The SCP Experience - Thought Preserver | SCP-2103

Episode Date: October 7, 2024

Want to listen ad-free? Try it FREE for 7 days here: patreon.com/TheSCPExperience SCP Foundation SAFE class object, SCP-2103 This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-2103 and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ Author: Cyrus S. * * * 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

The metronome on the coffee table kept a steady beat. Frank found it oddly comforting, something he could keep his focus on instead of blankly trying to summon the words to regurgitate to his therapist. He watched the pendulum swing, watched its hair-thin tip catch the hook at the top each time. Frank? His therapist asked.

Frank looked up. What? He asked. It came out more defensive than he meant for it to. We're almost ten minutes in, his therapist continued. And you haven't said very much. Frank drew his brow together. No, he said.

I mean, I guess so. I don't know. He went back to staring at the metronome. What was I talking about? From the corner of his eye, he saw his therapist give him a thin, sympathetic smile. You were talking about your wife, the man said. You were talking about what it was like. like for you the day that she died. Oh, Frank rubbed his face. Right. He tried not to think about it,

actually. He was only in therapy because his grown daughter had cried at his kitchen table for an hour before he finally made the call and scheduled an appointment. Tell me more, his therapist said. You said she was taken by throat cancer. That must have been difficult for you. Yes, Frank said. He could feel himself start to stare off into the distance and lose track of what was being said to him. It was she loved to sing, he blinked and rubbed his face, looking back at the man across from him, like he was seeing him for the first time. His therapist was an odd-looking man. He had a face that should have been handsome, but all his features were strangely smooth. There were no natural wrinkles or ridges, or even much texture to the skin.

He looked like he was made of plastic, and he had straight white teeth that were always just a little bit set on edge. I'm sorry, Frank said. I don't think that I can talk about this. Can I come back? Next week or something? It is good to get these things out, his therapist said. Cathartic even. You won't be able to let it go until you release it all into the atmosphere.

The therapist reached down next to his chair and lifted a smooth glass mason. jar by the rim. It looked like a mason jar, at least, but it didn't have any markings on it at all. Do you know what this is? A mason jar, Frank said flatly. The therapists smile widened. No, he said. It's a thought preserver. You can speak all your woes into its mouth, and it will contain them. They will disappear from your life like they never existed. Isn't that what we want from all our problems? Frank rolled his eyes. Sounds handy, he said. He really didn't have time for a bunch of therapeutic speaking to the jar bullshit, but he had a feeling he wasn't getting out of paying the 150 bucks consultation fee either, so he might as well go along with it.

His therapist set the jar on the coffee table and slid it across. Frank picked it up. It didn't feel sturdy like a usual Mason jar. It actually felt surprised. surprisingly delicate. He cupped it with both hands to try and feel some security, terrified to accidentally drop it. So, he said. Now what? Do I just talk into the top here? Exactly. The therapist placed his fingertips together. From across the table, they looked so smooth and shiny.

They reflected the harsh overhead lighting. Just speak your mind, whatever happens to be hurting you. Frank sucked on his teeth. sucked on his teeth and then tilted the mason jar towards his face. He looked down at the transparent bottom where he could see his own sweaty palms, cradling it like a newborn baby. All the grief that he had been holding back for the past few months suddenly came bubbling up. He was helpless to stop it, like vomit from the stomach flu. He leaned forward and placed his mouth to the rim of the jar, spitting the awful sadness into its see-through depths.

Carolyn died of throat cancer right before her birthday, and it's been eating me alive, he said. I can't sleep or eat. Every time I try to do anything, all I can think about is her. It's tearing me apart. Letting it go hurt almost as much as keeping it inside. Yet, when he leaned back, Frank felt a lot better, as if an enormous weight had been lifted from his shoulders. For the first time in months, He felt like he could breathe. His mind was calm, and there was nothing in the very back of his skull, digging at the vulnerable sections of his brain. How did that make you feel? the therapist asked. Frank set the jar down on the coffee table and slid it back.

I feel fine, he said. Really? I think that helped. He looked up at his therapist. Thanks, he said. I guess silly little tricks have their way of working sometimes. Some kind of psychological. juju you picked up, I guess. A trick of the trade, the therapist said. I guarantee you will be able to move on from this now. Frank nodded. He rubbed his hands up and down the legs of his jeans

and tried to remember how he ended up here. He knew he was in his therapist's office, but he could not remember why he had come or what had compelled him to make an appointment to begin with. He had already paid, so he could just leave, right? Without saying anything, Frank stood up. He took his coat up off the back of the chair and slid it on, pushing his hands down into his pockets, feeling for his wallet and his keys, before looking back at the man still seated behind him. Are we, um, are we done?

