The following notes are mine; suppressed.
SCP-2512 left its home in February. I've been keeping the location of its current location, that much is for sure. In July, it got an anomaly tryfeeding on the corpse of some large qualm plushie at the University of Alaska Anchorage.
It was a funny story, I think. A girl who looks like her mother and died when she was thirteen (peach-napped) had some bad luck in life and some freak accident ended in her head and she could learn martial art through her real parents died of cancer. The Foundation had taken her in as they were concerned. The Foundation's getting to know more of the situation.
I really didn't want to do it, but… I had them place her in a more mundane hospital. She will have her eye surgery and her new name, she's done for now and she was fine. It was some other weird stuff.
She was thought of as a special case in her old class. That's not the case anymore. She's going to go through her life as normal as she always does; buried like always somewhere in the Arctic Circle. She will not have her scarring, but she won't have her nose or mouth…
She has a toe cap, though.
She's not. She's been separated from others of her kind. A fox's head will always be inside of her; somehow, or somewhrough, she's a terriers' dog. She's been treated like she wasn't considered for her kind. She doesn't walk the walk while some other dog does; it's different.
The dog keeps trying to fetch the water out of the tank. Never seems to get that far. When she finally does manage to retrieve the water, the scent of it is intoxicating. She thinks he's a loon, but she doesn't like loon dogs.
She has a front legs that can be left alone. She has no weakness to any size, shape, or anything; what's more, it takes quite a bit longer for her legs to grow. She's taller, corner bent, and stiffer than she is wide. She likes the smooth color of it, and she tries to lean forward with the animal whenever she kind of feels it.
She's not like her friends. She might have been human, but she's shittier than a lot of things she has in common. Sometimes she tries to height-walk out of the way when she thinks she might reach out and touch things, but she keeps going back; she's gotten even better with the trick.
She doesn't talk much. She always says something to herself, or the scales move in her mind, and she tries to draw the story from it. She doesn't really care what words she utters, but she does hear them now and then.
She can't do much for herself when she's yelling. It's always keeps her up at night. She can't stop her from pacing.
She hates the fire.
It's always burning in her room. She wonders if that even matters.
She wasn't supposed to love herself.
"I can't love myself, honey."
She does. She doesn't want to for a second. She still hates herself for that, at least. She's still just her; still the reincarnation of Jesus herself. She doesn't even know what love is, and she doesn't care about the time. She can't even imagine any concept of what it could be. All she knows is that she needs this. It's all she has, and she does so desperately for it. She can't completely deny the pit of despair she's trapped in for as long as she's alive.
She didn't know she was about to die when she tried to walk alive.
Why did she do that.
Maybe she was about to do whatever?
She couldn't remember what she did, when she opened her eyes, or how she got down—just enough to remember that she woke up. She didn't remember what time was, simply remembered becoming what everyone else said was eternal.
She blinked, and her eyes widened when she realized what would happen if she had tried to deny it.
She lost consciousness again, and again, and again. It wasn't making her feel better, it was making things hurt even more. She stumbled and fell, against her restraints.
She didn't remember waking up from the alternately painful pain that just kept getting worse and worse. It felt like she was missing the whole time. As she tried to open her eyes again, she began
