonx-ralliston JakdragonX's AND Ralliston's Shared Authorpage]**
[[/=]]
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Ever since I was young, I had been nothing but a stray voice.

A beautiful and helpless soprano, tugging at the heartstrings of all those who had even a moment to spare and listen. Perhaps I got it from luck, or maybe through some hidden talent my mother kept a secret before she passed bringing me into this world. Regardless of that, I was nothing more than the charming sounds that spawned from my throat.

Just an empty husk where a woman should be, filled only by the tune of my own noise.

Such thoughts drove me to seclusion and, for a while, gave me an excuse to hold onto them as a grudge against the world. Perhaps it's even still there somewhere, hiding in the back of my mind. But that time has long since passed, I think. Now, as I walk through the gates of this graveyard once more and hear the drizzle of rain splash against my black umbrella, I allow myself to escape into those thoughts one final time.

I had my hopes, for a while. To be like all those other famous singers, making millions weep as the stagelight focused on me and me only. Really that was all little Maddie ever dreamt of, and trained for every day. But, as it turned out, my fantasies were not prepared for the harsh truth of reality. Even with undeniable talent, something about my dreams seemed to just... slip away. I was just different -- more distant, maybe. Spending my waking hours solely focused on my thoughts over anything else. And a lot of people -- especially those who wanted to make me a star -- didn't like that.

But I had known better. Or, at least, I thought I did.

The legs of my pants begin to drag and soak as I stop next to an empty hole in the ground, the one they plan to fill tonight after the funeral. Of course, it's still much too early for anyone to be here, but that's not a problem. Quite the opposite, actually. There's plenty of worse places to be than inside a graveyard during an impending night-time storm. And the serenity it offers is exactly what I need.

Maybe that's part of the reason why I became a funeral singer. After all, it's one of those jobs not a lot of people think about or respect, but it pays well. Well enough to make an outcast just do their job without complaining, at least.

The only thing I really had left worth caring for anyway was my dying father. And he never asked questions as long as the money paid for his surgeries. So, left with no real choice or will to complain, I accepted the proposition, as soon as it came up. A choice which, as I've come to realize now, was probably worth more than I thought it would.

Most people would hate seeing death this much. To always be so close to something so infinitely and incomprehensibly terrifying for //money// wasn't worth the effort, not for them. But I wasn't like everyone else. It never bothered me to come and sing for the unfortunate souls. Why should it? It's not like that person's life actually mattered. To me, or anyone. I just wanted the money. And they always gave me plenty of it.

As they prepare the 6-foot-deep hole for its new resident, I take a glance towards my watch. There's still ten minutes left before they arrive. That was plenty of time to finish what I needed to do. Taking a deep breath, I can almost taste the moisture in the air as the rain droplets continue pouring down on my umbrella -- some even landing directly on my body. I can't even will myself to flinch.

For more than two decades of my life, I did what was asked of me without complaint. Day after day, I watched and studied the contorted, grieving faces of men and women as they watched themselves fall victim to death. And, in those twenty years, I came to not only appreciate that, but to also understand it, in its own twisted sense. With every person they lowered into the ground as my singing filled the air, I came a little closer to understanding what death truly was. Why it was that way. Why it //had// to be that way.

Then my father finally passed. And that's when I got it fully. Death's purpose, its very reason for existing. Something that I couldn't ever hope to explain to the likes of anyone else. Now there's nothing more inside me. Just this feeling of bliss and absolute understanding. But I need nothing more.

The mourning family and friends came into my vision just as I blink away the rain, their faces illuminated by the sudden strike of lightning in the far distance. A moment passed and I take another breath, my mind stuttering as these twisted thoughts get replaced with reality once more. Almost as if the world had pulled me away from my trance for just a moment. A moment long enough to regain my composure, clear my throat, and start singing.

It was so very hard, adjusting to this new life after he died. It was weird to come back home to nothing, to cook for nobody, and to talk to no one. It all felt... wrong. But, strangely, it was not because I felt some attachment to him. It felt wrong because that was the only thing I had ever known beyond work.

