Per 
Through the cracks of a beaten, torn up door on a nondescript building, screams flowed into the street. The screams were not met with reaction by the passing citizens, who had learned long ago that it was best to not react to the various noises inside the building. The high pitched wails ricocheted off the piss and shit-stained linoleum floors, the smells assaulting senses of Markie Willis, mixing in with the metallic taste of blood swelling up in her throat to form a putrid taste. She squirmed, attempting to break free from the moist and fuzzy restraints that bound her to the cold makeshift gurney. The screams had long ceased, as with every noise created within her throat was suppressed by the blood and mucus mix before it could exit her mouth, coming out in a wet splashing gurgle, the mix drying on her face in a crust as she waited. Her head pounded with frantic thoughts of escape, but to who? It was her own mother who had brought her here, trading her in for more drugs. A fix of heroin, meth, whatever would let her feel alive and avoid the troubles of being a teenage mother.
But her tiny, four-year-old brain couldn’t comprehend that her mother would do that to her. So she continually screamed, the wet gurgles suppressing the words, save for the occasional audible “Mommy!”. She lie there for hours, maybe more, her body aching and bleeding in some places. The foul rodents and bugs had taken the opportunity for a free meal, nibbling away chunks of flesh on her legs. There was the soft splashing noise of boots in water, then a soft, subdued, click. Markie was blinded, the light from the cheap LED lights overwhelming her. The splashing resumed, a deep but muffled voice shooing the rodents away. A silhouette stood above her, its features barely visible. There was a bandana of some sort on its head and a crude surgical mask. It wore dishwashing gloves, a form of sterility here.
He shoved a rag into her mouth. She felt the pressure begin to build up in her face, as her lungs screamed and burned for air, a request she couldn’t meet. The figure moved to the side, grabbing a sandwich bag full of a greenish-brown powder. The figure began to pour steaming, bubbling water into it, causing foggy red water to replace the powder.
The figure splashed a bit of the water on her skin, causing her to recoil as much she could, feeling the water burn off the top layer of her skin. She kept gasping for air, but the figure paid no mind, simply filling a needle with the murky red water, then stabbing her arm with it. The fluid burned, not a normal burning, however. It was a chemical, bubbly burning, from the inside. She felt it spread through her body, the pain following it. But it would be over soon, as she began to fade out of consciousness. Another minute passed, the pain hadn’t subsided, but she hadn’t either.
She was fully conscious, but the feeling was still there, that endless screaming for air. An hour had passed, and she was still alive, still having that endless burning pain, and that scream for air. The figure entered once more, this time with the jingle of something swaying. There were several clicks, and all at once, her restraints loosened. The figure grabbed her, taking the rag out of her mouth as he lead her towards the door. She took a deep breath of air, the feeling of air in her lungs beating the horrible smell. Her sneakers squeaked and sometimes skidded on various fluids in the hall, till they reached the door.
The figure swung the door open and threw her out, slamming the door behind her. She rolled down the steps, the jagged brick cutting through her soft flesh with ease. Something stopped her roll, however. Something soft and warm. Markie stood, her elbows scraped and bleeding from the roll. She turned to her stopper, freezing as she did. It was a human, a large young woman with blood covering her face and a needle in her arm. This wasn’t any woman to Markie, but the words were stuck on her tongue. It was her mother, dead as a brick. Turns out heroin can easily be replaced with fifty crushed Tylenol pills, a lethal dose. She had barely left the building where she sold her daughter when she died.
Sixteen years, Three hundred and fourteen suicide attempts after that chemical was injected into her, Markie lives, bearing the scars and pain from each. The pain from the injection was still there, and she assumes it will be forever. She was effectively unkillable, but that didn’t mean uninjurable. And she didn’t heal abnormally. She just couldn’t die, and that fact was in her face every day. She lived alone, in a cheap apartment in Chicago. Almost every day, a letter from a new circus would come, asking her to perform as hard to kill, or a daring stuntman. She declined every offer. It was noon, and she was making tea, not like she needed to eat or drink. It just felt right. So, when the doorbell rang, she was ready to tell some dirt poor carnie or sadist ‘No’. She opened the door, but what she saw surprised her. The man was obviously wealthy, based on his clothing.
