The SCP Experience - Experiments in Revenge | SCP-221

Episode Date: January 3, 2025

SCP Foundation SAFE class object, SCP-221 This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-221 and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ Author: Matt Doggett * * * DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content. Parental guidance is advised for children under the age of 18. Listen at your own discretion. #thescpexperience #scp #scpfoundation #scpencounters #securecontainprotect #scpstories Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Welly, welly well, look who's awake. The man speaking, apparently to me, does so in a high-pitched sing-song voice. I don't even need to see him to know that he's got a few screws loose up in the ever-important brain area. Speaking of, my own brain area doesn't feel too good. Maybe I've had a few fasteners knocked loose myself. Even without opening my eyes, since it's too damn bright just now, I can tell three things right off the bat. One is that I've recently had this shit beaten out of me.

Not literally, thank goodness. My underwear feels clean and dry. But my face is swollen. Some of my teeth are loose, and I can feel dried blood crusting my nostrils. The second thing I can tell is that I'm slumped in what feels like an uncomfortable wooden chair. A rocking chair, if the slight rocking is any indication.

Lastly, I can tell I don't have any shoes or socks on. I hate walking around barefoot. Always have. I sure as hell can't get up from this uncomfortable chair right yet. And I can't reverse time to before I took a beating. But maybe, if I'm lucky, my socks are nearby and I can pull them on. I can't remember much of anything, which makes me think that I really have had a few screws knocked loose. So as I open my eyes, I'm optimistic about my chances of finding a nice, comfy pair of socks.

My left eye is nearly swollen shut, but my right opens up just fine, and then closes again against the light. I groan. Turn it off. No can do, buckaroo, the crazy guy says. If I would, I could, but there doesn't seem to be a light switch in this place. Now I'm curious. Working slowly, I open my eyes again, letting them adjust little by little to the light I can now see is coming from a couple of fluorescent tubes overhead, which are, strangely, protected by a rectangular metal cage.

The sight of that cage brings back some memories, and I groan again. I'm in jail. Surely I'm in jail after that fight outside the restaurant last night. If it was last night, the way I feel it could have been two days ago. or even three. I open my eyes a little more and look around the room. My confusion grows as I take in my surroundings. I'm sitting in what looks like the living room of a windleless cabin with rough, unfinished log walls.

There are two other men in the room with me. One of them, the crazy guy, is to my left, sitting in a rocking chair similar to the one I'm in. He looks at me expectantly with wild pale eyes, as if waiting. for me to regale him with the story. He's a stocky man with thick limbs and a sallow face that doesn't match his pudgy body. He has short black hair that's thinning on top, and he wears a rumpled short-sleeve white shirt and khaki pants with no shoes or socks. There's something familiar about him, but trying to remember where I know him from only hurts the ever-important brain area. So I give it a rest and turn to study the other man, who was a little.

is to my right, in another identical rocking chair. This man, however, is unconscious. He's older, with a gray-brown beard and the thin, unhealthy look of a career transient. His ratty clothes, a navy-blue zip-up hoodie over a holy sweatshirt, and second-hand jungle fatigue pants, fit with the idea that he is homeless. Like my crazy companion to my left, and like me, The unconscious man wears no shoes or socks. I lean forward, wincing against the headache that swishes through my skull with the movement and look around the floor.

There are no shoes or socks to be seen. And the floor boards are just as unfinished as the walls. I can see slivers of wood sticking up here and there. There's not even a rug anywhere. Where are we? I ask the crazy guy. You don't know? He says, surprised, like I'm an idiot for not knowing.

No, I don't know. Tell me. Well, hell, I don't know either. I was hoping you could tell me. He cackles and stomps his feet once, before wincing, and bringing his right foot up to study the soul for a long moment. Then he thrusts the foot out toward me and says, Splinter!

Ignoring the foot that's two feet from my face, I take a second look around the place. The only furniture consists of the three rocking chairs and a picnic table made of unfinished wood. There's a small kitchenette with a mini-fridge, a sink, and an electric hot plate. Cans of soup and a few other provisions sit on a wooden shelf affixed to the wall next to the sink. There are no windows in the square room, but there's a heavy-duty metal door in one wall. Across from this door, a smaller wooden door sits open a few inches.

What's your name? I turn, seeing that the man has brought his foot down. Novak, you? Dennis! I narrow my eyes. Where do I know you from? Dennis shrugs. You woke up a little while ago and looked at me.