Frank asked. You tell me, the therapist said. Do you think that you got everything you wanted out of this session? Frank wasn't sure, but he still didn't like the look on the man's face. There was something odd about it. It was too smooth. His expression was listlessly pleasant, like a Ken doll. Frank nodded regardless.

Yes, he said, thank you. I think I'm all right now. Dee Barnett sat at her friend's kitchen table with her hands pressed against a hot cup of coffee. Her friend, Julie, was busy slapping some emergency tomato sandwiches together in the kitchen. That was the thing about Julie. She would always dig something out of her fridge and make sure that you ate, even if you showed up last minute and without a text or call prior. Julie sat Dee's sandwich in front of her, cut messily from corner to corner,

and then pulled out her own chair to sit. Talk to me, Julie said. You've been looking terrible since you got here. Thanks, Dee said dryly. She didn't touch her sandwich, but she sipped her coffee. Well, I don't mean to be a type of way, Julie said. I'm just trying to help. So, what gives?

Dee took a deep breath. She wasn't sure how to explain what she was experiencing. Even repeating it over in her head sounded like something she had made up. It's my dad, she said. He's been acting really off. Well, Julie said. Your mother hasn't been gone for very long, has she? It's been less than a year.

Yeah, Dee said. But he's been... I don't know how to do you. to explain it. He's acting like it never happened. Julie took that in for a moment, then said, maybe that is a part of moving on, not acknowledging it as a part of processing. De-sugarhead. It would be one thing if he just didn't want to talk about it, she said. But it's not even that. He's acting like it never happened. He's acting like my mom is still alive. Her things are still exactly where she left them. Her side at the bed is unmade in the morning, and he makes it up.

He walks around the house and talks to her like she's still there. He called me yesterday to tell me about all the flowers she had picked out for their yard. It's really weird. And I am worried about him. Julie reached across the table and grabbed Dee's hand, giving it a little squeeze. Did he go see that therapist like you asked him to? Yes, Dee said. She squeezed her friend's hand back. I called him afterward, and he said everything was just fine. There were no problems. And then he went right into telling me what he was making for dinner. I thought he was just having a hard time, or maybe he was confused after talking about his feelings. But it's been going on for at least a month, and I don't know what to do at this point. I don't know what to tell you,

Julie said. She sounded a little bit apologetic. Your dad is a good man. I hate to see him so sad. I do, too, Dee told her. I think maybe I should go talk to his therapist and see if there is something that he isn't telling me. Or maybe I can at least bring up the concerns and see if they can address it together during their next session. Julie nodded. I don't know how much information you will be able to get, she said.

But it might be helpful either way. And if they can address it together, then maybe that will help your dad figure out why he is choosing to act things out this way. Maybe. Dee sipped her coffee again. It wasn't doing very much to help. She felt like she hadn't slept a good night in a hundred years. All this after finding out about Carl and his co-worker, it's too much, I think. Julie crinkled her nose. That petite blonde bitch they hired as a secretary. Yeah, Dee said. And do you remember my husband talking to Stan at the barbecue saying,

I don't even like blondes? Well, he likes them enough to bang them and walk in. out on his family, I guess. Sounds like you need a therapist, Julie said. Well, Dee shrugged. Let me get my dad sorted. Then I will worry about myself. The plaque on the door was unreadable. Dee wasn't even sure that she was in the right place.

It was brass and fixed to the door. But the words were incomprehensible. She could not tell if they were smudged or dirty or just badly jumbled. But the more she tried to focus on, them, the harder it was to read. Dee gave up. She knocked on the door and hoped that she had the right office. The man who answered had something off about him, although she couldn't quite place what was wrong. He looked like he was made of rubber. His face was unnaturally smooth, and his hair was slicked back to the point where it looked like it was hard enough to come off

in a single piece. His perfunctory smile was not a friendly one. It was just sort of there. Miss Barnett, he asked. He had a perfectly fine voice, in complete contrast to the fact that his face looked like a Halloween mask. Yes. Dee shook off her bewilderment and stuck out her hand. It's nice to meet you. Thank you for meeting with me. Of course.