“Can I help you?” She asked, paranoia filling her head. The only other wealthy people she knew who were interested in her were drug dealers, looking to test out their new product.
“My name is Doctor Carver. You should probably come with me” The man said, calm as ever. His words were smooth, flowing together. She didn’t truly listen but was still on guard.
“Why?” She aggressively retorted, reaching behind the door for her umbrella, just in case he tried anything.
“We believe we can…cure your affliction, should-” Carver said, but was interrupted by Markie, who shouted “YES”
The doctor lead her through the apartment complex, the cracked, stained and dirty aesthetic contrasting his clean and soft look. They stepped out into the cold, rainy street, approaching a Semi-truck with an advert for the “Simon Cole Project” on the side, which Carver identified to be the company he worked for. They got into the trailer, or rather Carver did. She paused. The inside had a smell that hit her instantly, the smell of strong alcohol, the smell of true clean. She hadn’t smelled that in a while. But she was hesitant, and this didn’t bode well with Carver. He nodded to two men at the front of the trailer, who she didn’t notice until now. She wasn’t even sure they were men, or humans for that matter, as they wore bulky armor and tinted visors on their helmets. They carried black assault rifles, the same color as their helmets and vests, but not uniforms, which was the same steril white as the inside of the truck. She was so busy taking in details that she hadn’t even noticed the men approaching her. One smelled strongly of cologne, a cheap Axe most likely. grabbed her and pulled her in, not giving her time to object as they flung her on the floor, which was a clean, white shiny tile. Her body ached, as she had hit the ground quite hard. She heard the screeching of the large metal doors being closed, followed by the noise of the large lock scraping against the steel of the doors. Before she could object, she had a bag placed over her head, along with earmuffs. She was propped up against something and leaned over as the Semi lurched forward violently. She could neither see nor hear, so she closed her eyes and drifted off into sleep, dreaming of being home, drinking the tea she had prepared.
The semi lurched once more, waking her. They had arrived, apparently. She was picked up and pulled out of the semi, her legs being dragged through the muddy grass. It seemed she was dragged for hours, through endless corridors. In all honesty, they only went about a hundred feet, but when you can't see or hear, that’s hard to judge. There was the faint, muted hiss of hydraulics, and she was thrown in a room, where her headphones and bag were removed. There was that hiss again, the door to the room shutting. The room was a blank white, with only a couch covered in plastic wrap. She stood up, approaching the couch before she was interrupted
“SCP-7654, have you made direct physical contact since you were infected with the chemical” a disembodied voice said in an emotionless, empty tone
She laughed, how was she supposed to remember how many people she had touched? But then, she thought about it. The man who raised her, a drug dealer, never touched her. She was never allowed around other people without gloves, and her ‘dad’ never shared her food or allowed her to. She had never truly had friends, either.
She responded, blank and unemotional
“No”
The door hissed open almost immediately, and a man was shoved in. He wore a clean white jumpsuit and was covered in crude tattoos, most obscene or anti-Semitic
“SCP-7654, please touch D-81763”
Wow, she thought. Do they know named here, or was that her name now? But she wanted this cure. She went up to the tattooed man and briefly tapped him on the hand, before scurrying back, afraid.
“Yo, what the fuc-” He began to respond, before screaming. He clutched his hand, yelling out obscenities and racist remarks as he toppled to the ground. He screamed for over a minute straight, his throat beginning to bleed. The door hissed open, and one of the armed men stepped in, looking at the man. The man turned to the armed man, crying out “Man you gotta help me, please man! It burns, on the inside!” The armed man didn’t respond, he only raised his rifle and fired, the round piercing the man’s skull and blowing white and red out of the back of his head. He fell limp, collapsing. The back of his head was open, and his skull and brain were exposed. The man opened his eyes, looking around
“Am…Am I dead? Is this hell?” he asked
The armed man put what looked to be oven mitts on the man, zip cuffing them down. They both left the room, leaving deep red blood trickling down the wall, and white shards everywhere.
A minute passed
“So, what about this cure? Can you fix..Can you fix me?”
There was silence