Maybe that's it. Maybe it is, I think. The headache, still banging around in my skull like a herd of elephants. As if not wanting to miss out on exchanging names, The man to my right stirs, snorting and coughing as his head comes up and his eyes open. Wellie, well, well, look who's awake, Dennis exclaims. After blinking a few times and looking at us with building shock, the man lurches to his feet and whips his head around,

hands held out to his sides like a surfer riding a wave. What the hell is this? You don't know, Dennis says, in that accusatory tone. We're not sure, I say, interrupting Dennis. I just woke up here. What's the last thing you remember? The older man hustles over to the metal door and tries to open it to no avail. Why aren't there any windows?

What the hell is this? Without waiting for an answer, he hustles over to the wooden door, pausing briefly to hiss in pain and look down at his foot. Splinter! Dennis exclaims, pointing at the man's feet. I watch as the older guy pushes the wooden door open, revealing a small bathroom with a toilet, a sink, and a mirror. He flips on the light, a single fluorescent in its own cage, and opens the mirror to reveal a medicine cabinet. He pauses, reaching for something I can't see from my angle.

What is it? Dennis shouts. What did you find? Tweezers. He takes them from the medicine cabinet and slips them into a pants pocket. before coming out of the bathroom and opening the fridge. He retrieves a gallon of milk, unscrews the cap, and drinks several large mouthfuls. Ew! Use a cup!

Dennis says. There are no cups, I tell him. Then I turn to the older man as he brings the jug down and takes a breath. What's your name? He looks at me warily and then says, Chriswell, what's yours? Novak. This is Dennis.

We just met. right before you woke up. What's the last thing you remember? Again, that wary look. Nothing. I don't remember anything. I'm not a cop. I'm just trying to make sense of this. Looks like you took a beating. What do you remember? I pause. He got into a fight with some drunk guy outside a restaurant. I didn't realize he had two friends with him. What was he doing? Trying to pick a fight with someone. So you gave him what he wanted. Brilliant.

Chris Well puts the milk back and returns to his rocking chair, looking intently at me. Did you hurt him? Flashes of memory invade my head. Yeah, I think I did. Maybe really bad. I want those tweezers! Dennis shouts out of nowhere.

Give him here! What do you want with them? Chris Well asks, putting one hand protectively over his pocket. Dennis lifts his foot toward Chriswell. Splinter! Yeah, okay. But let me get mine out first. As Chris Well pulls the tweezers out,

I can see why he pocketed them in the first place. They're golden and look handcrafted and old. Chris Well props his right foot on his left knee and bends toward it with the tweezers in hand. Was there anything else in the bathroom? I ask. Not yet ready to get up and explore. My head hurts like it's been trampled by a bull.

No, just these. Chris Well works the tweezers, trying to get the splinter out of the pad of his foot. That's weird. No toothbrushes or toothpaste or bandages? Just the tweezers? Yep. And look at this place.

It's practically made from splinters. Chris Well is right. Even the rocking chairs aren't finished. There are little slivers of wood. little slivers of wood sticking up everywhere. What the fuck is this place? I ask myself again, wondering if I've died and gone to some strange hell.

Chris Well sighs as he pulls his splinter out. There we go. Dennis, who has been watching intently, now reaches his hand out. My turn! Chris Well brings the tweezers up to his face. Apparently looking at the splinter he's just pulled out of his foot. His eyes nearly cross as he stares. His mouth falling open.

For a moment, I think he's going to speak, to say something about the splinter, but he doesn't. Instead, he opens the tweezers, letting the sliver of wood fall. Then he jams the tips of the tweezers into his beard, clamps them, and yanks out a small bunch of hair. I flinch, wondering what the hell he's doing.

Dennis stares, his mouth open. Chris Well lets the hair fall and goes back in for more, He moves in a frenzy, jamming and yanking, jamming and yanking. You okay, man? He doesn't answer. He just keeps ripping his beard hair out. He does it with such force. I can see blood oozing from some of the hairless patches.

Hey! I shout. Knock it off! He doesn't register my voice. It's like I'm not even here. Finally, I get to my feet, having to pause as I feel like I'm going to pass out for a few moments. But when I don't fall unconscious again, I move over to Chris Well, ignoring the feeling of a splinter sliding into my foot.

I grab Chris Well's right wrist, stopping the tweezers inches from his beard. He shoots his left hand out, grabbing me by the neck as his face goes red with fury. He gets up from his chair. My free hand goes to his left wrist, trying to pry his hand from my throat. Before I can do anything else, Chris Well head butts me. An explosion of pain rocks me, and the bright lights that illuminate the inside of my skull are quickly replaced by utter darkness as I fall unconscious. Come awake, I yank my hand away from some kind of liquid on the floor. I roll over and smack into the side of a rocking chair, grunting and blinking against the light.

