The SCP Experience - Shameful Art | SCP-146

Episode Date: January 5, 2024

Want to listen ad-free? Try it FREE for 7 days here: patreon.com/TheSCPExperience SCP Foundation EUCLID class object, SCP-146: Shameful Art This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-146 and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ Author: Lucas Click Discover the Author's impressive series of SCP Tales here: https://www.amazon.com/kindle-vella/story/B0BVWJFGV3 Check out more of Mr. Click's work here: newpulptales.com * * * 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 #scpexplained #whatisscp Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

It feels like people have been staring at me the whole shift. Sweat poured off me all day, leaving a faint metallic scent around my body. People sniffed at me, turning to stare, before looking the other way when realizing the offensive odor came from a person. I do my best to act like I'm not preparing to commit a crime, but my body freezes every time someone looks in my direction, causing me to sweat more and making even more people notice me. Every step feels like the beginning of a heart attack, and I sag with relief when the museum finally closes. If you have to be a security guard, being one at a museum isn't too bad. You don't get many people trying to vandalize or make off with the art, not in one as small as this.

Most of my day deals with lost patrons or keeping kids who wander off from their parents entertained while we page their parents. Field trip days can be a hassle, but a few well-placed girls. guards with crossed arms are usually enough to keep the worst troublemakers at pay. The only downside is the pay, minimum wage, without a raise in six years. I can't say what it's like for museums in the bigger cities. One would hope that the people guarding the Mona Lisa or the works of Donatello and Michelangelo are getting paid more than that. But those works of art are priceless.

And I imagine the guards are probably former military or police. Not some guy in his late 20s without much more than a couple of college credits and mounting debt to his name. What makes someone become a criminal? In my case, inflation. The economy is rough, and things keep getting more expensive, but my pay stays the same. I didn't think we had anything in our museum worth much. Most of our exhibits are from local artists or recreations of more famous works. But apparently, there is really.

one exhibit worth something. I never pay much attention to the new acquisitions, but one day, while eating ramen noodles for lunch and praying I would have enough money for rent this month, my phone chimed. I wasn't expecting much. Maybe it was a new show on Netflix, or an overdraft notification from my bank. When I saw the message, I nearly choked on my lunch. $5,000 had been deposited in my bank account. I clicked on the deposit, wondering where my little windfall had blown in from. The only thing attached was a link with a quick memo.

F now. F later. Clicking on the link opened my phone's app store. The indie app was installed in a matter of seconds, and when I opened it, I found a message in my inbox. It was a picture of the museum's most recent acquisition. instructions with a date and time, and the promise of $5,000 more dollars. I'd like to say I hesitated.

I took my time and carefully measured my options before making my decision. I would even like to say I considered forwarding everything to the police. But all I could think of was the raw taste of cheap instant noodles on my tongue and an eviction sign on my apartment door. I replied with a thumbs-up emoji and have been sweating ever since. Museums are different after they close. Night at the museum is a fun flick, I guess, but its plot is terrifying when you're the guy holding the flashlight.

Every footstep echoes around you, making it impossible to tell if you're really alone or not. And then, there are the exhibits themselves. Everything looks more sinister in the dark, especially when there's nobody around to answer your call for help. I shudder as I step into the gallery and stare at the same. gallery and stare at the statue. The towering figure made from welded together paint cans has always given me the creeps,

but I don't know why. It's not necessarily scary. It looks like something made by an elementary student with too much free time and parents who want a hardware store, except for the face. It took a lot of time and a steady hand on a blow torch to construct the beady-eyed monster sitting on top of the paint can torso. The statue seems ordinary, starting at its feet, but it plunges into the realm of abnormality when you get to its head.

Shuddering under the gaze of the monstrosity, I do my best to ignore it and head straight to the other exhibit. Our overworked curator hasn't even finished the display yet. It sits on a podium with a piece of cloth draped over it. Caution tape is the only thing keeping people at bay, and while it might not be the most cure idea ever. So far, it's done the trick. I hold my breath. It's now or never. I can still back out. So far, I haven't done anything illegal. I can still do the right thing. Walk away and call the curator or the police. Running my tongue along my teeth, I close my eyes and remember my visit to

the five-star restaurant last night. The flavors of the filet mignon still linger on my tongue. The meat so tender I barely needed to use the knife. L, I barely had to chew. The steak practically melted on my tongue. When I open my eyes, I see my hands reaching for the tarp and yanking it away. All I can do is stare. It's a real work of art, unlike so many donations and recreations that line the walls throughout the museum. I've never seen the face before, but it's carved with patience and precision.

