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Description: SCP-7263 denotes a view of the sunset seen over Mount Seceda in Italy.
Manifestations are identical, and can be confirmed by checking the following conditions: The Witness was alone, wearing nothing but light clothing, and carried no equipment; The Witness knew the prior Witness intimately; The Witness knew what they saw.
Under these conditions, a new Witness may be confirmed. Accounts from all prior known witnesses have been provided below.
Angie Whitoff Interviewed within her home.
"Trips to the mountains were always father's favorite. Skiing, hiking, all the wonderous to-do of the occasion was all unbelievably to his fancy, and who could blame him. It was always the most glorious time when we had those family trips oh-so-long ago now.
[She chuckles to herself.] I must tell you of the first time I tried skiing. Ohoho —yes. I was such a precious little girl with quite the high measure of myself, if you could believe that, and was not one to embrace fear at such a trifling danger as "sliding down snow" no —not at all. We all had our little toboggins back home, and in the odd chance we got an opportunity to take them out oh-my I would be the fastest to it on those cold mornings. Yes —haha. Oh and you're letting me get distracted.
I was taken to it immediately of course, the skiing, and wanted to try something a little more, "difficult", per say. My mother dear, ever the prude to adventure —of course— planted herself firmly at the resort, tasking my father with the job of keeping me safe and sound in my quaint little hubris all bundled up sweet-as-I-was.
Certainly from what little I've spoiled of him, he was not to complain at all, gleaming at the opportunity to brave the heights so early in the trip. Maybe looking back with some well earned hindsight I could call some of what he let me get away with at times • • • "neglectful of my better health", but look at me now. Spry as a daisy, though, the evening has come as it will. Anyhow- To the top we flew at such speeds only a young memory can distort, and oh, what a distorted wonder lives on in my mind. Those shaking pines, that deep and yearning cliff face below; precipitous in my minds eye though clearly in front, below, and behind… Do you ever miss thoughts like that, dearie? I do. A world incomplete can be so scary, but we are creative beasts aren't we. We make magic, we tell tall tales, and of course, that must all stem from somewhere.
Far away now.
Far far away.
He was not a fool, of course, so he did'nt just set me off down willy-nilly once we hit the top of that slope no— hohoho. No he did not.
[She chuckles to herself.] Ever the, what shall I say… thoughtful man? Yes, that'll do- Ever the thoughtful man he threw back his ski poles and invited me to cling on, simple as that! So cling on I did and there we set, immediately bolting down that high old slope in the Dolomites. Tearing down straightaways, skirting bleak curves, painting a brushstroke wide and sharp and fast and —oh, by now you know words fail to capture the images found in a child's mind. It was exhilarating, feeling that cold chill suffuse my body, the steel in my legs meeting it with a mighty burn and all that flurry beating and pulsing wildly about within my small frame. Following, clinging, with all my might to the poles father held out behind.
And yes, you can guess, a young girl tires. A young mind wanders and falters and confuses. Of course, yes I turned and looked for a moment to the sky and… A bounce in the leg. An invisible obstacle jolting me and making me lose my grip and tumble. And tumble I did so spectacularly you know the world inverted that day. Somersaults and rolls down and down and down and down and down and down… give or take 5 meters before I ground to a halt on the slope.
Of course, this wasn't some terribly difficult, horrible, kill-your-uncle slope, no it was a very fair, middle of the road, safely glide to the end sort. I know- I know- but it wasn't me lying, not at all. Blame young Angie for the memories why don't you.
[She chuckles.] My father caught wind quickly and swooped back around, waddling up the hill just a bit to little-old-me scrunched up crying in a ball on that slope.
And you know what he did?
Gave me one look over, patted me on the back, and said 'Get up!' Not a girl to disobey her father, I certainly did. You know men of his generation. He was wonderful but oh so conventional in many ways I'll let stay unspoken, perhaps.
