The Hunter's Guide to Guilt-Free Deer Field Dressing

Link to article: The Hunter's Guide to Guilt-Free Deer Field Dressing.
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⚠️ **Content warning:**  sexual abuse & domestic abuse, emetophobia. Heavily inspired by the rituals canon 
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+ February 2, 1987

The stale scent of smoked cigars, sweat, and cheap coffee hung heavy in the air of the Serbian safe house. The house's walls were empty save for a pinup calendar on the wall, depicting a grinning white blonde woman holding both of her breasts in her hands with the text “GOOD FOR LIFE!" for February plastered across her bikini like a twisted affirmation.

Agent Ukulele tapped his worn leather boot against the concrete floor. His thoughts weren't on the previous mission, they weren't on the safe house, and they weren't on the blood that was still lodged under his short, bitten fingernails. 

They were on Lilly. 

She was a knot twisting and turning around in his stomach, a snake wrapping around a mouse. Each day that passed, she seemed to only get worse, and it horrified him.

He feared her. It was a shameful thing for him to admit, he was a man he was supposed to be the strong Casanova who sweeps the woman off her feet, slaps her to the ground when she disrespects him. he couldn’t ever quite shake this feeling in his gut that one night, he'd wake to find her looming over him with a knife to his throat and he wouldn't be able to protect himself against her.

He was trained to disarm, to subdue, and to eliminate, but with Lilly? He wasn't the one holding the knife, not really. She overpowered him easily, and he was so tired and so scared.

His ever-winding thoughts are interrupted by another agent, Pepper, with a hit on the back and salutes him on defeating his toughest set of reality benders yet, a family of three, a child, a father, and a mother.
The mother was certainly the most difficult of all; she scratched him and bit him and kicked and threatened him with her gun, and he met her fury with a bullet squarely between her eyes.

"Ukulele, you old bastard! Another job down. Toughest yet, I heard," Pepper’s voice boomed, filling the room with a sound that grated on one's nerves. "Whole damn family, no less. Father, child, and mother. Heard she was a real hellcat."

"Mhm. She put up a fight," Ukulele mumbled, his voice flat. "A real wild one. You know I always pull through, though."

Pepper chuckled and smiled, flashing his yellowed teeth. "That's what you get for dealing with all the toughest snakes. But you crushed it as always. Now, get some rest. You've earned it."

Pepper clapped him on the shoulder again, a gesture that felt less like a 'good job' and more like an iron branding searing through him. As Pepper walked away, the hum of the lights seemed to intensify, vibrating through his skull.

All he could think about was Lilly. And the fear that was eating him alive.

------

> //Following the Cornwall Incident, during the subsequent search and containment sweep of the residence formerly shared by SCP-4231-A and SCP-4231-B, Foundation personnel recovered a handwritten letter. The document was discovered concealed beneath a section of loose floorboards in the northwest corner of the main bedroom. Analysis confirmed the letter was authored by SCP-4231-B.// 
> 
> My Lilly,
> 
> I don't even know how to start these anymore.
> 
> --I can’t shake this feeling that one day, you’ll be nothing more than another threat I’ll be forced to confront—and that terrifies me in a way I can’t put into words.-- I wish we could go back to how we were. 
> 
> Why can’t things go back to the way they were? You used to be so gentle, so kind. I believed deep in my soul that you would always protect me, always care for me. What happened? What changed? Why are you doing this to me? You used to hold me like I mattered, and you'd smile at me and kiss me like I was something precious.
> 
> Why, why, why, why? 
> 
> Why now do you look at me like you own me, not like you love me? Not like I'm precious? 
> 
> Why do you touch me when I say no, and then act like I’m the one who’s wrong for flinching?
> 
> Why do you hurt me when all I ever wanted was to love you?
> 
> I wish you would tell me why.
> 
> I wish you would give me some kind of explanation, solace. I’m exhausted, Lilly. I am utterly and completely drained from living in fear of the person I love most. And I’m tired of pretending this is normal, of dreading when you want my body again, and of waiting for when you might care for me like you used to.
> 
>I'm tired of dreading your hands on me, not knowing if it’s going to be soft or if it’s going to leave bruises.
> 
> I love you. I have always loved you, and you know that.
> 
> Yours, now and forever,
> 
> Francis Wojciechowski

------

+ April 3, 2010, 12:30

Alto Clef is absentmindedly clicking a pen against his teeth as he scribbles something out on a Post-it note. It's been a rough 60- something years for him, anyone could tell that just by looking at him, his sunken eyebags and deep wrinkles decorating his face.