The memories come rushing back, along with the sickening, deep-seated headache that has only grown worse since Chriswell headbutted me. I shove my rocking chair, sending it toppling over, and then I sit up, turning to look at Chris Well. For a moment, I'm sure I'm still asleep, because what I'm seeing has no place in the waking world. The sight before me only belongs in nightmares or horror movies. Chris Well sits in his rocking chair, still jamming and yanking, jamming and yanking with the tweezers, but he has long since moved on from plugging out his beard hair. Now, he's ripping his skin off. As I watch, he jams the tips of the tweezers into his right thigh.

Then he alters the angle, shoving one of the tweezers' tips under his flesh, parallel to the skin. He presses the tips together, getting hold of a strip of skin from both the inside and the outside. Then he yanks the tweezers up and away, pulling off a several-inch strip. Blood pours from the wound, and it's a wonder he's still alive. under he's still alive. Aside from his neck, face, hands, and the leg he's currently working on, Chris Well is entirely skinless. A pile of bloody flesh and hair sits next to his rocking chair. Blood creeps along the floor in a ragged circle around him, seeping into the cracks between floorboards. I don't have to look at my hand to know that Chris Well's blood

is what brought me out of my stupor. His clothes are discarded in the corner. and I dare not look at the area between his legs. Sure, I will vomit if I do. What flesh is still left on his body has been picked hairless, leaving little bloody patches here and there. Of course, none of it does. As I get to my feet, I develop enough wherewithal to realize that Dennis is nowhere to be seen.

A glance at the bathroom door shows me that it's closed. I assume he's hiding in there, but that's not important for him. right now. Unsteady on my feet, I forced myself to stay still for a moment, to regain my equilibrium. Averting my eyes from the horror before me, I wonder how it is that I'm in a similar situation again. However many days ago since the fight outside the Applebee's, I made a split second judgment call that day to knock a man out to save him from himself. And I'm about to do it again. At the Applebees, I hit a man who, it looked to me at the time, was beating another man to death in the parking lot.

I had witnessed the interaction starting with the altercation at the bar, and I had noted the significant size and age differences between the two men. One of them was a burly bearded guy who had a cop or ex-military look about him. He seemed to be the instigator. The other one was a thin-framed college kid, who looked like a man. like he was a little too drunk for his own good. But it wasn't any of my business. I just wanted to finish my steak and potatoes and then leave.

If a couple of idiots wanted to go outside and punch each other, who was I to stop them? A small group of men moved outside to watch the two fighters. I turned back to my meal. But several diners were watching the drama, and they soon cried out in dismay. I heard one woman say, He's going to kill that boy.

It seemed that no one else cared. They sounded like they didn't want it to happen, but they weren't lifting a finger to stop it. I got off my bar stool and moved outside, seeing that the burly guy had the kid on his back. I joined the small group of men who watched in utter silence as the burly man pounded the college kid's face to a bloody pulp. I figured the woman was right.

He was going to kill the kid. They'd probably had too much to drink. A little fistfight is one thing, but were I to put myself in that man's position, I wouldn't want to come out of my drunken stupor to find that I had killed someone. Plus, I figured the kid wouldn't want to die either. So I strode up to the two of them and kicked the burly man in the head. Maybe I did it a little too hard. Maybe he hit the concrete with his head. I wasn't totally sure on that front, because before I knew it, I was on the ground.

Two guys, apparently the burly man's buddies, were wailing on me. I didn't get a good look at them, and I hadn't paid them much mind before that. So they're not much more than faceless, man-shaped silhouettes in my memory. Silhouettes with very hard fists and boots. Taking a boot to the face is the last thing I remember before waking up here. Now, as I stare at Chriswell, remembering, regaining my bearings, I know I have. have to do the same thing. Thankfully, Chris Well doesn't have any friends

to stop me afterwards. He'll wake up and thank me later, if he's not in too much pain or dead. I stepped toward him and swing a roundhouse right to his left temple. He goes unconscious, dropping the tweezers as the chair topples, spilling him onto his bloody pile of skin, staring down at him, stretching and flexing my hand.

I wonder what to do next. I certainly don't want to touch those tweezers. I know it probably has nothing to do with the tweezers themselves and everything to do with something breaking in Chris Well's brain. But all the same, I don't want to touch them. They lie in a small puddle of blood within reach of Chris Well. If he wakes up and sees them, he might go right back at it. I move carefully over to the pile of Chris Well's clothes and pick up his hoodie.

