Pink Dreams

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⚠️ **Content warning:** Death, some gross imagery.
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Read my other works [*https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/slurppp| here]!
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The air was palpable.

No matter how much time passed, no matter how many breaths she took, she could never find it in herself to adapt to the sour musk of air that perfused the space around her with that thick, pungent scent of rot.

Every breath she took, the rancid oxygen would gleefully rush into her lungs, as if the air itself were looking for an escape from the disgusting atmosphere that it inhabited. Her cell was overcrowded, somehow. Every movement she made was a struggle, limbs wading through the clouds of stench that clung to her skin.

She couldn't see around her, but if she were to hazard a guess, she would say that she was in a basement of some sort, one rank with the rusty metal of decayed piping and with incomplete and uneven flooring that was old and brittle enough to flake at the touch. She didn't know if it was lit or not, but she was leaning towards the latter. It was a little late for guesswork, but that was the image her mind so kindly provided for her.

That was the worst part, wasn't it? She had no idea. She had not a single clue as to where she was, who was keeping her here, or if she was blind or not. For as long as he could remember, there was naught but inky darkness. Crying for her parents, spending every waking moment rending her vocal cords as she got thirstier and hungrier.

She stopped, eventually. Didn't know when or what changed, but she was made aware of her exhaustion. All of that youthful energy, ripped out of her with vehemence, leaving nothing behind but a tired, whimpering shell of a girl trapped in perpetual darkness, and that //disgusting// smell.

She didn't even know who she was.

Her entire life up to this point, seemingly, had been the exact same. It felt wrong, of course. Her subconscious whispered fantasies of joy to her, a life living inside of a spacious house, with her own room and with her own bed that was softer than anything she could imagine. A fruitful life of going to middle school, talking with other people, memories of //taste//. What an alien-like concept that was! Never a bite to eat down here, despite her body insisting that it was a necessity. Always hungry, but never starving.

Even in heaven, she was blind. There was a sense of knowing, of sureness. She could feel and taste and hear and smell all of the wonderful things that her mind //promised// was real, but she couldn't believe any of it. Everything, //everything// was black.

How could she even know what any of those things meant? How could she know of "school", of "family", of "happiness", when all she knew was //this//? Just an eternity of cold void, with a head filled to the brim with depressive memories of sitting for days on end in this oubilette. And yet, her mind teased her. So cruelly it did, with illusions of content and meaning.

Sometimes, she would try sleeping. Certainly, she would get tired at times. Enough so that she would be willing to pass out against the harshly cold walls, with her back pressed straight against splintering rust. Any sleep she had would be dreamless; at least, it might as well be. There was the distinct possibility that all of her dreams consisted of this. Of her reality. Was it really a dream, then? When the lines between sleeping fantasy and cold, hard reality overlapped, when sleeping and waking were two faces of a one-sided coin, what was the point in distinguishing them?

Mostly, she would just sit there. Sit there and cry. Occasionally, she would get a burst of motivation, enough to shout for help or scream at the person blocking her from her escape, that cold, unfeeling statue of a man.

There were times when, she would question if he was even a person at all. As far as she knew, there was only one exit out of the room, and that exit was constantly blocked by the frigid body of a tall, imposing person that refused to speak to her at all. Of course, she didn't know what he looked like. She didn't know what he sounded like, or who he was, or why he was doing this. A few times, she tried tackling him. Several thrown punches, kicks, and even an attempt at biting once. The man never reacted to any of it, only continuing to stand there as she exhausted herself in trying to attack what might as well have been a brick wall.

Her attempts at assault never lasted very long. There was something deeply unsettling about touching him. His skin was extremely taut, to the point that she could feel the strong outlines of his long, wiry veins trailing along his body. There was a sort of //fullness// to him that made him seem as if he were completely solid, with no space inside for any organs or cavities. Above all, he was cold. Covered in a brutal frost that laid in uniform throughout his entire body that left her numb by just standing in front of him.

Besides, she had to concede that he wasn't doing any harm to her. In fact, he might not even be responsible for her imprisonment in the first place. If someone was powerful enough to trap her in here for so long, and take away her needs for food or water, surely they didn't have the time to spend just... standing there, right?

When she wasn't caught up within the grief of her own thoughts, she would talk to him. At times, at length. She learned to grow used to his company, even if she did harbour that deep-rooted fear of his unusual stillness and frost-bitten touch. With no one else to talk to, what choice did she have?

It might have been her imagination but when she found herself deeply enthralled in talking, in venting all of her frustrations to the inanimate person in front of her, the air around him would get warmer. More comfortable, somehow.

She wished that she could see him. She wished that she could see at all.

Sometimes, he would move. She had no idea how frequently he did this or why, but every once in a while, if she were laying completely still and holding her breath, she could hear it. The soft, almost imperceptible sound of a person walking away, footsteps trailing out from silence into nonexistence. It happened rarely; oftentimes, it felt like entire years would pass in between each of his absences. And every time, she found herself too scared or shocked to even do anything.

Was it a test? A trap? Would she sprint forward with her arms spread open to welcome the warm embrace of freedom, only to crash headfirst into a locked door? Would she find herself half-way out, only to be grabbed by the hair and yanked back into her cell by the man? Perhaps worse. Perhaps she would step on some piece of sharp metal, or on a pile of shattered glass. Fall into a deep ditch and break her neck.