Clef takes a swig of a cigar, blowing a thick smoke that obscures his unfortunate features, sinking deep into his chair, and clicking on a record.

------

+ February 31, 1987

Francis Wojciechowski dreads getting back home, stopping in a bathroom and looking at bruises covering his thighs and stomach under the flickering light and he dreads what'll happen to him next, how he'll piss off Lilly next, how delectable he'll look in his sleep. He's so tired and he doesn't dare to look any further down his bruised body.

“God. God, fuck, god. Why?” he mutters to himself frantically, just out of pure shock at how his life spiraled out of his control and where he is right now. He feels his stomach churn, bends over the toilet, and he retches up a mix of blood and stomach acid. 

After he washes out his mouth and hands and stares at his sweaty reflection in the mirror for a good while, he opens the door and Agent Ukulele leaves the room.

------

+ April 3, 2010, 12:32

Alto Clef begins to speak, his groggy voice and unidentifiable accent filling the air, he kicks his feet up on the table in front of him, illuminated only by the weak flickering fluorescent light above him.

"Have you ever met a man who’s a walking contradiction? With one eye shadowed by war crimes, a deep yearning for love in the other—a tragic jester cloaked in the ashes of his past--"

//[[size xx-small]]koff[[/size]]	
         [[size large]]koff[[/size]]	
                  [[size xx-large]]koff![[/size]]//   

A young man, perhaps around 30, with thin, greasy blond hair tied back in a braid, barged in and interrupted the carefully crafted ritual of self-loathing that Clef had only just begun.

"Are you alive in here? What's all this?" He walked in and settled himself in, plopping rudely into the worn leather chair in front of Clef's desk.

Clef sighed, running his hand over his face before putting out his cigar and clicking the record off and snapping a lamp on. "Don't tell me you're doing the existential poetry again... Haven't I been through enough already?"

The young man, Francis, settled himself into the room, plopping rudely into an old leather chair in front of Clef's desk, which had long outlived its usefulness. The leather was peeling from the sides, and frankly, it was releasing a rather unpleasant odor, but that could just be excused as an effect of being in his office for years and accumulating his smell.

“You know, you come off as a pretentious jackass,” he scoffs, coughing. “Not so much a tortured poet, if that’s your intention. This whole atmosphere is pitiful, and the room reeks.”

Clef sighs, and he sinks into his chair, flicking his lamp on and stubs out his cigar.

------

+ November 12, 1978

Francis is just a teenager, and he is walking through the forest he's spent probably half of his life in with his best friend in the entire world. She holds his hand and tells him she's bringing him to see something beautiful, more beautiful than he could ever possibly imagine.

He believes her because he always believes her, and he follows her even though he feels her sharp nails digging into his palm, and he feels this sinking pit in his belly, and her antlers only seem to get bigger.

------

+ May 8, 2009

Clef lies in bed, staring at the ceiling, feeling an emptiness that weighs heavier than usual.

------

+ April 3, 2010, 12:43

Clef uncrosses his legs and rubs his temples, and asks Francis why he can't just let an old man have his moments, his hobbies. He owes at least this to him for the fact that people think he's insane after being caught talking to him or a wall one too many times.

Francis shrugs. "Well, you're the reason we still flinch at perfume counters." He fiddles with the vase on Clef's desk as he speaks. "...and maybe if you weren't so busy...I don't know really know what you're doing with yourself, sitting here writing sad stories about yourself and staring at a wall and projecting onto busty blonde babes and maybe tried to actually figure out whatever the fuck is wrong with you I wouldn't be here."

Clef's mood shifted as he spoke. "I don't ever project. I only… test the waters." He chuckled. "Drown in them, actually, heh. And, I don't HAVE anything TO project about anyways, I'm not a high school girl."

"Is that why I walked in on you calling yourself a tragic clown?" Francis continued, "You don’t drown in repressed feelings you've been pushing away for what? 30 years. You ferment in them."