Bleary eyed and wailing I got to my feet once more, adjusted my skis and solidified my stance. Once more, my father offered his ski poles backwards and down down down we went.
The proper way, as planned. Much faster than somersaulting most certainly.
[She chuckles.] In a flash we reached the bottom of that hill, and my mind was sorting out such a world of a tizzy. Of course, the fall was at the forefront of my mind, but it was rapidly fading away to the mass of purely happy emotions I'd experienced around it.
We approached mother and if I could tell you the glare she gave father —my oh my, yes — it could kill me twice over in the state you see me now, but of course, of course, it was father the brunt of that horrid glare and he stood unfazed with a bedraggled daughter in tow.
She ran over, scolding him, checking me over, scolding me, scolding father again and still there I stood, saying nothing, just processing all that had just happened to me.
Father leaned down, and with that piercing grin said, 'The little angel seems just fine to me, honey.' And she frustrated at that, of course. How dare he risk a little girl like that! She wasn't ready! She could have been horribly hurt! And- 'Can we go down again?' So the glare turned to me.
Poor little Angie.
Enough was enough, and mother brought me inside.
[She is interrupted by the proctor and asked to get back on topic.] Ohoho— I never promised that it happened then did I? You must let an old woman indulge in flights of fancy you know, it's rude not to.
I was getting there, you know.
No need to rush.
[She chuckles.] So, of course- Years went by. Trip after trip to that same old resort in the Dolomites. Often it was brought up that we should maybe get a little bit creative, travel to some resort a little more out of the way, see new paths, you know, you know, my father wouldn't have it.
He loved that old resort. He loved those mountains.
And I wouldn't complain, I loved them too.
Up through my teens my passion for ski only grew. Tenfold, hundredfold, I'd say it's uncountable really what passion can muster within a woman.
A young woman, turned Olympian, if you must know.
And one day came, back on those slopes, where I offered my father a race.
I inherited his hubris, quite obviously. I thought I'd beat him easily, really, and I still think I would have if it hadn't all happened then.
We set up at the head of the most difficult, winding, off the beaten track path we could find, and we prepared ourselves for a whistle.
[She pauses.] With the pitch high I bolted down the slope, weaving rapidly from tree to tree and out of my father's sight immediately.
I was perfectly focused, barely thinking as I dodged under branch after branch, deftly avoiding knobbly snarling roots that begged to snatch at my skis and catapult me into the ground. I was a bird. One with my skis, with the forest, and the mountains, and everything around me. This is what I was built to do. This is what I was built to be. Every fiber in my bones every twinge in my nerves, it all just worked. Skiing was my all. My everything.
Then I hit it.
Nothing.
Or at least, I saw nothing.
I sensed nothing.
Completely focused and free and that loathsome invisible obstacle just below the snow's surface jolted me, sending me flying up into the air and forward at full speed.
Some of me hit a tree.
I landed on a rock.
[She pauses.] I came to who-knows-how-long later and was just aware enough of myself to take stock of the situation. I was still where I landed, blood on the snow and the patch growing and growing as time ticked away. With what little thought I could muster I tore off my jacket and found the bleeding wound, wracked with splinters, brushed off as many as I could and bound it to staunch the bleeding.
Then I just sat there.
Waiting.
Getting colder and colder.
[She pauses.] They say you see your life flash before your eyes in near death situations, but all I saw was snow.
Down, around, everywhere. I'd lived immersed in it. It was all I had and I was sitting in it.
Nothing needed to change for my mind to be at ease with death.
My leg was broken. Certainly, horribly. I knew then more than I'm describing to you now.
I can't muster it, you don't need to hear it.
And half buried in snow, all that was left to see was up.
Hour after hour sitting there. Barely there. Waiting.
I saw the sunset over Seceda, with the thought that I'd never ski again.
[She pauses.] It was dark by the time I heard a calling. A voice I couldn't recognize, not in that state. I made noise back, not the foggiest what I said, if it was even coherent in the slightest, but it was enough to get the attention of my savior.