Like the famous Renaissance masters, it must have taken years to recreate the face of the woman alone, and even longer to capture the details of her curled hair and the inlaid crown sitting atop her head. I'm so taken with the art that it takes me a while to find a source of its value. At first glance, it looks like it's made of gold, but that can't be the case. Even if it is hollow, like the message suggests,

It would still weigh too much to carry. Brass probably. Then, paint it over to look like gold. I find the answer in the depths of the sculpture's eyes. They're silver. The iris is flaked with tiny bits of rust. It's the real deal then, and big enough that they should easily fetch triple what I'm being paid.

Looking deeper into the eyes, I can almost make out my reflection, a dark shadow moving against the ultimate otherwise unmarred surface. A picture is worth a thousand words, but a headless broad is worth ten thousand bucks. My hands freeze in mid-air as the thought pops into my head. Those aren't my words.

It's a voice from my past that leaves my knees trembling, forcing my eyes back on the sculpture again. The sculpture? I don't even know its name. That's for the best, though. Isn't that how most criminals operate? They want distance between. them and their crimes. I might have convinced myself that my attempted burglary is victimless.

But what about the museum? It's one of their first authentic art pieces, and I'm about to make way with it in the middle of the night for what? A few thousand bucks. That's not even considering the artist, who probably spent a decade of their life working on the sculpture, capturing the woman's face in exquisite detail. The years of discipline and study it took, before they first took chisel to stone will all be in vain. How can I think of robbing an artist of their moment in the spotlight? Because you never got yours. The voice is like a heavy hammer taken to my knees, sending me to the ground

and filling my eyes with tears. Even through blurry vision, I can't look away from the eyes. I had gone to art school after high school, using the life insurance money from my father's accident. Every day was a constant struggle for two years. Oh, I had talent for sure. And years of self-taught practice. But every brush stroke felt inferior to my peers. Every attempt at art was just an inferior reflection of something that came before it. It's not that you don't have talent, but...

Well, David, you lack the courage in artist needs. You'll never advance to the next level unless you're willing to bear your soul on the parchment. Lazzang sur-gillet, Pucance-molyne for 15 minutes. We're saying It's the hour Dojo!

Prere to enjoy? Vive the pleasure with Leo Jo. The casino in-line that's the most recent machine-as

and show to do you know on Big Basinza without any without any without any payments in I've got to

whew! Sonture the pleasure Play-Ojo 18-18 and plus, 1-Depoos only depots only depo $1%%

$1%% $1%% $1% deposit pay for money to pay for example Welcome to aboard Via Rai, Embarked and Profite.

Embarked and celebrate. Rigolet. Publié. Savoyer. Admirate. And profite. Viarai, the voice that we love that we love. The words of my faculty advisor ring in my mind so loud that I can almost hear him. How long have I been fleeing from that assessment?

Since I dropped out and started working here, a museum seemed like a natural choice. I couldn't be an artist, but at least I'd be surrounded by the one thing that gave me comfort during my train wreck of a childhood. I thought the exhibits would lift me up, but all they've done is crush me, grinding me between a rock and a hard place. Christ, wasted your life on all this pussy shit, and you can't even do that right, can you boy? The voice as a cold dagger plunged into my back. I close my eyes tight and try to block it out. It's nothing but bad memories. It's all just in my head.

But that can't be. The words echo off the walls, repeating themselves. I shake my head, trying to deny the impossibility. It can't be. He can't be here. He's dead. Take those fingers out your ear and shove them back up your ass, Davy. And look at your daddy when he's talking to you.

His words grip my soul and twist it until my entire being, physical, mental, and anything beyond contorts with pain. I'm too terrified to turn around, but I know what will happen if I ignore him. It's been nearly 20 years, but my scars haven't ever fully healed. Slowly, I turned toward the giant. The welded cans groaned as they bend at the knee, straining against the bolts through its feet, but it persists until it rips itself free from the ground. The sword that had been in the giant's hand is replaced with a metallic hand of PBR, his belt held loosely in the other hand.

The giant lifts the can to his head and takes a long drink. As he brings his arm down, I see the face has changed. It's every bit as monstrous as before, but now it's the spitting image of my dead father. Boy, I think it's time you and I. I don't wait for him to finish. I spun on my heel and ran for my life. My father lumberes after me.

