Eau de l’Affinité | SCP-8116

Benedict Belmont III looked out at the sea of women before him, and his heart ached. Some of them still sported fresh cuts and bruises, while many others wore their trauma under the surface. But they were here. They were alive. And one by one, Benedict would do whatever he could to see them thrive, like he should have done for his mother. He smiled as he heaved a portion of mashed potatoes onto a plate. Hello, Ethel. How are you today? Just lovely, Benny boy. Thank you. Benedict shook his head, but the smile didn't leave his face. If anyone had dared call his father that, they would have been bashed in the nose. But Benedict III liked the endearment. It was a reminder of how different he was from his father. Besides, he felt like he'd earned it. It took a long time for some of these women to trust men again, and he was honored to be one of the first ones they opened up to after their horrific experiences. Enjoy your meal, Ethel. I plan to, Benny. Tell that gorgeous wife of yours I say hello. Benedict nodded. Will do. Frances had only accompanied Benedict to the women's home a few times, but she left quite an impression. She always did. Frances Lovett Belmont was one of the most beautiful creatures on the planet. Benedict knew it from the moment he saw her standing across the room at a New Year's Eve party. He could still picture her, long blonde hair set in glamorous curls, perfect lips as red as the dress that hugged her every curve. He'd been practically salivating, and then she smiled. Her whole face lit up, and that was the moment Benedict knew she was the one for him. They struck up a conversation, and it turned out that her personality was just as wonderful as the rest of her. Benedict was loathe to part with her that evening, but he made her promise they would see each other again. She laughed and said, we'll see. When Benedict got home, he found a napkin with a phone number in his pocket. He didn't even wait until the morning to call. On their second date, she asked about his parents. He managed to distract her and the subject was dropped. But he couldn't hide the truth forever. When their relationship was starting to get serious, She looked at him over the dinner table with her wide blue eyes and asked, Benedict, why do you never talk about your parents? He sucked in a breath, his meal turning sour in his stomach. He knew the question was coming and considered making up a lie. But when he looked at the beautiful woman before him, what came out was the truth. My father killed my mother. She froze. wine glass halfway to her lips. He braced himself for her response, but it wasn't what he expected. She put down her glass and grabbed his hand. Thank you for telling me. We don't have to talk about it if you don't want to, but if you ever do, I'm here. He looked away so she couldn't see the tears welling in his eyes. He squeezed her hand and nodded to show that he heard her. She never asked about it again. But piece by piece, Benedict told her the story. He told her how, as a child, he would hear his father shouting at his mother, sometimes followed by a smack. He would hear his mother whimpering behind their closed door. The first few times he cried out, telling his father to stop. But then his father hit him too. So, he stayed silent. He hid beneath his bed while his mother's cries of pain rang through the house. Each smack felt like a knife to his gut. Tears pooled on the floor beside him until he eventually fell asleep. And in the morning, it would be like nothing had happened. His mother would dress more conservatively and wear more makeup than usual to cover up the bruises. She would smile at him and make his father coffee just the way he liked it. His father would kiss his mother goodbye, and the matter would never be mentioned again. Until next time, when history repeated itself. Over, and over, and over. He could still remember the last time it had happened. How could he forget? He was too old to fit under the bed by then. But he wrapped himself in his sheets and plugged his ears to block out his mother's pain. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine himself somewhere else. Sometimes it worked Sometimes it didn That night it didn He heard her final cry the last shriek of pain before everything went silent Too silent. Then, his father's voice, angry at first. Margaret, get up. Margaret, I said get up, Margaret. Benedict III sat up as his father's tone changed to one he had never heard him speak before. Margaret, Margaret, get up. It was fear. Benedict's pulse spiked, and he forced himself out of bed, his steps quiet as he walked down the hallway. He hesitated at the door, not daring to knock. Margaret, no, no, no, no. The sob erupted on the other side of the door. Benedict instinctively turned the knob and burst into the room. The smell hit him first, his mother's perfume mixed with sweat and something metallic. His eyes were drawn to the pool of blood beside the dresser and the woman lying