fragment:chimp3


It has been many years since I last

Your faces invade my dreams

It's hard to remember a time when

I can't remember

I

I miss you.

There's a pause, a brief ceasing of the rhythmic clatter of the keyboard, and the old man turns his face upwards towards the sunlight. The leaves cast their dancing shadows on his head as he dreams once more, his mind catching and holding on to something somewhere that should not exist.

It's — no, this can't be —

Tears well behind closed eyes.

It's you. After all this time, you've-

The father once more brings his hands and feet to his keyboard, and begins to write. The tears are flowing freely now, but he doesn't spare them a second thought.


Item № : SCP-XXX

Object Class: Uncontained

Special Containment Procedures: SCP-XXX is to be considered a Person of Interest and is to remain uncontained.

Description: SCP-XXX is a young adult male chimpanzee (Pan troglodytes) displaying advanced sapience. The entity is capable of writing in English and Swahili, and demonstrates behavior similar to that of an adult human.

When threatened or under great stress, SCP-XXX is capable of causing written material (referred to as SCP-XXX-1) he it he produces to emit radiation. The exact amount of radiation emitted by SCP-XXX-1 instances is currently unknown.

SCP-XXX was contained for 6 months in 2014 by Group of Interest Marshall, Carter, and Dark. During this period, SCP-XXX underwent severe psychological and physical trauma at the hands of his captors. This is believed to have contributed to the awakening of its ability.



The old man lets out a sigh, and leans back. The tears are starting to dry.

Wherever you are, whatever may stand in your way, you will overcome it. You will grow, and become stronger.

I believe in you.

I'm proud of you.

I love you, my son.




It's been a while. I tried to put off writing since I left Hell and started anew, but it's clear now that I'm nothing without it.

Hell of a way to start a diary, huh? I also promised myself I'd stop with the purply poetic bullshit, but maybe it turns out I'm nothing without that too.

Anyway.

Not many people noticed me on the 13th floor of that hotel, and those who did just nodded and greeted me as if I was one of them. I eventually found an elevator, and punched the button to go downstairs — if the people on the 13th floor treated me like one of them, the people in the elevator treated me like a nobody.

I managed to steal a few wallets from people I passed by in that building. All of them were loaded, picked straight from the pockets of the obscenely wealthy — who my father called the bourgeoisie, and who I call suckers. I didn't have to take out any others, and nobody seemed to notice the filthy chimp with crazy eyes picking pockets as he ran down the halls — it was probably the hat. All for the better. The moment I stepped out of the hotel, I entered a trance. The sights and sounds of the city, of freedom, soothed me more than anyone else could ever know or understand, and for once I knew I'd be safe no matter where I ended up.

I ended up where people and chimps with newfound wealth and an understanding of currency are prone to do — in the department store. I'd walked in a trance for god knows how many blocks, still clutching those fat wallets in both my hands, and perhaps had subconsciously felt the need to buy something to lighten the load. I ended up with two less wallets, two grey children's-size three-piece suits, another (regular) fedora, a pair of sensible black sneakers, this notebook and a pack of ballpoint pens — the last of these, I'll admit, were bought somewhat on impulse. The cashier didn't seem to notice when I clung to the counter and handed her cash with my right foot, and nobody seemed to pay any mind when I emerged from the store's bathroom awkwardly dressed, looking to all the world like a circus ape.

I suppose the next thing I should document is the subsequent trips to the grocery store, the renting of my flat, all those inane and minuscule details of the everyday life of a young chimp in the city — and I suppose that'd be worth writing about in my own time. But that's not important, at least not now. There are more worthwhile things to attend to.

But… I suppose it never hurt me to write more than I had to before.

On my first day of complete freedom, I took the subway for the first time. I stood waist-high to everyone there, and decided to curl up and sleep in the overhead luggage compartment instead of lingering on the floor. Nobody seemed to pay me any mind.

On my second day of complete freedom, I hung out of the window of my flat and climbed up and down the side of the building twice. Nobody pointed or stopped to stare.

On my third day of complete freedom, I didn't look where I was going and ran into a pedestrian. We both fell, and my hat fell off of my head for just a moment. At first, he ignored his drink and stared at me wide-eyed — then, I scrambled to recollect the hat and replaced it, and his gaze dulled. We both went our separate ways as if nothing had happened.



The way it is now, I could sit in my flat and waste away for the rest of my life. And I suppose it'd be safer that way. It's how my father ended up, at least, and the apartment's just another comfy box when you think about it.

I probably shouldn't insult my father like that. I'm about to do the same as he's doing, after all.

One thing I never really thought too much about is how my father never really taught me how to write. It was instinct, just like clinging to my mother, climbing trees, and using sticks to pick termites out of their holes — and like any other instinct, I didn't think much of it, and was confused when my parents fawned over me the first time I sat at the typewriter and wrote in perfect English for the first time. And like my father before me, the first thing I wrote of was something that should not exist — something that wasn't normal. Before I was stolen, in fact, that's all I wrote about.

There was a special feeling I got whenever I wrote of something fantastical and unexplainable, the unparalleled feeling of learning, of coming away from the page having learned more about the world and how it worked. My brain hungered for knowledge, and my typing fingers provided it. And while my knack for intrinsically knowing these things faded over time, my hunger never did.

I might be a chimp, I might be crazy to go out and do this, but I'm too intelligent to waste my potential. Because, like all sentient beings, I desire my existence to have meaning.

And if that's what I really want, I've got some work to do.

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