Father.
We shared a look then. He knew how bad it was just as well as I did, but beyond that, I could feel something deeper.
He felt it too, and gave half a smile in return.
I could only grimace." Dorian Whitoff Interviewed within his home.
"Still, even now, I can't fathom why she shafted me so hard with the will, I mean— After all I did for her! You know?
[The proctor asks for him to calm down.] Right— yeah.
You'll need a bit more context.
[He pauses.] Tea?
[The proctor refuses.] Alright… I don't have many concrete memories of my childhood. Vague trips. Spotty recollection of names. All that junk. Nada. What I do have is the muscle memory drilled deep into my brain and muscles.
A blur, drill after drill learning all these different forms going down slope after slope after slope. I'm sure you can guess. It was blood sweat and tears and pain, and it was all I did for a good 10 years of my early life.
But it was fine.
It hurt.
It hurt like hell.
But to see mother happy. To smile, to break that grimace she'd wedged into her face was the wildest feeling I could ever had imagined.
It came when I first finished a slope. It came with my first few wins. She mimicked it during events where she showed me off. Her little prodigy, standing there. A little smile.
It got harder and harder find.
And no.
I'm not saying I won less. I'm not saying I got worse. No.
I. Was. Incredible.
But the thing is when you set the standard high. When you keep getting results. What happens? It gets… predictable.
[He pauses.] It was a drought.
Years and years of that same backbreaking work on the slopes. That hateful icy snow, the piercing cold I still feel deep in my bones every hour, minute, second of the day, sitting there, hoping that it would be enough.
No.
She wanted me to be an Olympian.
I'd done all the rest.
But she wanted me scouted. She needed me scouted.
And for what? I don't know. I don't care.
I bet it would have been easy for her to figure it out too. I know someone of you all got her story some 10-20 years ago. I know you probably went to Maggie before me and had a nice long drink in her big estate, I know.
You know her.
So I know that you know she had strings to pull. It didn't need to be difficult, but she had her pride, and she had that horrible fixation on Seceda.
So what do you know?
She hears about a fun contest set up. Pretty middling profile, a few competitors I'd butted heads with in the past involved, yes, but it just so happened that she knew an Olympic scout would be there while it was on and where oh where was it held?
Seceda.
[He pauses.] Early on she'd tell me stories of that resort.
Stories of her dad, mostly, and all the wonderful fun she had skiing there. It's where she got her passion, she said, it's where she got the drive for skiing, yes, I don't doubt that at all.
It's just… [He pauses for a long moment, taking a few breaths.] Typical.
Typical of her and her antics. Her overarching games. Her tricks. Whatever you call it — precocious— bite me.
Anyway. All aboard the plane to Italy.
[He pauses.] Not much happened before the "big day" came. Some fancy meals, practice, meet ups with the other competitors, practice, dinner with the scout, practice. I'm sure you get the gist by now.
But I- I don't have anything else.
She left me nothing. Less than nothing, working up to what I have here from the negatives, do you get that? She gave me her passion and it didn't take. She gave me the resentment that came along and that did. The time comes to give me something physical? A pair of skis, the rest to Maggie.
At least she helps with payments —bless her heart.
But the day of the competition, yes.
I bet you think I'm going to say something like, 'ooh noo, I bombed it when it mattered mate, ooh noooo' but no. Like I said, and credit to her —if there is any crumb of credit in the world due to her— I was taught by the best. I was the best. I killed it out there.
The biggest success yet.
Welcomed in open arms with a smile, and I felt absolutely nothing.
[He pauses.] There was a big fancy banquet afterwards where I spoke to the scout again and he said something like, 'oooh good shit out there mate you're right swell at ski'in aren't ya oooh' and mother was still smiling and the food was horrible and sitting deep in my gut and I could feel it like a boulder growing and growing, filling a hollowed out husk of a man replacing everything it touched with bile.
I don't know if a single thought broke through my head for the next hour of festivities.