He moved to the side and gestured towards his office. It's my pleasure. You're here to talk about your father? Yes. Dee stepped into the office and glanced around. It was bigger than she thought it would be, and looked more like a rich person's study than someone's office. I hope you understand that because of HIPAA, I can't give you any information about her sessions, the therapist said. I understand that, he told him.

She gripped her purse strap a little tighter. She felt stupid for even coming. I just wanted to talk to you briefly about something he's been going through. I'm not sure if he's told you since his last session. I've only had one session with your father, the therapist interrupted. Dee blinked. Oh, she said. Okay, well, I think you might want to reach out to him to schedule another.

See, he's been having some trouble since my mother died. Yes, he told me all about it. And since his first session a couple months ago, he has been acting really strangely. He's been acting like she's not dead at all, going around the house. cooking dinner for two and doing all the things they used to do together, going to the movie theater and buying two tickets, things like that. I don't know. Is that some sort of grief-induced psychosis? She spread her hands. I don't know how these things work. Grief is a very fickle thing, the therapist said. He took a seat and gestured to the chair across from him. Please.

Dee set her purse down on the coffee table in front of her and sat down. The therapist, the pendulum on the metronome that was sitting between them, and it started ticking. She found the sound to be oddly soothing, and it gave her something to focus on other than her surroundings. I can't imagine what it's like for him, she said. I just worry that he's so wrapped up in the present that he isn't living in the now. And he has grandchildren who are going to start asking questions, you know? I do.

The therapist put his fingertips together. They were shiny and lovely. looked like they were missing fingerprint grooves. You look like something might be on your mind as well. Something other than your father, I mean. And if you want to talk about it, I have a little bit of time before my next session. Oh, no, D-Shook her head.

No, I'm all right. I don't need to talk about anything. I've already come to terms with what happened with my mom. I mean, she was battling cancer for a while. I understand. The therapist tilted his... head. And there is nothing other than that? Dee chewed her bottom lip. No, she said. Nothing else, just my dad. I see. The therapist reached down next to his chair and pulled up a

mason jar. It looked empty from what she could see, and it didn't even have a lid. Dee broed her brow. Do you know what this is? the therapist asked. No, Dee admitted. The said, It looks like a spaghetti sauce jar. Yes, he said. That is what it looks like. What it is, in actuality, is a thought preserver. Do you know what that is?

No. You talk into it, he said. Did you ever do that as a kid? Whisper your secret into a seashell and then throw it into the ocean? No, Dee said again. I've never done anything like that. She sighed. But I know what you're talking about.

It makes sense now. Yes, he said. It's a simple concept. You speak your ills into the jar and leave it here, in this office. He set the jar onto the coffee table and slid it towards her. Why don't you give it a try? Dee hesitated. It seemed silly, and she felt silly doing it.

But if the man was going to give her a free session, She might as well do the exercise. There was no telling either. Maybe it would help. She picked up the jar and gripped it with both hands. It felt thin, like it was made of sugar instead of commercial glass. She held it up to her mouth until the rim was pressed against her cheeks. She felt ridiculous, but she followed through anyway.

When she spoke, her breath bogged up the glass sides. My husband cheated on me. She said, And I am afraid that our family is broken and will never be the same. She took a deep breath and then pulled the jar away. She handed it back over to the therapist without looking him in the eye. How do you feel? The therapist asked.

I don't know, she said. Dee looked around. The room seemed warmer and more inviting somehow. She was having a hard time remembering what she had been doing before she walked in. I feel fine, I think. That's good, the therapist said. This is all I can never hope for my patience, is that they leave here feeling a little bit lighter.

Dee nodded. I think I should go home, she said. She grabbed her purse and started to stand up. I have to make dinner for my kids. Of course, the therapist said, and stood at the same time. Let me show you out. Dee followed him to the door, still feeling a little bit dizzy.

When she stepped outside the office building, the cool air smacked her in the face, but did nothing to wake her up. Lasagne sur-goled, puissance-moyance-moyerned for 15 minutes. We're like it's the hour dojo. Fere to play. Live the pleasure with Leo Jo.

The casino in-line that proposes the more recent machine-ass-sou and the games of casino in direct. Profite of 50 tours gratu on Big Bas-Bas Bonanza, without exigance of misgions and with the payment instantane. Hey, I've got gained. Woo-hoo! Sontire the pleasure. Play-O-Jo.

