fayraz

O5 journal entry 1

I am not a good man

To even call me a man is to use the definition of humanity loosley, my anatomy is that of a homo sapien, my apperacice is quite neutral, but my soul is wicked. It’s rotten, malformed, only capable of atrocities and sins against man. I’ve approved many acts of hate to beings whose only sin was simply existence, I've witnessed horrors that would have resulted in suicide if seen by a more inoccent individual, and i continue the facade of being one of humanities gaurdians. Thus is the life of an O5 member, a position most certainly not coveted, but must be filled. It wasn’t always tainted, not in my youth. But that was long ago.
I was a young man, 18 fresh outta high school in Asheville, North Carolina, however, the Vietnam War kicked off 10 year before, and my childish desire to save people drew me to the Army recruiter. I still remember his face to this day surprisingly. A blond man with a crew cut, his face was thin with a well groomed mustache, bigger than his button nose yet somehow fitting. His atmosphere was inviting, perfect for someone whose job was to get your life in service of a nation’s ideals. His sail pitch wasn’t even necessary, and he knew it just by the way I walked in through the glass door. Instead he tried to convince me to go to the Special Forces. Not much was known about “snake eaters” back then but just enough was told to interest the brave and the foolish. He got me in contact with one of the green berets in fort bragg at the time, and told him to meet me back at the recruiters office. I was excited until the moment I met eyes with the soldier. He had not uttered a word but his face told it all, a face that i will see countless times in my life, but his was the first. It was the personification of fatigue, the way the skin around his eyes sagged while the rest was stretched across his skull, the way his eyes looked through you, into your soul or perhaps even beyond that, the hair was messy looking despite being combed, and the expression that appeared as if happiness had never once showed on his face. All of this only lasted for a brief second before a smile was forced into existence onto a surface it didn’t belong on, the eyes remaining just as tired and yet piercing.

He told me all about the training and the challenge and just about anything you could find on the brochure, but witnessing his face was the only proof I needed to convince me to join. I know what you are thinking, “Are you insane, or perhaps just stupid?”. While i can not refute either of these claims i will ask you a question, would you rather suffer pain for the sake of others or allow someone else to suffer pain on your behalf? There is no right answer to this question, as i learned that inevitably either choice is pointless once it comes down to the wire, but at the time I chose the former. The soldier in front of me bore a burden that I would not wish on my worst enemy at the time, and so I decided to take up the mantle and allow the man rest, knowing that he would not have to carry the load forever. Little did i know that the burden is never lifted, it is simply passed on to someone else as they carry their own share. Like a disease, you will be forever stuck with the memories no matter how many shots you take, pills you're prescribed, or amnestics you’re given, the mind still retains it, even if it’s just the concept that you remember a horrible event. It’s a feeling that’s almost maddening, like an itch on a rash, that once touched will only worsen the rash.
I shipped out a month after meeting the soldier, his name escapes me, and after the intense training earned the coveted beret. My parents were proud, and my home town buddies bought me drinks. It was a good old celebration, but it was also the last time I ever saw them. The next week we were assigned to an ODA and shipped off to fight the NVA and Viet-Cong. Looking back on the political squabbles of history is almost comical when in context of the grand scheme of things, like children arguing whose turn was next on the swing in the backyard while their parents were butchered in the home. While I got into my share of firefights, the defining moment of my military career was my first encounter with the anomalous. By this time I was in the army for a few years, made sergeant and was part of a LRRP. The officer in charge, Captain Robinson, was tasked with finding a supply route that the Viet-Cong were using to transport food and munition between tunnel systems. By no means an easy task, even considered fruitless by some, but orders were orders. On the 3 day of travelling we encountered an anomaly, but at the time we just called it “fucking weird guy”. Upon entering one of the tunnels left by the viet-cong the tunnel rat can back with the all clear and we shimmed in to explore for so useful supplies. Cpt Robinson found a small silver bell in one of the officers chambers, while slightly dirty it was still in good condition. I would later find out that this was SCP-662, who was buried alongside Cpt Robinson, who was later grave robbed in his hometown. After exiting the tunnels he rang the bell just for fun, then which Mr. Deeds arrived. He addressed Cpt Robinson in a british accent which was returned with screams and a tackle to the ground. Mr. Deeds remained calm the entire time.

“Who the piss ARE YOU”? Screamed Cpt Robinson, pressing the 1911 against his temple.
“You can call me Mr.Deeds Captain” The butler said as if he were having a conversation.
“HOW DO YOU KNOW MY RANK?” Robinson said, pressing the gun harder into Mr. Deeds skull.
“I-I simply do captain” Mr. Deeds says uncomfortably.
“OH NOW YOUR NERVOUS HUH? ARE YOU A SPY FOR THE GOOKS YOU JAMES BOND LOOKING FUCK?”
“I can assure you, captain, I am no spy. I’m simply here to do as you request me to do”.
Cpt Robinson thinks for a moment before ordering us to stand him up. Despite being shoved into the mud of the jungle his composure is still as stoic as ever.
“Why are we not restraining him sir?” the gunny asked
“Does he look asian to you? No, he’s probably SAS or some other secret shit” the captain replied
“I’d hate to disappoint you sir but i’m nothing that extravagant, i’m simply a butler called to service by you” Mr. Deeds interjected
“The hell you mean called to service?”
Mr. Deeds pointed to the bell “by ringing that bell sir”
“So what? I just rang this thing and you came running from Buckingham palace?”
“I’m… afraid i don’t know captain, i’m terribly sorry to disappoint”

The questioning of scp-662 continued until it was evidently clear that not information about his origin or appearance was going to surface. Instead we simply decided he was a non-combatant and would be escorted to the nearest ally base to be sent back home. We joked around for a bit about having our own butler until the new guy, Pvt Kowalski, asked for a beer. Upon losing sight of him Mr.Deeds returned with a pint on a tray. This halted the resonance in it’s tracks. The Pvt cautiously took the drink and sipped it, then chugged it and remarked it was the best beer he'd had since in country. From then on Mr. Deeds, despite his unusual nature, became a valued member of our LRRP. He was with our group for a month, treating us like kings. Then one day a mortar attack hit the FOB we established and “killed” Mr. Deeds. His body was charred, left leg blown off, and bow tie tattered. We buried him under a soldier’ s cross, poured a drink in his honor, and left the bell there for a time. The next day we visited it and Cpt Robinson rang the bell almost as if it was a ritual. Mr. Deeds appeared again and scared us all, but we hugged him in a loving embrace. This continued until finally we rotated out of vietnam and Cpt Robinson was promoted and transferred to another unit. We shared a drink together one last time with Mr. Deeds before giving the bell to him as a sending off gift. The war was a brutal series of political mishandlings, I saw many friends die. But SCP-662 was the first time i peeked behind the veil of the preconceived world, but it would not be the last.