Or... maybe it was his way of communicating. Maybe the man was on her side after all, and was giving her windows of time to escape. How frustrated must he be that she's ignored his outstretched hand time and time again? Unexpectedly, a bubble of guilt rose to her gut at the thought. Yes, of course, that made much more sense. That man must have been a prisoner once, much like herself. Withered by time and isolation, he would find himself in servitude to whoever was pulling the strings behind the scenes! That had to be it, //had// to.

As she kept her ears perked against the murky darkness, she found herself determined. She //would// escape from her prison, even if that escape was death. Countless hours of crying, of screaming for help, of pulling at her own hair as her mind imagined bugs and rats scurrying about her feet, it all culminated into a single desire. Absolution from her stay in hell.

There was no passage of time here. A wild guess, derived from nothing but intuition, told her that two months had passed since the man's last take of absence. He had been gone for no time at all.

She knew that it could have all been a dream. All of the times he left her alone, it could have all been conjured up from her mind. Like the vaguely familiar imprints of faces that she sometimes caught looking at her from the darkness. Like the sudden, bombastic explosions of sound that never echoed. Even the ghost of warmth that sometimes radiated from his figure could have been a dream.

But as her ears twitched at the sound of trailing footsteps, as her body involuntarily shivered at the sudden rise in temperature, she found herself thinking, //believing// that they weren't dreams. That //this// wasn't a dream. And even if it was?

She would grasp it.

Unsteadily, she rose to her feet, wincing as her joints crackled and popped at the effort. Chest beating erratically, she trudged forward with her arm outstretched. Ready to meet a closed door, wall, or even the man himself, having never left his post in the first place.

It took ten steps to reach the other side of the room. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven...

How old was she when she first realised that someone had been watching her all this time? 

Eight...

How old was she when she first realised that he was more of an immovable object than a human? Someone who's sole purpose, seemingly, was to keep her trapped down here, with plastic skin and vines for veins?

Nine...

Ten, eleven, twelve.

She was out.

There was disbelief at first, both in her mind and body.

Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen.

She kept walking automatically, expecting to run into a wall.

Sixteen, seventeen.

She doubled over in a sudden fit of unexpected coughing. Her lungs wheezed and cried as it forcefully expelled the rancid, metallic air out of her lungs. In return, it brought in something wonderful. There was a distinct sourness to the newly introduced air, as well as an unpleasant scent that made her throat ache, but it was amazing. Her body pleaded, //demanded// for this new fresh, crisp oxygen.

//"Oh god,"// she thought as she kneeled there, not half a meter from her room and with her fists pressed firmly against her stomach. //"It tastes so sweet. Taste. This is sweet. Love. How?"//

She vomited, then. An expungement of toxic waste from her system, brought upon by the sudden intake of freshness that her body could not have been acclimated to. Warm, painfully sour bile poured forth from her mouth and onto her legs, spilling over her skin and dripping onto the floor. She didn't care, only continuing to inhale the beautifully fresh air with enthusiastic gasps. Her body was up in static, pinpricks and dots blistering all about her arms and chest with a vivid intensity.

Something warm began trailing down her cheeks; she was crying. For the first time however, it wasn't out of fear, frustration, or anything of the sort. It was out of hope. A convict sent to the chair hearing the phone ring. Trembling, she rose once more and took a few more steps forward with an arm outstretched, wincing as her bare feet stepped on the warm, slimy puddle.

Eventually, her blind groping found something; a rail of some kind. She grasped it with both of her hands and pulled herself towards it. It felt cold, solid. Nothing like the flaking bits of metal that stuck out from the walls in her cell. Her hands ran over it greedily, nearly overwhelmed in the new, fascinating senses being brought upon her. As she huddled closer to the thin rail, her feet collided with something; a large outcrop of rough cement.

They were stairs. A way out.

Her heart hammered against her chest with renewed vigor, her cheeks becoming flush with excitement and wonder. She could do this. She could actually leave, once and for all. Holding back giddy laughter, she quickly started ascending the steps, still-wet feet pattering against the dry steps. As she squinted in the darkness, she thought that she could make out the faint imprint of light. Almost invisible, but bright all the same.

Mumbling a prayer under her breath, she climbed. About an hour later, she found a new, unexpected sensation overtaking her body.

She was getting thirstier.

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[[[SCP-087 | It found her]]] huddled with her back against a padded door, crying and muttering to herself incoherently. With its presence, a sudden chill overtook her, a sensation that she was entirely too familiar with.

She looked up and stared into the darkness. No luck; she was still blind to her surroundings.

Taking a shuddering breath, she tried to say something. Anything, to the one person she's ever known. To the one person who, intentionally or not, kept her company. But her dry throat refused to make the motions.

So hungry, so thirsty. Why now? Why not before?

She couldn't move. Every muscle in her body sagged, begging for her mind to do the same, to give them some reprieve.

Fine then. She was getting tired anyway.

Under a new blanket of warmth that she was too numb to notice, she fell asleep. For one last time, she dreamt of the life she never had.
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Pink Dreams

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