First depot only depots on Ontario. 50 tours gratuys on the machine-assoubananza. Depos minimum of $10. Veil to play in a fashion responsible. The conditions apply. When Julie arrived at her friend's house, she knew in her gut that something had to be wrong. There was only one car in the driveway

and an oil spot where the other one had been. Dee's piece of shit husband had left three weeks ago, and the kids had completely trashed the front yard. Their bicycles were turned over on their sides. There were Barbie dolls and transformers thrown into the the grass. It was a mess. The mailbox was stuffed full of sales papers and bill-looking envelopes. Julie collected them before walking inside. The door was unlocked, which was weird. Dee only ever left the door unlocked when Carl was about to come home from work.

Dee? Julie walked through the living room, stepping over more toys while holding the bills in her hand. Dee, are you home? I'm here. Dee called from the kitchen. Julie changed her direction and walked until the carpet changed into linoleum. Dee was standing at her kitchen island, chopping up vegetables and throwing them into a frying pan full of sizzling garlic and oil. Smells good, Julie said. I'm making stir fry, Dee said cheerfully. That's great. Julie said her friend's mail down on the counter.

I brought in your mail. Hey, your door was unlocked. I know, Dee said. Carl will be home in about 30 minutes. Oh? Julie raised an eyebrow. I thought that he... She looked around.

Does he still live here? Of course he does. Dee smiled and stuck her finger into her mouth to suck off some soy sauce. He hasn't lived anywhere else. Not for ten years. Dee. Julie looked at her friend. That gut feeling turning into a deep, painful amount of concern for her friend.

Honey. Don't you remember? Carl walked out, like three weeks ago. He took the kids and said he was suing for custody. Don't you... She searched her friend's face for any hint of recognition. But if anything, Dee did not look pained. She just looked confused.

I don't know what you're talking about, Dee said. And if you're trying to mess with me, that's not funny. I'm not trying to be funny, Julie said. But you want to talk to your dad's therapy. and then you never said how that went. Then I didn't hear from you, and now you say that Carl is back, and... Carl never left, Julie, D, said. I think you're the one who is a little bit confused.

But if you're really talking about Dr... when she said his name, it sounded like garbled nonsense. Then you really should go see him, Julie. He's perfect. Is that what he is? Julie watched her friend start to stir the vegetables around the frying pan. I'm starting to wonder. No, no, Dee said.

You really ought to see him. He's going to make all your troubles go away. He will take the sadness right out of you, and he will put it in a jar, and he will hide it somewhere where you can never, ever find it. I don't think I've had one single day of depression since I was in his office. That doesn't make me feel any better, Julie said. But maybe I should go ask him a few things. Tell him everything.

Dee dropped her spatula and swung around so that she was facing. her friend. Her eyes were wild. Her pupils were smaller than a pencil tip, and her bright blue irises had been broken up with livid red veins. Give him everything that is bothering you, Julie. Put it in the jar and let him take it away from you. You will never feel the same. I guarantee it. Julie backed up. She put her hands up, as if her friend was going to start running for her. Dee looked more like a feral cat than her person in that instance. There was no telling what she would do. I'll think about it, Julie said.

I ought to get home, though. I need to make dinner for less now that you mention it. All your problems! D-shriek. Julie slammed her hands down over her ears to block out the awful sound. Whisper all your problems to him, Julie. He can take them away.

He will make them disappear. Julie turned and bolted. She didn't bother listening to the rest of what her friend had to say, and she did not slow down long enough to see if she was being followed. either. Julie ran towards the street, past her car, and kept going. Behind her, all she could hear was D screaming. It's in the jar! All your problems, Julie! Put them in the jar! SCP 2103 is a glass container resembling a typical American-made Mason jar, except it lacks any branding and has a 25-millimeter hole at the bottom.

While it functions normally when containing physical objects, it displays anomalous properties by allowing its owner to store a single concept or idea at a time. Once stored, all knowledge of that concept is removed from reality, causing individuals, including the owner, to forget its existence entirely. In some cases, this causes shifts in reality, as if the item never existed. Ownership is loosely defined by SCP 2103, which seems to operate on a sentient or programmed decision-making process, determining what can be stored based on its impact on others. SCP 2103 was obtained by the Foundation after reports of a therapy jar surfaced,

where clients used it to erase painful memories. Despite attempts to retain the item's original owner, they escaped, leaving the jar in the Foundation's possession. Additionally, SCP 2103 has demonstrated the ability to store physical objects under certain circumstances. Though intentional testing for this has been forbidden following incident 2103-04.