Clef bites his lip.

------

+ January 20, 1984.

Francis sits in the living room on the couch, watching Lilly through the doorway of the kitchen as she slices vegetables at the counter and drops them into the broth boiling on the stove top. Her knife taps are slow and deliberate.

He ponders, just for a moment, how simple it would be to rise once she's done, grab that knife out of the sink, and catch her off guard.

He wonders if he could split her belly open like a ball of threads, or if he'd have to carve her open. He wonders if she'd spray blood onto his clothes or bleed downwards, slowly building a puddle. He wonders if her blood would cause rot beneath the wooden floorboards.

The thought inside him twisted and turned.

He doesn’t know if what he feels is hate for her, for what she put him through, the constant insults and assaults—or for himself, for enduring it. But he knows he hates. That much is certain to him as he stares through that doorway and shakes the thought away.

------

+ March 12, 1985.

Agent Ukulele slides a gun into the back of the farthest hallway closet, nestling it behind a row of old coats and their umbrella stand. As the door clicks shut, he lingers, staring at the grain of the wooden door like it might give him some kind of answer for 'why'. He wonders what kind of man he must've been in another life to end up here. Karma, maybe. Some crooked decision echoing. Something has to have happened—some sin, some slip—for this to be his life now. He must've done something wrong. He just can’t remember what. 

He won't ever know what he did to deserve this fate of his.

------

+ April 3, 2010, 1:08

Francis taps his foot. “So? I guess we're still pretending this emotional dysfunction of yours is classified? Why don't you just see a therapist here or something. I just don't get you at all,” Francis spoke, pointing at him.

Clef sighed loudly at the remark and smacked his hand out of his face. "It's not a dysfunction. Its structure.”

Francis could only mutter a non-committal //mhm// before a knock at the door stopped their conversation in its tracks.

"Ohh, who could it be at this time?" Francis mused. Clef shook his head, pinching between his eyebrows.

Clef spoke again as he went to open the door for their visitor, "They’ll just think I’m talking to the wall again. Institutional madness — just another byproduct of working in this shithole."

Clef clicks the door open, and Andrea Adams walks into his office holding a clipboard and a pen.

"Dr. Clef. Sorry to interrupt, your signature is needed on the containment for …ah?" She realized that Clef was the only person in the room and scratched her head with her free hand. “You were speaking with…?"

Clef bluntly responded to her, "God. I was talking to God, and he said you’re annoying, what do you want?"

She chuckled uncomfortably at his remark and continued on, "Right... is now a bad time?"

Francis mused, "Tell her no, now’s perfect. Let’s talk about containment and sign our little papers while unraveling decades of abuse-induced psychosis."

Clef groaned loudly and sank his fingers into his temples.

"You know, sometimes I wish I could exorcise you like a proper demon."

Adams glanced to the left, then to the right, and finally back at Clef. After a moment’s hesitation, she continued, "Sir… you’re aware that no one else can hear whatever—"

Clef cut in on her. "Say 'voices' and I’ll staple that board to your forehead. I’m not schizophrenic." 

Francis chuckled. "Tell her about your ex-girlfriend. That always clears a room."

Clef shot a look at her and the irritating blonde ghost (hallucination? Clef isn't really sure) who was grinning smugly behind her, a muscle twitching in his jaw. "Just give me the damn thing so I can sign it, Adams. I haven't got all day to listen to your insightful observations about my mental state." He snatched the clipboard, scribbled his musical note signature with a flourish that bordered on violent, and shoved it back into her hands.

"There. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a… theological debate to resume."

Adams, looking thoroughly bewildered and slightly frustrated, retreated towards the door. "Right, of course, Dr. Clef. I’ll just… leave you to it. Try not to… argue too much." She slipped out, closing the door and leaving the two alone yet again.

------

+ March 17 ██████

Francis is eight years old. He ventured deeper into the forest than he ever should have, and he feels very lost. His mother had warned him not to wander too far, but he had mindlessly kept going further and further chasing a bunny rabbit he saw. Just as he was about to cry, he heard a rattle nearby. A single lock of golden hair sprang out of view behind a bush.

“Hello?” he called out, only to be met with silence. 