His giant footsteps shake the ground, echoing off the walls like I'm in the eye of a thunderstorm. I don't slow down, even as the floor rises above me, mutilated by my father's pursuit. I run up the hill, bouncing off exhibits and knocking them off the walls. Ryan! Ryan, stop it! He's just a boy! A new voice shrieks at my father. It's another voice from my past that I haven't heard in a long time. I look at the replica of one of Andy Warhol's paintings. Instead of Marilyn Monroe, my mother looks back at me from the canvas. Her face distorted,

in several squares of different colors. Stop it, Ryan. He's just a boy. If he's old enough to talk back, then he's old enough to take a lick it. The father's voice snaps me around. He chucks his beard to the ground and leans a hand against the wall. The wood sags then breaks as he digs in his fingers, cracking it with the same effortless ease he used to crush empties against his forehead. And you ought to know better than a gun between father and son, you stupid bitch.

My father groans as he thrusts his hand forward. The wall ripples with destruction as planks are shattered, sticking out from the wall like broken bones. The wave of destruction crashes toward me, turning art into bits of ruined paper and nuttle. My mother looks at me as her demise nears closer. Run, David. I'll hold him off. I'm six years old again.

My mother's shielding me from my father's temper. Shame snakes its way up from my stomach, coiling around my heart and plunging its venomous fangs deep. I wish I was stronger, that I could have protected her like she protected me. I turn and run, desperate to get away from my father, just like when I was a child. My feet skid to a stop as I enter an empty room. The sounds are still echoing around me, a heavy slap followed by my mother's scream. I gripped my head and my scream joins hers.

A bruised and battered chorus begging God to make it stop. He listens as well now as he did in my childhood. I slumped to my knees and cover my ears, shaking my head, trying to block out the cacophony of violence. Wiping my eyes does nothing to slow my tears, but something familiar cuts through my blurry vision, a brush with a blank canvas and an assortment of paints waiting on the floor. The weight feels familiar in my hand as I dip the brush into the paint

and drape it across the canvas. A splotch of blue starts on the page, and as I spread it with slow and steady motions of my wrist, it grows and becomes the sky. The sounds grow distant as I cleanse the paint from the bristles. Wait, where did the water come from? Ignoring the stray thought, I focus on dispelling the color from the brush,

turning the liquid into a cloudy blue before dipping it into the white paint next. Clouds join the sky, dulling the noise even more. I remember the words of my college professor, Would he ever understand why my art was so dishonest? For me, it was never about transforming my pain into something beautiful. It was always an escape. Why would anyone with a childhood like mine want to share it with anyone?

Taking a deep breath, I relish in the silence and clean my brush again. It's never too early to plan your summer story in Europe with WestJet, from rolling countryside to cobblestone streets. Begin your next chapter. seat at westjet.com or call your travel agent. WestJet, where your story takes off. I grumble behind the wheel of my SUV and reach for my cup of coffee. It's as empty as it was 15 minutes ago, but I bring it to my lips and suck air through the hole, hoping to capture some of the caffeine by, I don't know, proxy or something. If I was good at science, I wouldn't have

joined the foundation as an investigator. My theory about caffeinated air proves false. So I swear and shoved the cup back into the holder, crumpling it and making the lid pop off. Calm down. It was what my sight director said when she gave me this new assignment. She's part of the new guard, over a decade my junior, and I know what she saw for my reaction. Just another old dog struggling to keep up with the latest tricks in the foundation's employment. That couldn't be further from the truth. Well, okay, I'll admit.

It took me a while to figure out my first smartphone. But it takes everyone a bit to get used to their first. It doesn't matter if you're 8 or 80. I don't mind technology, especially if it makes the job easier. It's not the indie app I have an issue with, but the app's creator. Fucking Pinkerton. I've had the misfortune of running across that vile-looking ghoul more times than I would like to count. He might have cited ethical and financial reasons for the motivation behind his actions.

but it's all a crock of shit. Scientific progress is Pinkerton's only reason for doing anything, and to hell with all the humans caught in the crossfire. But the brass, like his new toy. But if you ask me, it's one thing to use the app to replace the unpleasant necessity of the traditional D-class. But it's a different game entirely to use a private civilian and the hopes of procuring a potential SCP.

The acid builds in my stomach. The pain rising to my throat gets me grumbling and checking the clock on the dash. My contact is over an hour late. I reach for my walkie-talkie and click the button. Agent Carmichael reporting in. Subject has yet to deliver suspected SCP. Moving in to investigate. I'm out of the car before the confirmation squawks over my radio.

