Tell Me Why

Link to article: Tell Me Why.

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= **HEAVY CONTENT WARNING:**
= This entry contains graphic depictions of suicide, suicidal ideation, and self harm. Read at your own risk.
[[/div]]

I've always wanted to just disappear. I didn’t really want to be remembered either. Just being left in the dust, or being a part of the broken rubble was enough for me. My work at the Foundation supported this goal. I could do the important work I yearned for, but never be known to the general public or anyone outside of my coworkers. I could just slip through the cracks of society without anyone noticing. 

Unfortunately, this contrasted with my ever-growing need to climb the ladders and work more. Quite honestly, I didn't know where this came from. It could have been sheer boredom. I've always reached for things I couldn't have. I've always worked towards things I knew wouldn't happen for me. I still never learned my lesson from it. 

Truth be told, I was more bitter than anything else. I was angry and I didn't want to live. If everyone else around me could find happiness in the things they want, but I can’t even find some form of pride, what’s the point? After being passed over again, I spiraled. I didn't want to continue my work. That was a lie I was willing to tell myself because none of it mattered. I felt tied to work, like I couldn’t leave or the world would just end. I still loved my work, but it didn’t spark like it used to. I’d always go in these cycles where I’d break down and want so desperately to watch everything crumble underneath me. I didn’t deserve to be happy. Though, I shouldn’t feel like this on my birthday of all days, but here I was...

I sighed, waiting outside of the Site Director’s office. I shoved myself on auto pilot just going through the motions of the day. If I took charge, I’d continue my self-destructive rampage. That was alright though, because I had a plan. It wasn’t a great one, but it was as good as any other. As much as I would like to complain that I never get anywhere, that wasn’t exactly the truth. I just never climbed enough to satisfy my own ambitions. I finally reached a plane where I had access to what I needed. 

I didn’t really need amnestics. The more I thought about it, the more it dawned on me, there was no reliable way for this malformed plan to even work. I shook my head and walked back to my office. The cold air stung my nose as I tried to breathe. It was always frigid onsite.

My desk was unwelcoming and the paperwork was piling up. I shoved it off my desk, enjoying the feeling of the paper cutting into my soft fingers. It stung, but gave me some release. I rested my head on my desk, wishing I was just gone. I didn’t get the same satisfaction out of the work I did, it felt so boring now. 

My mind played with the idea of being forgotten. I needed some way for it to work on a wide scale. I could change my name and run away, but I would still be remembered. My eyes glanced across the floor. The words “ANTI-MEMETIC” flooded my mind. Right, I was tasked with making an antimemetic song… I didn’t see the need for it, they were probably just testing the scope of my abilities as it were. 

The pieces fell into place, it was an answer to my wish. //I wish I could become an anti-meme myself.// It was a perfect solution to such a non-issue. It wasn’t hard to get my hands on the information I needed. It was much simpler than I had imagined it would be. I needed a picture of myself, four ounces of my own blood, and an eraser. I wasn’t too sure it was going to work, because it was given to me by someone claiming to be an [http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/are-we-cool-yet-hub ‘AWCY?’] artist. Of course, I wasn't one to talk; I had considered myself ‘AWCY?’ at one point.

I stood up, not caring that the day wasn’t over yet. It was a late lunch, or so I kept telling myself. It wasn’t a long drive home, but the thought of drifting into oncoming traffic or turning violently off of the bridge plagued me. But I had a job to do. I couldn’t bear to make those who would remember or care hurt because of this.

The sound of the printer was deafening, but it would be worth it. I walked upstairs and took my razor blade. I placed the warm paper in a shallow dish. It felt as if something was wiggling in my stomach, begging me not to go through with this. I stared at the single-sided razor blade, and brought it to my arm.

Pain ran through me, but I welcomed it. Blood dripped down my arm and into the dish, leaving red drops on the paper. I pushed it into my skin multiple times, letting relief find me again. I didn’t bother cleaning myself up. I watched as the paper ate the blood, soaking into it, staining the entire sheet. I grabbed the eraser, pushing it into the paper. Dark pulp rose from the blood as I finished erasing my face. As chunks of paper tore off, I slowly forgot who I was erasing, but I knew I needed to finish the job.

The dish was now a bloody, pulpy mess. I didn’t entirely remember who I had erased, who was forgotten, but I knew the deed was done. All that was left was to test it. See if it actually worked. 

Opening the door, I looked outside. The sun was setting and clouds were rolling in. It was calm. I closed the door, not caring to lock it. A chill ran down my spine. I looked across the street to the nosy old lady. She didn’t seem to acknowledge me beyond what I could only assume was a distant stare. 

My heart thudded in my chest as I walked down the street. People who were normally friendly to me were not paying any attention, looking through me. I held my breath, letting my lungs scream for air. I felt free, as though there was nothing holding me back now. I wasn’t entirely sure if that thought scared me or comforted me. 

I took the hike up to the overpass. It was ironic how nobody really would miss me. Nobody would notice or care. Generally when I tell myself that, I know there would be someone, my friends, family, the Foundation, but this time I was finally lost. Blood dripped down my arms and mingled with the cold air. 

The frozen railing was welcoming as I looked over the edge, cars whizzing underneath me. Air ran past my face, messing up my long hair. I couldn’t remember what I looked like, I couldn’t even remember what my hands on the railing looked like despite having looked at them a few seconds prior. I sighed; there really was no going back. 

I jumped over the railing, positioning myself on top of it. Another gust of wind greeted me. The sky was covered with thick clouds. It felt like time sped up as I stared at the clouds. They seemed too carefree up there. I wanted them gone, but I knew that wouldn’t happen. I desperately wanted to call my mom, but even if she heard me, she wouldn’t know who I was or even remember the call. Her hugs were always the best. 

The situation felt so ironic. My entire life had imploded and the only thing I could do was pity party and fucking kill myself. I was turning 36… The age I always said I would die by. I didn’t want to live past it. I always said that I’d die by my own hand when I chose to, and yet here I was stalling with a melodramatic monologue hoping someone would save me. I almost hoped someone would remember me and hug me, but I knew that wouldn’t happen. I don’t know why I stalled, considering nobody could see, hear, or remember me even if they just saw me. Stale air hurt my lungs as I continued to hold my breath. 

Snow gently fluttered past my face and stuck to my hair. It graced my legs and stung my arms. This was it. There were no loose ends to tie up, there was nothing I could do to talk myself out of it. I pushed myself further towards the edge, still testing the air, still holding myself back. For a second I considered what would happen to my body. I debated if my family and friends would ever hear the news. Yet, the more I thought about it, the more I realized it wouldn’t matter. I wouldn’t be here to care. I sighed, and shoved myself into the air, letting the freeing feeling of falling cradle me one last time. A panicked calm washed over me. I felt suspended in the air. I hit the ground with a wet thud. I felt my consciousness fade away from me. 

Was this really what I wanted? 

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**To:** director.adkin@SCiP.Net
**From:** rae.stewart@SCiP.Net
**Subject:** Body Found on East Westlake
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Dir. Adkin,

Regarding the body found on East Westlake, I’ve received access to the police files, and I noticed that in most reports, people claimed to know the person but couldn’t give a name. The officers and Forensics labs can’t identify the person either. I’m sensing something memetic. Do we want to get involved?

Rae
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**To:** rae.stewart@SCiP.Net
**From:** director.adkin@SCiP.Net
**Subject:** Re:Body Found on East Westlake
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Hmm. Yeah, I’m getting the same feeling. Let's start with the cover up and amnestic procedures. I’ll handle getting the body. We’ll clean this up. 

Thank you.
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Tell Me Why

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