He waited for a moment, then tried again. “Hello…? Is anyone there? I saw your hair..You don’t need to be afraid, I promise I wont do anything.”

From the foliage, a young child emerged—a pale deer girl with delicate hooved feet, large brown eyes, and long golden hair that shimmered in the sunlight like waves upon the water. Her hair was adorned with dirt and twigs. She wore a white layered dress, intricately decorated with lace and bows, which made Francis wonder if she might be a princess.

She held his gaze, saying nothing at first, then began to wag her small brown tail as she cautiously stepped closer, her hooves crunching all plants and flowers beneath her.

------

+ April 3, 2010, 1:25

As soon as she was gone and he heard the door click, Francis burst out laughing. "Oh god, that was funny... 'Theological debate'! You’re incorrigible, you know that?"

"//Unf//. Shut the hell up..." Clef grumbled, sinking back into his chair lazily and defeated. He drank the last of his whiskey, the cheap spirit burning a path down his throat.

"She’s probably halfway to the cafeteria right now to say how weird Dr. Clef was acting, that he might need to be put back into containment, and report me to somebody who can do something about it."

"You are acting paranoid, and besides, it's not like they don't already think you’re halfway to Crazy Town? A little arguing with yourself in a room, then getting defensive about it, never hurt anyone. Adds character, like a good seasoning."

Francis leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms and tapping his foot. "Plus, it's not like she hasn't seen you talking to yourself before. I’m basically a fixture here."

"You're a fixture? A fixture like a shit stain on an otherwise clean carpet maybe" Clef retorted, though the edge had gone out of his voice. He knew Francis was right, and that was what really irked him.

"Oh, how you wound me.” Francis responded.

Clef let out another long groan, the sound somewhere between a rusty hinge and a deflating party balloon. He ran a hand across his forehead, messing his already disheveled hair, then he stood up abruptly, pushing himself away from his desk. "I need a drink. A real one. And preferably somewhere I don't have to listen to your incessant commentary."

"Running away again?" Francis sighed dramatically, following him to the door. "Fine, let's go. But don't think you can drown me in the nearest cheap seedy bar. You're stuck with me."

Clef didn't respond, just slammed the door open and strode out into the fluorescent-lit hallway. Francis trailed behind, the click of his shoes a contrast to Clef's heavy steps.

------

+ May 18, 2012

Clef lies in his bedroom yet again, he can't seem to stop replaying every bad thing that's ever happened to him in his mind. It wasn't a singular event that plagued him, not a glaring, catastrophic failure. It was the slow, insidious accumulation of everything.

He decides to get up and make himself some tea to maybe calm his nerves, even a little. He slips on some cute pink bunny slippers and voyages. 

As he fills up the pot with water and readies the stove ██████ thinks about Cornwall.
He thinks about the water searing through his feet,
He thinks about all the IVs in his skin,
He remembers how intensely he felt everything enter his veins,
He remembers how the bandages on his legs felt,
He remembers how he had to relearn how to walk because his legs were so badly mutilated.

██████ reaches for the tea bags, his hand trembling slightly. A few slips from his grasp, scattering across the counter. He picks them up, carefully replacing them in the packet. A knot of anxiety clenches his stomach. In another life, in another time, such clumsiness would have earned him a crack of a hand to his face. A shadowed corner of his mind still anticipates the strike.

██████ does understand intellectually that Lilly is gone, she's probably fully rotted by now, her body returned to the earth, but somewhere in his belly, he fears he'll turn around and she'll be there. He'll lay down and feel an arm creep up his stomach and pull his zipper down.

He'll burn something on the stove and she'll poke holes in his skin.

He'll walk into the bathroom and see her brushing her gorgeous blonde hair, he'll see her thin body illuminated against the lights on the mirror and watch her gentle smile disappear as soon as she sees him. Sometimes he felt she would smile at everyone but him.

He thought that was hurt most about the things she did, it was never out of love or wanting him; he didn't know what it was, and something about that was worse than knowing.

██████ turns off the stove and lets the tea cool down, and pours it into an old Garfield-shaped mug.