The museum isn't bad. Not as far as museums go. Granted, I usually prefer the ones with dinosaurs. But walking the halls, even after dark, brings back memories of field trips as a kid. Maybe my daughter wouldn't mind checking it out on my next rare weekend off. I unholster my gun and position myself around the corner. Peaking over, I take a quick inventory of the room. The first thing I check for is the suspected SCP, which has its face turned away from me.

I let out my relief through my nostrils and relax my neck. which I had prepared to whip back if that hadn't been the case. Other than a few paintings on the walls and some weird statue made from paint cans, there isn't much else in the room and no sign of the guard. I enter the room carefully, keeping the anomaly out of direct eyesight. There's a sound further down the hall, so I take a few more cautious steps and try to shake off the feeling I'm in a bad heist movie. I come across a few paintings knocked to the ground

and flinch at the state of them. I hope this place is ensured. I raise my gun and proceed to the next room. The guard doesn't see me. He's too busy with the cans of upturned paint. He dips a brush inside the collage of clashing puddles, then slaps it against the wall. I squint against the room's low light,

trying to make out what he's doing. Three stick figures stare back at me, each a different height, but all smiling. Well, hate to tell you, kid, but you're no Rembrandt. He doesn't react to me, not even when I raise my hand to the side of his head and snap my fingers a few times. The guard keeps painting, dabbing the brush again, adding more crude drawings to the wall. I sigh and reach for my walkie-talkie.

This is Agent Carmichael, we've got to... My words get stuck in my throat as I stare into the silver orbs. How the hell did the SCP get in here? I raise my gun, and the motion is captured within the shadow of its eyes. Weight swells into my arm, bringing it down to my side, and my gun clatters to the floor. What the hell is wrong with me? I sent some dumb kid into a catatonic state just to... To what?

To get this thing? So the foundation can add another ugly piece of destruction to its inventory? So Pinkerton can keep beta testing his app designed to make people in a tough spot put their lives in danger? The noise. Doing Pinkerton's bidding is only the most recent entry in a career of nothing but regret. The lives I've ruined, the people I've robbed of their humanity, the secrets I keep from my family. They all replay in my mind, echoing around me, bouncing off the museum's walls. I close my eyes and plug my ears, hoping to drown out the screams.

But it only makes them louder. I know there's only one way to make them stop. This time, the gun feels light in my hand as I lift it to my hand. head, the barrel a cold, soothing kiss against my screaming mind. SCP-146 is a hollow bronze head, apparently a fragment of a complete statue or bust, depicting a crowned young woman or perhaps an effeminate young man. The head exhibits severe verdigris over much of its surface. The crown of SCP-146 is inlaid with silver decorations and its eyes,

The apparent source of SCP-146's effects are beaten silver, shined to be mildly reflective. To date, SCP-146 has not exhibited any signs of movement, but its reaction to certain decor in its containment area indicates that it may possess a degree of sentience, if not outright sapiens. If SCP-146 is able to communicate, it has not yet done so. SCP-146 exhibits the ability to access and bring to mind certain memories in those who initiate eye contact. These memories are usually tied to a sense of guilt or shame in the subject. After initial eye contact is made, the subject need only remains somewhere in SCP-146's field of vision for the memories and associated feelings to become more intense, although continual eye contact speeds the process.

Upon initial eye contact with SCP-146, recent memories will begin to surface in the subject. With continued exposure to the gaze of SCP-146, the subject will begin to recall older and more vivid memories, with a corresponding increase in feelings of shame in the subject. Generally, after 30 minutes of exposure, the memories will move from being vivid recollections to intense hallucinations, with the subject unable to distinguish the past from the present, or the imagined from the real. Subjects have been observed to regress in personality as well, particularly in cases where memories of childhood trauma have been brought up. Any test subjects exposed for over 30 minutes should be restrained both for their own safety

and the safety of others. All subjects to date who have been exposed to SCP 146 for 60 minutes have completely retreated into their hallucinations. So far, no such subject has been restored to consciousness from this near catatonic state. Such subjects must be fed intravenously and are unresponsive to external stimuli, save for occasional murmurings consistent with their regression. It has also been noted that when subjects recall a shameful event, they will often feel compelled to make amends for their actions.

This is not generally a problem in the case of minor offenses. However, problems arise when the subject cannot make amends, either because the offended party cannot be contacted or because the transgression is somehow irredeemable. In most such cases, subjects fall into a deep depression and or turn to some form of self-punishment, including self-mutilation and suicide.