rating: 0+x
Item #: SCP-4203 Level 2/4203
Object Class: Safe Classified



Special Containment Procedures: A generic warehouse is to encompass SCP-4203's exposed features and the building SCP-4203 encompasses. Renovations to aging portions of the complex are to be cross-verified by personnel with clearance level-4 certifications. Field agents masquerading as security officers are to redirect civilian persons away from the warehouse. Standard CCTV and surveillance networks are to monitor incoming and outgoing traffic.

Description: SCP-4203 is the head of Alexandra Svoboda, hereby designated PoI-4203. SCP-4203 comprises 79% of the interiors in Saint Olsteen's Asylum.1 SCP-4203 is comprised of human flesh and bone. It is highly disfigured and resembles a self-portrait made by PoI-4203.

An undulating cranial cleavage atop SCP-4203 acts as the only entrance. Internally, SCP-4203 is extra-spatial and produces an environment and organisms with vibrant colors (such as Prussian blue to neon-pink to ultramarine.) These organisms include flowers, grass, fungi, and trees. They possess no molecular composition when examined.2 and are designated SCP-4203-1 instances. SCP-4203-1 instances' vocalizations, ephemeral epidermis, avian-like bones, and hallucinogenic properties have remained unchanged since PoI-4203's death.

Foundation field agents pacified and secured PoI-42033 after she exhibited low-level reality manipulation during a severe psychotic episode in 1923. PoI-4203 was sent to Saint Olsteen's Asylum and improperly diagnosed with schizophrenia. This was due to the Foundation's comprehension of mental disability, synonymous psychiatric conditions, and learning difficulties during the early 20th century. Posthumously, PoI-4203 instances (developed from her ability to create anomalous flora) were redesignated to SCP-4203-1.

As per the Baudrillard-Reidegger Initiative4, the following diary entries by PoI-4203 are kept for posterity in RAISA medical journals.

Thaumaturgical, Thaumaturge, Demiurge? Had a nice ring to it when the goodly Doctor told me that I had a higher, scientific purpose. They divulged little, but from what I gathered, I am to become a botanical "thing" that encircles others like me. They removed a fragment of me to do so. Shame, that fragment held my first crush, the faces of my parents and…

Not like I had a choice at the Pawn Shop of Horrors, bargaining what meager self I still had for pills. The veracity of its cure and the effectiveness of its distraction have been lost on me for… quite some while now. So long as I can paint or write and these little notes keep me stable — my little companions — I will endure. But to what end, I do not know.

"Philosophy is the Ladder, Psychology the hole. Men are not granted the luxury of Godliness, so we must climb back in and out of the hole, and explore it daily." It was his last words from his last session. Now he lies spluttered out on linoleum.

Misdiagnosis. They said. After they robbed me of my schizophrenia, my only world.


I don't know how long it has been. Somesuch years initial confinement. Maybe several severals on diagnosis. And a good, I-don't-exactly-know on experimentation. My eccentricity, epilepsy, and ennui, the things that bled back to that Garden behind Silent walls. All were used by the men, over and over again. Everything creative just seemed to run off the edge of the cliff, and die.

The latter of which had been focused on the instrumentality of my "insight", but it was not my own, it was not their's to give and then take back, and now I am alone. The only thing left in me is the question: why?

All last. Every symptom, as an after-effect of medication and treatment for a false malediction, lasts. Yawning pain, shivering bones, sleep paralysis, maniacal melancholy, uncontrollable defecation, ants-from-skin, bleeding-but-from-where. My head hurts too, sometimes.

I was never a professional writer. Nor a painter, teacher, nurse, or housewife. Hands shook too much for the former two and the latter two were impossible, given my affliction. No, I— came here freely. When I couldn't paint my Gardens anymore, when the woeful colors had a mind and madness their own, I sought the help of institutions. First Brookshire, then Helena, and now Olsteen. None ever stopped the colors. Even here, in my head, I see them; these purples, greens, golds, and reds, like phantasmal bouquets roaring up the hills. He was wrong, my Doctor I mean. They were all wrong about the abyss. Its antediluvian colors feel warm, and the kaleidoscope has a face— a truth.

Mr. Morrison started coughing blood today. Not long for this world yet he lingers here, flapping his yellow hewn feathers, meekly raising his greenish head for seeds, chirping and staring black-eyed: deep into the white cushions for walls. He's locked up in the cage and wonders how long he's been here or if this was a joke. Some cruel mischief by a masturbatory God.

He sometimes stares at the windows, thinking the walls possess mouths, so he just wants to focus on something other than chit-chat, and he stares at the windows. The mouths… It is not indiscriminate garble and he gets the sense he's a genius for uncovering they're secrets, often thinking himself the King of Birds, or Thoth himself, because these strings of logic tie together so effortlessly, that no other can see them. After all, the call of the Garden always starts off as a frenetic frenzy. His caretakers call it "delusions of grandeur." He coughs up blood and it comes out like a flower.

He is dying, and he knows his coffin will be a shoebox somewhere in an unmarked warehouse, on the outskirts of some little-unmarked town. He doesn't quite feel comfortable with the fact he had discovered the vibrant truth of the world, and done absolutely nothing of note in life. He died, and as he thought in death, he prayed to Thanatos that it would end— but the walls only spoke on.

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