But even my feelings and these fantasies eventually began to fade, leaving only this harsh reality and an empty husk of nothing more than work, and a will to find... something, //anything// more out there. A will to understand. An urge to comprehend why everything -- not just death -- was this way. And, in time, I found my answers.

They cry and sob as I crescendo, their tears mixing with the rain as I force myself not to smile with smug satisfaction. They weep, looking at the image of the one they had just lost, as I finish my final song. As the notes that had life in them just moments prior fade away into nothingness on the wind, the group sits, and I join them as they recuperate from their grieving. They thank me, and I accept their words, forcing a fake expression of sadness across my face.

There is a certain level of irony in our reality that never ceases to amuse me. Before I accepted this job, I would have never even entertained the idea of magic. Of the paranormal. That was, until I began hearing whispers of it wherever I went. Something so powerful and so absurd that even the most logical of scientists could never begin to explain. Soon, I found myself in places I would've never hoped to find, with people I've only ever seen from fairytales and fabled legends. In one moment, I thought of myself as a maniac. In the other, I knew this was what I needed to fill the father-shaped hole inside my soul.

The people I saw -- if you could even call them people -- spoke of things beyond my wildest dreams, of concepts that, by all the means and logic I had once known, shouldn't exist. But they weren't dreams. They were reality. A reality that, as I soon figured out, was the only real thing there was. And these people -- no, //my acquaintances// -- had shown me that truth.

They spoke of the [[[scp-012|Greatest Symphony]]], which was... bizarre, even for my newly-widened standards. A quest fated by some Saint to find, who would then become the ruler of everything, in whatever sense they wanted. They wished to convert the world into a masterpiece of their own making. Really it was the words of madmen, blabbering incessantly about something far too great for them to understand.

But it wasn't too much for me.

And that was when it happened, I think. Just as I watched these men put another person six feet under, that's when it started hitting me. Now, instead of feeling that the dead no longer mattered, I realized that their demise was all a part of this common plan. A general plot, all singing from the same song. The same melody -- what those madmen whispered about behind locked doors, it was all //real//.

And now, I heard it everywhere. The music. But it was not coming from everything, no -- just from //everyone//. Now it was overwhelming, the sheer number of pure stimuli forced down my throat in every second. But, then, just as I fall back into my fantasies, everything just stopped. Free of agony, my thoughts immediately drifted back to the Greatest Symphony, obscured by all those horrid sounds everyone else spewed from their lips. And then I heard its faintest tune. And my heart stopped for just a single moment, making me close my eyes.

When I opened them again, the world was different. It wasn't only just horrendous, no -- it was actively singing mockeries at me, making every moment unbearable. Without the song of pure beauty that made my pain dim into nothingness, life was simply not worth it at all. So I decided I was going to make it worth it again. In that very moment, I decided that I would find the remaining pieces of the tune. But I wouldn't do it like everyone else, stupidly running across the world just to locate a single note. No. I was going to do it my way.

The rain stops as the final hour of the day passes. I open my eyes again, finally looking at who it was that sacrificed himself for the completion of the Symphony this time. "Adrianne Jefferson." I smile before I stand up, realizing I had already forgotten who it was. Not that it even matters. None of the two thousand names I've crossed out since this epiphany have ever mattered.

Some pray for fortune. Others, for good health and love. And, for the particularly brave few, there are those who ask their Gods for forgiveness. But I do not. I have only one goal in mind. To find the remaining, torn-apart remnants of what is now my true calling, to locate them among the endless corridors of nothing but screaming voices that I'll need to silence to truly hear. I need to do it because, one day, the Symphony will be completed. It must, because that's the only way this reality could exist in harmony.

And, when that day inevitably comes, I will be the only one to sing it.

[[=]]
[[include :scp-wiki:component:license-box
|author=JakdragonX and Ralliston]]
[[include :scp-wiki:component:license-box-end]]
[[/=]]

Epitaphs of Mine

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