But at some point my mother stood up.
A toast, something, a speech, a gloat.
She started talking and I stood up loudly.
Louder than her.
I made myself known, yeah.
And I quit.
Officially.
Ultimately.
Quit.
Then I stormed out the closest door, right onto the balcony.
In all the heat, the confusion from the broken stupor, everything washing around in my mind like a whirlpool I tore off my suit jacket, closed the door, wrapped the jacket around the handles, jammed it shut with a chair, and strode to the end of the balcony.
I felt the boulder in my stomach lurch, and I threw up my whole stomach down two storeys.
[He pauses.] I stood leaning there for a bit, listening to the banging at the door, shouts asking me to open it all contrasted with the silence of the cold and open waste and the ground down in front of me. Flattened snow. Pummeled into the ground by countless, hundreds of skiers pushing over and over.
I leaned down some more, psyching myself up as I adjusted to the weight now emptied from my gut. I was close to falling, so I braced myself, then in one quick motion swung my head up and opened my eyes.
And in that moment, I saw the sunset over Seceda, empty and shaking, knowing I'd never have to ski again.
[He pauses.] I stumbled a bit to the side and leaned on my arm, feeling weightless for the first time in years and struggling to adjust.
I turned around and looked mother straight in the eye.
It's strange, really. I don't know if I was even capable of making any expression at that point, but when our eyes met I could swear her grimace deepened.
[He pauses.] That's what you wanted to know right?
It's not like I changed Mother at all, she just switched her sights to Maggie.
[He pauses.] But there you have it, I'll see you to the door." Hunter Whitoff Interviewed on his deathbed.
"Oh, Dorian.
[He lets out a mournful sigh.] He tried so hard to make life work, but life leaves some people so battered and bruised it's a wonder they even get around at all.
[He pauses, with a smile.] His mom, you know. She was quite the piece of work! Had to meet her once, and- [He laughs which breaks into a coughing fit, which trails off after a few seconds.] Ugh- just know it didn't go well at all.
[He pauses, looking far out the window.] Back when he 'hopped the pond' —as he liked to say— anything could have happened.
Anything could have happened, but it just so happened that we met.
It was at a bar.
He was drunk, and wouldn't shut up about his dreams of starting some sort of small shop. He had no clue what sort, but he was so adamant on becoming a fixture. God, he was always like that. Abstract. Seeing his plans collide with reality… It never failed to make me laugh.
He was so lucky I could manage the numbers.
[He laughs before trailing off, distant once more.] It's hard to get it, really, when it hasn't happened yet, but I didn't realize how deeply I adored his presence. His aimless plans, his competitive nature —board game nights were wild can I tell you that— but everything that he had of himself I couldn't help but adore.
He was here. He was so incredibly here.
Then he wasn't.
Car crash- if you heard about it.
His decades long run on sentence; period.
[He pauses.] The night he died, it was just… Nothing.
Silence. Waiting.
He was just, gone.
So I stood there at the window, watching cars go by, counting license plates and makes and colors and anything simple and methodical to keep my brain in motion.
Hours went by, keeping myself sane with the most inane little coping methods, when I just happened to tilt my head up.
I don't know how.
I don't know why, but I saw the sunset over Seceda, for just that one moment, painted against the sky.
I saw the sunset over Seceda, and I knew I'd never see Dorian again.
[He smiles.] But that's how it goes, right?" « SCP-7262 | SCP-7263 | SCP-7264 » _ccmind-affectingneutralizedobservationalpridefest2024scpvisual page revision: 4, last edited: 21 Aug 2024 00:47 Edit Rate (+23) Tags Discuss (8) History Files Print Site tools + Options Edit Sections Append Edit Meta Watchers Backlinks Page Source Parent Lock Page Rename Delete Help  | Terms of Service  | Privacy  | Report a bug  | Flag as objectionable Powered by Wikidot.com Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License Click here to edit contents of this page.
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