Using it to keep a layer between my skin and the tweezers, I picked the tool up and look for somewhere to put them. Then I think of the toilet. Holding the tweezers in the hoodie, I move over to the bathroom door and knock on it with my free hand. Dennis, open up. What happened? It's over.

I open up so I can get rid of these things. Get rid of them? Yeah, I'm going to flush them down the toilet. There's a pause from inside the bathroom. A moment later, Dennis opens the door. As I look at him, noticing the expression that he now wears, I realize where I've seen him before. He stood by outside the Applebee's, watching as I got my ass kicked by the burly guys' two buddies. I caught a glimpse of him before that final boot to the face knocked my lights out.

He sees me recognize him, and he moves fast, slapping the tweezers out of my hand, and then swinging a left up into my face. I'm still far from 100%, so I don't jerk back in my face. time, and his knuckles take me on the chin. I backpedal, stepping on the back of a rocking chair, causing the thing to rock under my weight so the back rest slams into my spine. Dennis strides forward and uses the distraction to his advantage, aiming another punch at my face. I get my arm up and block that blow, but he throws a quick jab to my gut. I double over and try to turn, tripping over the rocking chair and sprawling on the floor. I see Chriswell across me, still lying in the bloody pile of his own flesh.

Griswell! I shout, getting on all fours. Wake up! His eyes remain closed under his hairless eyebrows. I get to my feet and rush to the corner of the room, turning to see why Dennis didn't attack me while I was down. He was busy retrieving the tweezers, which he holds in one hand, a knowing smirk on his face.

Just stay still, and this will end soon, he says, moving toward me, Tweezers outstretched. You're going to tweeze me to death? I ask, putting far more bravery in my voice than I actually feel. No. Dennis says. You are for what you did to Carpio. Carpio?

I say slowly, putting a face to the name. Did I? Is he dead? Dennis doesn't answer. He just moves toward me on the balls of his feet. Tweezers held out in front like a weapon. My eyes dart around, looking for anything I can use to defend myself. I chose a corner of the room with nothing in it. It was the

wrong choice. Dennis closes in. Five feet. Four, three, he's within striking distance now. I see movement behind him. Chriswell getting up. I can't help but look at the bloody mess of a man who may just be my salvation. Following my eyes, Dennis half turns and sees Chris well as he's still getting to his skinless feet. But it's enough. I dart forward, ducking under the outstretched tweezers and slamming my shoulder into Dennis' stomach. I grab his thighs and lift him off his feet, my legs churning. I throw him into Chriswell, and they both go down onto the overturned rocking chair, smashing the thing to pieces. Dennis still has hold of the tweezers, but Chriswell immediately goes for them,

clawing and biting in a frenzy to get them back. Dennis quickly gets the upper hand as I watch, wondering what I can do to stop this tree. craziness. If Dennis knocks Chris Well out, he'll come for me with the tweezers. I can't have that. So as Dennis manages to straddle Chriswell, I dart over and grab the hot plate, yanking the cord out of the wall. It's fairly hefty, maybe eight pounds, and it will do just fine to knock the two men out. But as I turn, I see Dennis stab the tweezers into Chris Well's left eye. The bloody man screams and writhes, but Dennis holds his head down with his free hand as he pulls an eye out of its socket.

Dropping the eye, which dangles from its optic nerve, Dennis shifts his left hand, clearly preparing to go for the other eye. As he stabs the tweezers down, Chris Well gets one bloody arm up and, reaching for the tweezers, knocks Dennis' hand off course, causing him to stab the tweezers into the back of his own hand. Dennis yanks them out quickly, shock, transforming his features as he looks at the blood welling from the matching wounds in the back of his hand. Chris Well screams and fights, still trying to grab for the tweezers.

Dennis doesn't look shocked for long. His face transforms again, shifting into an expression of determination as he stabs Chris Well in his one remaining eye. He shoves the tweezers deep down into the socket until they're barely visible amid the mangled and bloody eye. Chris Well stops moving, and Dennis pulls the tweezers out. I take a step toward him, the hot plate held over my shoulder, ready to be able to. my shoulder, ready to strike. There's a moment where I'm sure that Dennis is about to lurch up and attack me with the tweezers, but he doesn't. He attacks himself, gripping the fingernail on his left index finger. Breathing heavily, he pulls his own fingernail out with a rip

and drops it onto Chris Well's dead body. Then he moves to the next finger. I step forward again, ready to make him stop, to save him from himself. But then I think better of it. I recall that trying to save a man from himself is what got me here in the first place. If I had just minded my own business, finished my stake and left, I would be home now. What unforeseen consequences could come from knocking Dennis out right now? What if I hit him too hard? What if I kill him? Like I apparently did to his buddy, Carpio.

