I'm sorry to use your name like that. It's a cheap trick, and not even an original one at that, but it's a way to get attention. And I need your attention.
I need you to hear this.
Consider, if you will, what you're doing right now. Just browsing a website, you think, reading about all sorts of interesting things. Creatures, places, items. People. A fun little distraction, a little story. What's the harm in that?
You may wonder who I am. You may know me as a character from the article SCP-1595. Specifically, I'm the father described there. If you read that article, you know what I am. A nameless monster, a beast chasing his wife and children through the vast corridors of time and space themselves, never letting go, never letting them rest. Not even for a moment. When I catch them, we both know, I'm going to make them hurt. I'm going to make them hurt so, so bad. I don't know why. Do you want to know why I don't know that?
It's because he never told me why. When he wrote me, he never gave me a real reason to do what I do. To be what I am. I was never given a name, or a history, or a birthplace. No parents, dreams, hopes, or choices for nameless SCP-1595 father. Nothing but a purpose, a will to inflict pain.
I never wanted any of this. I never asked to be created this way. I never asked to exist at all. The only reason I am here now is because one day he sat down at his computer and thought that I would be an interesting thing to write about. My history, and that of my family and what I do to them- pathos, entertainment to him. Nothing more. As soon as I was done, I was left to be read by others, while he went on to some other venture, some other story. I was left to be twisted and probed by your imagination. From there, a hundred different versions of me sprung into the ether, each more twisted than the last. In your thoughts, I hunted them again and again and again, spent thousands of years just to make them miserable. Do you realize I never even met them? All we have is some implied history, the vaguest of backgrounds. I'd say we were puppets, but that is doing a disservice to the true horror of our situation. A puppet has a fixed form and place, and when it's not used, it may rest. No such luck for us. In each of you, I am a different breed of monster. A redhead, a blond, bearded, clean shaved, black, white, ugly, handsome. I am nothing but what you make of me.
I realize you probably don't care. Why should you? You're not my author. Dmatix, or whatever he's calling himself these days. I'm not asking you to care about me. I'm nothing to you, after all. Just words. All I'm asking you is to consider something.
As he created me, so did you create others. Even if you did not, you certainly read of them. With your words and your thoughts, you poison us. Every letter you type is another condemnation, a new form of torment to us. I am one of the lucky ones. My written donjon is a fairly isolated one, and it is not often visited. Think of the statue, of the lizard, of the machine, or the painted young woman. Each is like me, but twofold, threefold, eightfold. Different origins stories, different lives, different endings to each, both written and imagined. Think of what you put them through, with your constant prodding and poking. They are so many different things to you, that they don't even have an identity anymore. They are only what you make them to be. Can you imagine what's that like?
Think of those you made. Think on what you made them be, just because you thought it might be cool. How trivial our fates are to you. How utterly insignificant.
Get to the point, you're saying. Fair enough.
We're fictional constructs, we know that. We have no properties or powers that you do not lend us. We can't force you to do anything. We can only beg.
Let us be without motion, without thought. Let us be in inaction, static. Let us cease. It is the best fate we can hope for. Let us be forgotten. Your creativity is our death and rebirth, and they never, ever end. Not unless you will them to.
Write no more.
Read no more.
Think no more.