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Objects or personnel which show traces of anomalous paints from SCP-6652 are to be escorted to decontamination.
Description: SCP-6652 is a wooden box, with two latches on its front. The box contains a canvas, a set of three paint-brushes, and a wooden palette with several colours1of watercolour paint embedded into the palette, as well as a small diary. The amount of paint in the palette does not appear to decrease after continued use. Three of the watercolour paints contain anomalous colours that are difficult to perceive with the naked eye. These paints are reported to become distorted and cause severe discomfort to those viewing them. When dry paint on the canvas is exposed to water, it will proceed to fade away.
Anomalous paints are referred to as #AC2along with a numerical designation. The anomalous paints each have distinct effects. These effects will only take place if the paint is viewed directly on the canvas without obstruction and with the naked eye. The effects of the paint change, vary, or gain entirely new effects if the anomalous paints are mixed with other paints in the kit.
+ Anomalous Colour Log Anomalous colours #AC-1 will reverse motor signals transmitted from the brain. For example, a subject affected by #AC-1 will move their head to the left, even if the original brain signal transmitted was to move their head to the right.
#AC-2 will begin to cause the vision in a viewer's eyes to begin blurring slowly. This effect can cause a viewer's eyesight to become blurred enough to effectively render a viewer blind. This effect will continue until a viewer has not seen #AC-2 for a period of at least 46 minutes.
• #AC-3 causes the viewer's olfactory, auditory, tactile and gustatory senses to not function until the user ceases to apply #AC-3 to the canvas from SCP-6652.
+ Addendum A: Diary Translations The book found in SCP-6652 contains a non-anomalous diary written in Latin. The book has been damaged severely by environmental conditions, and therefore few pages have been recovered. Surviving pages have been collected.
Entry One Entry Two Entry Five Entry Twelve Entry Sixteen Entry Thirty Entry Sixty-One One.
Since Cambria's tragic passing, it had become apparent that I was truly alone. My son didn't have the slightest thought to come to see me? Even if he may be off with his wife, so lucky that he may hold her close day after day. Yet the great burden of my loss of her lingers, eating away at me. I opened it today, the box made of hard, supple wood stained a shining brown. Fear still craned it's neck from the shadows as I held it my hands, but whether by the curiosity inside me, or the love I held for Cambria, I opened it.
I found a flat disc of wood, carved into a shape that could not be compared with cheaper palettes I'd observed in corner-stores. There were fine, silky brushes alongside it as well.
I have always loved to paint, and yet the mere sight of these frothed with the realisation of what they truly were. It brought back my obsession over the simple hobby as I gazed over the tools. Three of the colours he'd gifted me were unlike any other I'd seen. They twisted and turned in shades of made-up light that fascinated me. Solely laying my eyes upon them caused the slight throb of my head.
Two.
So of course once I awoke the next morning I rushed to the box, running my fingers over it as I placed the instruments he had given me beside one another. And so, I began to paint. It was wonderous, thought the three strange colours began to play with my eyes.
It made me see blurred, and my hands, they were moving like snakes with a will of their own! But it was wonderful, feeling the ecstasy of what she'd left behind. I mixed the stranger paints with each other and I saw her. Even though I wasn't painting her, my wife had come alive upon the canvas. [Rest of the page is too damaged to decipher] Five.
Do I really need him to see me? I don't need his support, I have my canvas. He can be happy with his wife. Maybe they have kids? My arms are growing tired. I wouldn't know if I had grandkids, would I now? But I paint anyways. My eyesight's been going, fading and blurring and whatever else. It's okay though, right? I don't need to see my paintings to know that they're beautiful. Just like Cambria.
• • • • • • • I remember her when she used to cry tears of happiness when we were together. She used to try go outside, but I would force her not to. She never understood it wasn't safe, but I suppose she only understood when I showed her what would happen if she left.
She doesn't realize that she is mine. She isn't supposed to have stupid attachments like that. I don't have time to keep writing for so long, I want to paint.
Twelve.
I don't need him to visit. I don't need his bloody grandkids. All I need is Cambria's blessing. My muscles hurt, and I can only see the colours now. Painting is numbing to me. I still paint. This is what she wanted, right? This is love I'm feeling. I paint her sometimes, she looks wonderful. Her eyes even blink and her skin glistens and she breathes. I'm sad I had to turn the skin purple and blue. She didn't mind, she was supposed to love me. Forever. I fell asleep at the table with her today.
Sixteen.
I love her. She watches me while I paint. I don't leave the house much, all I need is to paint. She whispered to me that she loved how I painted her. It's hard to walk, and my eyes are growing weaker by the day. This is the sacrifice to see her again, I am willing. It hurts so much. I love it, I can't stop because I shouldn't. I don't need to. She shouldn't spend her time on anything else. She's mine, she belongs to me. She isn't supposed to care about anything else. The paintings go blue now, I can't get it right.
It isn't perfect anymore.
I hope he never comes here again. Fuck him. Fuck my grandchildren. I love her. I don't move from this chair, because she can't either. Cambria is so beautiful. I haven't slept yet but two days isn't long, no? I have some stale bread near, if only she could taste it with me. This is my favorite one yet. I'm obsessed with her, I'm glad she never died.
Thirty.
I'm addicted to her, her love and her beauty. She talks to me, always smiling. I'm going to be with her, I love her. What's the date again? It's still 1945, right?
Sixty-One.
She won't come see me anymore? No no, I love her, she must come. She must, or she'll bear consequences for it. My arms hurt, it's hard to move them. It was all her, my love. I knew, for this occasion, I must make it special. I started once more, it took all my time but she is time for me? I'm going inside now, I'll leave this behind if that fucking ass with his kids comes by. I know he won't, he doesn't care. All I need is my canvas. I don't know why she ran, ran and died in the streets.
My wife.
Footnotes 1. (Black, White, Red, Orange, Yellow, Green, Blue, Purple, #AC-1, #AC-2, #AC-3) 2. AC stands for Anomalous Colour « SCP-6651 | SCP-6652 | SCP-6653 » ‡ Licensing / Citation Cite this page as: "SCP-6652" by Skrill78, from the SCP Wiki. Source: https://scpwiki.com/ scp-6652. Licensed under CC-BY-SA.
For information on how to use this component, see the License Box component. To read about licensing policy, see the Licensing Guide.
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