------

> //On the fourth week of containment, during his weekly interview, in Dr Henderson's interview with SCP-4231-b, B seemed to show more neurosis signs and signs of mental decomposition. SCP-4231 has been discovered to be tearing bits of his flesh off his legs through the stitches and casts he is in, as well as picking the skin on his face, palm, and fingertips. He has also bitten his nails down to their core and ripped out multiple patches of hair from his head. Dr. Henderson was sent to do a cognitive test on B, and the following interaction was recorded and transcribed://
> 
> **Begin Log**
> 
> “Dr. Henderson: SCP-4231-B, please stop picking at the stitches in your legs. I’m not here to hurt you; you don’t need to be so nervous, okay? I’m just here to conduct a brief test with you. Tests are okay, aren’t they? You've been harming yourself—we can’t ignore that.
> 
> [5 minute lapse of silence]
> 
> SCP-4231-b: What happened to my Meri?
> 
> Dr. Henderson: That particular information is classified and cannot be disclosed at this time. I'm sorry.
> 
> Scp-4231-b: Don’t even pretend to be sorry. That’s just bullshit coming from you. What happened? Can you at least let me know if Lilly is alright and if my baby is safe? I’m pleading with you, please. I won't ask for anything else, I swear to god I won't.
> 
> Dr. Henderson: That information is classified, I'm sorry. Please try to cooperate with me.
> 
> Scp-4231-b: What a load of shit. You can’t tell me if my baby is alive or dead? You're lying to me. You're lying to me right now, that’s what you’re doing. You just want to hurt me. Is that it? You want to hurt me, so I break and fucking give you what you want.
> 
> Dr. Henderson: SCP-4231-b I assure you-
> 
> SCP-4231-b: Where is my Meri? 
> 
> > **End Log**
> 
> //Note: Subject B remained silent for the duration of the interview session. Requesting authorization for increased monitoring and potential administration of mild tranquilizers to mitigate self-harm tendencies. - Dr. Henderson//
> 
> 
> //Following the interview, SCP-4231-b’s self-harming behavior intensified. Subject B was observed repeatedly banging his head against the padded wall before restraints could be fully reapplied. While the padded walls prevented serious injury, the behavior indicates a significant escalation in his level of distress. SCP-4231-b is currently secured to his bed, restricting movement of his arms and legs save for carefully monitored feeding times and physical therapy sessions in which he is actively relearning how to walk after injuries sustained during the Cornwall incident.//
 
------

+ December 3, 2005

Alto Clef sits on a couch with Benjamin Kondraki watching some shitty sitcom show Ben put on that Alto tolerates, and things are good. He had bought some meat and cheeses and made a pretty good charcuterie board for his little date night, he was quite proud of himself. Alto had managed to arrange the meat into a little rose and the cheese into little leaves. 

Alto suddenly pulls Ben's arm off from around his shoulder and nearly skips into the kitchen. “Wuh- had to go piss huh?” Ben said, a little dumbfounded at the suddenly energetic and running middle aged man hopping away from him.

“I forgot to pour us the wine! I paid 50 dollars for that stuff, we can't just skip it Konny!” Alto shouted from the kitchen, followed by the loud clanking of glasses and pans and god knows what else in the kitchen.

Ben scratched his chin and just waited, hoping he didn't smash anything. Just when he was just gonna get up and get the cups for him, Alto emerged from the kitchen with two wine glasses.

“The fuck did you do in there? You didn't... break anything, did you?” Ben was afraid to see what happened next time he had to go cook something. 

“I wanted to do something fancy, y'know a salt coat on the rim, but I couldn't find your plates –gave up halfway through. By the way your cabinets really suck, you need to organize them better. I don't know how you live like this.” 

Ben chuckled and shook his head as he lifted the blanket back up. “Come on, get back in here, you cabinet critic.”

------

+ May 8, ██████

Francis hands the newborn baby to his girlfriend, watching her smile so sweetly and hold her with such gentleness for a moment, he felt every reason he ever loved her flood back to him at once. He wonders how much humanity is left in her, if she lies awake at night thinking of what she did, or if he's just a functional punching bag. He wonders how somebody could do all these things to him and still be so beautiful in his eyes.

He knew what he had to do, for himself, for her, and for his baby girl. He had known for a while now. But the sight of her, holding their daughter, the little life they had created more or less together, made the decision feel so heavy for him again.