No, it's better to let a man live his own life, even if that means destroying it. I step back, dropping the hot plate to the floor and move over to the picnic table, where I take a seat. A small but sharp pain erupts in my left hand. I raise it up and realize I've gotten another splinter. It all comes together for me in a cascade of puzzle pieces. This place is supposed to give you splinters. It's some kind of weird experiment, where you're supposed to use the tweezers. As I try to make sense of this, I watch as Dennis finishes with his fingernails and moves on to his toenails.

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A flare of hope ignites in my chest as I get up from where I've been sitting on the toilet and step to the door. Three men look at me as I open the door. One of them, dressed in a security guard's uniform complete with a ballistic vest, vest points a gun at me. I put my hands up. I didn't do it. They did it to themselves. Two guys and lab coat stand next to the security guard. What a goddamn mess, one of them says, looking for me to Chris Well to Dennis. I follow his gaze, seeing that Dennis is no longer moving. He lies next to Chris Well in a puddle of his own blood. His skin is entirely gone, and his stomach is ripped open.

Several of the organs that were once in his abdomen are now lying in a bloody pile next to him. It looks like he got as far as removing his liver before he died. He still grips the tweezers in one hand. The security guard comes over and secures my hands behind my back with flex cuffs. Then he leads me out of the room and into a sterile gray hallway

where I see a familiar face. The burly guy from the bar, Carpio, stands to the side in the hallway, hands fixed behind his back, and a security guard grabbing his upper arm. He has a bandage on his head, and his face is about as messed up his mind, but he's alive. Our eyes meet, but his bounce away quickly, like a kid who's in trouble for breaking the rules. The security guard leads me down the hall. I look back over my shoulder, studying Carpio's hang dog expression, trying to make sense of it all.

As we turn a corner, I ask. What's going to happen to me? Without looking at me, the guard says, You won't get an apology if that's what you're after. You won't sue us. You won't get a big settlement. You know why? Because the foundation doesn't exist.

You are never here. You won't remember a thing. I open my mouth to speak as my brain stalls. All that comes out are vowels until I manage a... What? For what it's worth, I'm sorry. I don't speak for the foundation, of course.

Just as those two assholes back there don't act for the foundation. I don't know what the hell they were thinking when they brought you and that homeless got here for their own little experiment. I'm sure what you saw in there was the most fucked-up shit you've ever seen in your life. But take solace in the fact that, like I said, you won't remember a thing. I don't understand. Stop talking now, the guy says. Taking me through a door.

and into a room that looks like a doctor's exam. A woman and a lab coat produces a syringe, and, before I can say anything, she sticks it in my arm. I wake up in my bed with a jackhammering headache and a sore everything. The last thing I remember is stepping outside of Appleby's last night to try and stop a fight. I don't remember drinking more than a couple beers, but it sure feels like I got blackout drunk.

I stumbled to the bathroom and look in the mirror, gasping at my swollen and lacerated face. Christ! What the hell happened? I ask my reflection. As I lean on the sink, putting my weight in my hands, I feel a small but sharp pain. Wincing, I hold up my left hand and inspected, finding a splinter. The skin around it pink with inflammation. Without thinking, I open the mirror and grab my pair of silver tweezers. But as I bring the tweezers toward the splinter, a wave of sickness rolls through me,

and I vomit mostly stomach bile into the sink. Once I'm done, chalking it up to the hangover, I bring the tweezers toward the splinter again. Once more, I feel a wave of sickness barrel through me. This time, I don't vomit. I look at the tweezers, brow, furrowed. Then I put them back in the cabinet and head back to bed to sleep it off. As I go, I feel another splinter in my foot. Where the hell did I get splinters?

I wonder as I get under the covers. What the hell did I do last night? It doesn't matter, I decide. The splinters can wait. SCP-21 is a pair of golden tweezers made in the 16th or 17th century. Subject testing revealed that SCP-21 creates a highly focused case of obsessive-compulsive disorder in any person who uses it on their own body. Subjects will utilize it to remove all hair from their body,

before removing finger and toenails, as well as teeth. This culminates in the removal of all internal and external organs, using their hands if SCP-21 is not effective, though the tweezers will never be set aside during this process and remain gripped in one of the subject's hands. If SCP-212 is taken away from the subject, they become violent and manic, and will use their hands to continue the process, albeit in a less careful manner. It is to be noted that the progression of this behavior is different for each subject, but no less fatal.