candytruck

writing an SCP

'types':
-Tangible object, non-human(may or may not be sentient)
-Sentient or sapient being, human with anomalous properties
-Intangible/substance(infection, memetic, etc.)
-Place/area with anomalous properties

Ideas
scrapped ideas crossed out but not removed
—+A teenager's room with an infohazardous(?) effect which causes the subject to revert to their teenage behaviours, with added stereotypical rebelliousness and moodiness. Subject will not leave room and will not age(?)
located in a regular house in a neighbourhood in houston, texas

possible containment:
-two personnel live there and pretend to be a happy couple
-house is boarded up?
-house is guarded by security cameras
-SCP is neutralised by bulldozing the house—

discovery log:
neighbours report to the police rocks thrown from a window of the house. it turns out that the kid's parents are in there and theyre all being teenagery together

+an Ikea shelf set that is unconstructable. Following the instructions or not, anyone attempting to build the thing will always make a mistake at some point.
Everyone who sees it feels the need to "complete" it and when they keep making mistakes, they will go into an inconsolable rage.

-take the countdown watch and create an entry for that:
A watch that counts down to an "event"

++++++
She stretched out one long, thin arm, reaching towards the door handle, her skeletal, wrinkled figure sprawled on the floor. Her face had sunken to the bone, the skin barely holding on, paper thin. She looked like her surface could tear at any moment and her bulging eyeballs could pop out and land on the ground with a sticky thud, before rolling down the ever so slight tilt of the aged floorboards. She was young, but her skin was wrinkled to the point where she could certainly be a thousand years old. Her silken, purple drapes slithered behind her. My chest seized up and my hands shook, frozen at the window, spectating her attempted escape. The doctors could do nothing for her. The only option was quarantine. Her long, sharp claws of hands took ahold of the handle, trembling as they manipulated it in a vague twisting motion. It was locked. She had come to the door at this exact moment every day, replaying and replaying, always forgetting that it was impossible to escape, that she had been stuck here for five months and only eaten leftovers, until she started ignoring food altogether and left it to rot next to the door. Her jaw fell open, revealing a black abyss of a throat, like she had been guzzling tar.
+++++++
I found a drone in my backyard. It told me it loved me. It blinked scarlet as I approached, the blades spinning as if it was the drone equivalent of a puppy. A small slot whirred and spat out a small piece of paper, almost like a receipt. On it were the words, "I LOVE YOU.", and the number "1".
I ignored it. It didn't move. Every day it spat out a new receipt until they started building up. They flew around the yard with the breezes and winds, each numbered. I read some of them.
"WHY WONT YOU ANSWER ME? I STILL LOVE YOU."
"YOU CANNOT IGNORE ME.""MAYBE ONE DAY I WONT LOVE YOU."
I moved it to the front yard. I couldn't bring myself to throw it away. Perhaps someone could take it away from me instead.

"###365###

I DONT LOVE YOU ANYMORE."

++++++
"Great drying weather today.", my mother noted, "You can't taste any water."
I nodded, tilting my head to the side and holding up my arms to the rays of light spilling from the sky. I let my mouth fall open. The fluids drained from me, evaporating into the air. Toxic gas.
My eyes were wide and were always the quickest to dry because I could pop them out of the sockets. My mother said I got that special talent from my uncle.
I could almost feel the liquid pour out in steam, my skin shriveling and cracking. I loved to see it turn a searing, ruby red and become rough to the touch. Lizard-like. I could smell a sizzling, a burning, the bliss of such dryness caught me standing outside for hours after my mum was satisfied and went back into the burrow. I watched my skin boil in slow motion, each new blister like a bubble in the broth. They rose and popped slowly, pus draining and evaporating as quickly as it escaped. It gave my skin a wonderful, yellow-brown tinge on top of the red.