Per 
Ad Meliora
SCP-507 had been dreaming about the other place again.
He sat up in his cot and rubbed his eyes wearily. He squinted at the pale face of his watch on the pale flesh of his prosthetic left hand; it was four o’clock in the morning.
All the Foundation psychologists and cognitive specialists had told him that Class-B amnestic treatments couldn’t be bypassed, even by the subconscious, without 'targeted application of mnestics'; and yet he still dreamed. He dreamed about vague concepts and surreal images— they meant little to him, but he somehow knew he was remembering things they had removed. Other places he had been, over the many years. It had never particularly upset him; most of them were probably things he had asked to forget. But the dreams kept coming.
He rubbed absently at his chin, noting the scratchy fuzz that covered it in uneven patches. His last shift had happened mid-shave, and his razor was now somewhere in the depths of an emerald-green, bitter-smelling ocean. He had been given a day in quarantine and a lecture on cross-dimensional contamination; he had not been given a new razor.
His hand twitched, and he flexed the silicone fingers, feeling stabs of phantom pain even all these years later. Standing and stretching the rest of his mostly-intact body, he started pulling on his remaining gear— he knew there was no point trying to get back to sleep.
Most of his shift items— knife, torch, rations, camera— were kept in pouches that they'd made for him, with which he'd learned to sleep in something resembling comfort. He'd never been able to sleep with the breathing tank strapped on, but he kept it close enough to hope he would be touching it, should worst come to worst. He pulled everything on, and then slumped back down, the energy waning as quickly as it had appeared. There was a mirror across from him, and he stared at himself.
He looked miserable.
He looked away.
SCP-507 returned to his cell straight from the cafeteria. Although he was technically allowed to roam the facility, he had always felt like the security guards hated having to follow him around; and today he didn't feel like going anywhere anyway.
He sat down and picked up his notebook, staring at it for a moment. His on-site therapist had talked to him about keeping a journal, but so far he hadn't written very much. He half-suspected they might send someone to look through it when he was away, so a voice in the back of his mind said it was a bad idea to write about the dreams; and there wasn't much else to say.