This feeling hung heavy in the air as he watched her cradle the baby, watched  her hold her little hands in her own.

He watched the baby coo and gurgle, and he watched Lilly's eyelashes flutter as she drifted off to sleep.

Francis’s gaze remained fixed on her.

Her face was bathed in the soft glow of the nursery lamp, and Francis sees a ghost of the woman he fell in love with. Her cheeks are red and streaked with dried tears, yet her thin pink lips remain beautiful. Her hair is styled in a bun wrapped in a braid, and shes reminiscent of the princess he imagined her to be all those years ago.

------
> Subject: Transcript of Auditory Traumatic Imprint from the Shared residence of SCP-4231-A and SCP-4231-B; specifically, the downstairs kitchen of the aforementioned residence.
> Date Recovered: ██/██/████
> 
> **Begin Log**
> 
> SCP-4231-A: Are you stupid or do you just do these things on purpose to piss me off? Is that it? Because I honestly cannot fathom how you could be this… incompetent. We’ve been over this countless times. You’re just… useless. Absolutely stupid and utterly useless. I think you enjoy making me feel miserable.
> 
> SCP-4231-B: I really didn't try to do anything. I don't- I don't ever try to do-
> 
> SCP-4231-A: Oh, of course you don’t try! That’s abundantly clear! Is there anything you’re capable of doing right? You just fail me constantly, and then, you lie to me. 'I didn’t mean to.' I'm sure you didn't.
> 
> SCP-4231-B: I'm not lying. I can fix this. It isn't huge. This doesn't have to be – this!
> 
> SCP-4231-A: It's not about fixing it. This is about YOU, this is about the stupidity YOU keep having.
> 
> SCP-4231-B: I don't know what you want me to say, Lilly.
> 
> SCP-4231-A: You don't ever fucking know. You don't know anything.
> 
> //SCP-4231-B's breath hitches, escalating into ragged, silent sobs. A sharp slap is audible, followed by a stifled whimper.//
> 
> SCP-4231-B: I’m sorry... I’m so sorry... I’ll be better, I swear, please don't be mad at me I-I'll fix it.
> 
> SCP-4231-A: You're not sorry. You're just scared. 
> 
> SCP-4231-B: I-I can do better! I promise, I can! I'll do anything you want, please...
> 
> SCP-4231-A: I don’t want your promises. I want you to stop wasting my time. But you can't even manage that, can you?
> 
> //Silence for approximately 14 seconds. SCP-4231-B's hiccuping sobs continue.//
> 
> SCP-4231-A: Clean yourself up. You're disgusting to look at right now.
> > **End log**


> Transcript Review — Auditory Traumatic Imprint ██/██/████
> Filed by Dr. ███████
> 
> Throughout the recorded exchange between SCP-4231-A and SCP-4231-B, B displays expected behavioral patterns consistent with previous observations. SCP-4231-A engaged in verbal aggression, culminating in physical assault (confirmed audibly via impact noise and subsequent distress from B).
> 
> The recorded interaction suggests B has undergone sustained, significant psychological degradation, resulting in heightened dependency and compliant responses. A's demeanor remained consistently hostile and emotionally disengaged throughout the interaction. 
> 
> — Dr. ███████




------

+ June 12, 2012

Clef runs a hand over a large and deep scar on his leg and doesn't feel very alone. Francis haunts the room without saying anything for a while until he finally speaks.

“Well.”

Clef didn’t look up. He knew Francis was there, just beyond the reach of his peripheral vision. He knew what that single word meant. It was an invitation. "Well" was the beginning of a conversation they had been skirting around for years.

"Well, what, Francis?" he asked, his voice rough with disuse. He could almost see Francis shifting, becoming slightly more defined, the shimmer solidifying into something almost, but not quite, tangible.

"Well," Francis repeated, the word laced with melancholy. "Well… are you finally ready to talk about it? Or are we just going to keep pretending those scars are from a nasty coffee spill?"

Clef remained silent, his fingers tracing the jagged bits of the scar, dipping his fingers into the deep crevices where his flesh came clean off.

"There's nothing to talk about."

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The Hunter's Guide to Guilt-Free Deer Field Dressing

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