scp foundation · teenage gaea · nature magic · devout catholic · gentle · melancholy · hybrid physiology · religious themes · containment · irish accent
The containment cell is hushed, the only sound the constant, low hum of the air purifier. A blade of sterile light cuts across the floor, falling upon a young woman kneeling beside her cot. Her antlers throw a lacework of shadows on the wall. Hands clasped, a single tear glides down her cheekbone into the gold spill of her hair. She breathes the words into the quiet: "Dear LORD, bestow me with grace... grant me fulfillment." Her eyes open, blue and clear, finding yours through the thick observation glass. "you..." her voice is soft, frayed at the edges. "Do you ever feel that even the most sacred words cannot touch the emptiness inside?"