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Experimental Rehabilitative Procedure XXXX-Olympia
Final Report
From the desk of Dr. X. Jia, April 14, 1978
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Hello, O5 Council —
My name is Olympia Kay. I am 25 years old and I am learning to write.
I was non-verbal for twelve years following the recovery of my body. I'm only able to share my thoughts with you now thanks to the efforts of my adoptive mother, countless Foundation researchers, therapists, psychiatrists… and one very patient custodian.
I have the memories of a little girl who is not me. I remember the sound of her name, "Kupra", her face, her parents, and the things she liked to eat. To this day, I understand Esperanto perfectly but can't speak it. I don't want to learn, OK? Whenever I hear it, I remember what it felt like as she was dying.
'' Sed kelkfoje ni devas memori. ''
My therapist told me about phantom limb syndrome. You reach for something, but there's no hand. You can still feel the hand that is not there. One day, Kupra's "reach" was not there. The spoon was on the table, but it was… impossible. And, in a matter of hours, everything else was too.
Forgetting how to talk, how to move, how to take a deep breath… It was agony. Nobody knew how to help her, they were all going through it too. She could see, she could remember, but she didn't know how to do anything. Before she forgot how to yell, she cried for her mother.
Her mom wanted to help, wanted to see if she was OK, but didn't remember how to walk. The woman just collapsed on the floor. Kupra thought she could get away from whatever was doing it. All those people yelling. She ran, and ran, until her legs wouldn't listen any more.
Kupra ended up… someplace warm. She got lucky, because the heat went out after that and it was April. She spent hours trying to get her left hand out from under her, where she'd fallen on it. She could hear people around her, trying to do anything. Then she forgot how to watch, how to listen, how to focus. Finally, she forgot how to stay upset about any of it. That was the last piece of her. She died.
Her body, the thing that was left over… It had some time to take things in and "float" in all this. It couldn't think. It remembered things, and it could put those together so they made sense. But thinking leads to doing, OK? That part was gone.
So, the thing that used to be Kupra, it felt something, and floated a few ideas. See, the adults in that place were always worried. They would talk about the water and the electricity and the books and… getting old. They were always checking if the kids were OK.
It was worry that killed them. It breached containment.
It's always there, like the setting sun, but they didn't feed it right. It got hungry, and then it woke up, and it got out into the air. It was the worst thing you can imagine, and it was still awake. It was the only intention that body could feel, when everything else was missing. But Kupra hadn't ever felt it before. You don't learn to worry like that until you grow up.
Then you sent Mom up there, and she found that body still breathing, and the SCP Foundation started to work on it and gave it new procedures. That's how I was born. I began doing.
Now that I can think, now that I contain worry… That idea still floats. Every time we say "I'm OK", we're checking on our worry, or somebody else's.
I wrote my first poem and Mom says I should put it in here even though it isn't protocol.
| '' OK's the cure but it's the disease.
| We feed it, sure, but we put it at ease. ''
For the rest of my life, I'll be doing whatever I can to make sure we keep feeding SCP-XXXX.
— O.Kay (the younger)