in it. Her mouth was open, her eyes wide as if she had no idea what had hit her. Her cheek was still red with a handprint and a bruise was forming around her neck. But Benedict had seen his mother like that before. What he hadn't seen before was the gash in her neck, blood pouring freely from the wound. Only in his nightmares had he seen her eyes, cold and lifeless, staring into nothing. Mother. The word came out as a whisper. His father looked up from her side, his pants soaking up her blood. Father and son looked at each other. Everything they never said was written in their eyes. Benedict saw rage in his father, along with regret. He saw both the monster and the man in that face. That was the last time he saw the man. From that point on, Benedict knew his father only as a monster. Benedict swore he would never be like his father, doing everything he could to become the complete opposite. He treated every woman like a queen, especially his wife. He spent hours volunteering at shelters and donated a significant amount to charities supporting abused women. When Benedict and Francis welcomed their son into the world, they debated what to tell him about his grandfather. In the end, they decided on the truth, albeit a milder version of it. Benedict III wanted to teach his son to become a better man than Benedict II. He wanted him to know the ugly truth about the monster so he wouldn't become one himself. They were a happy family, the Belmonts. They had their challenges. like everyone else, but for the most part, they were happy. When Benedict returned from the women's home, he found his wife cooking dinner in the kitchen. He grabbed her waist and hugged her from behind, inhaling her scent. Someone smells good, Francis giggled. It's that new perfume you got me. I wore it to work today, and you were right. I did sell more than usual. The customers were going crazy. Are you sure that's not because of your pretty face? She playfully stuck her tongue out at him and swatted him away with a spatula. I've been selling with this face since I started, and it hasn't made any difference. It's definitely the perfume. Well, I'm glad you had a good day. Me too. Although I must admit, I'm exhausted. Of course you are. Why don't you let me finish dinner so you can rest up a bit? She shot him her winning smile. You would do that for me. He crossed the room and kissed her on the mouth. I would do anything for you. Her smile turned serious as she stared into his eyes. I know. Honey, I thought I told you to put your clothes in the laundry bin. With dinner over and little Benny tucked in bed, Benedict and Francis were finally winding down for the evening. But as Benedict entered the room, Francis was staring at a pile of dirty laundry he'd left beside the bed. Oh, right. I forgot. Francis sighed. It's not that hard, Benedict. The bin is right there. She pointed to the wicker laundry bin, a foot away from the pile. Benedict sighed, his own annoyance rising. Okay, I get it. He stalked to the laundry, whipped it into his arms, and unceremoniously dumped it into the bin before turning back to his wife. There, happy now? Her lips formed a thin line as she replied. Extremely. Tension filled the air, sharp and biting. Benedict stared at his wife, annoyance turning to anger. What? Is there something else you want to complain about? Francis clenched her jaw, but Benedict didn't miss the way her eyes darted to the unmade bed. Oh honestly his voice rose and he made no effort to lower it Ever since you got that job you want me to take care of all the housework Well guess what I work too She scoffed Please, you spend half your time volunteering. If you can help out all those other women, why is it so hard to help your wife? I cook dinner. I do that every night. Not to mention, I clean, mow the lawn, and oh yeah, pay for this house. You clean? What do you clean, Benedict? It sure as hell isn't the bathroom, or the kitchen, or the bedroom. What's left? Your car? What's wrong with cleaning my car? I swear, you love that thing more than you've ever loved me. Maybe I do. They each took a step closer, until they were shouting in each other's faces. You are so ungrateful, Francis seethed. Me? I'd like to see you try to get by without me. My life would be easier without you in it. Excuse me? Benedict stepped even closer until all he could see was his wife's face, lined with fury. He suddenly hated that face. He hated those big blue eyes, swimming in rage. He wanted to smack those ruby red lips right off her face. I do everything for you, he said, voice low and dangerous. I even buy you gifts. Her arm shot out to the vanity and she grabbed the bottle of perfume he'd given her the day before. I don't want your gifts! She threw the jar across the room, where it hit the wall and shattered into tiny pieces. I don't want anything from you! I don't want you! I don't want you either! Benedict had never felt this kind of rage before in his life. It was as if the whole world fell away, and the only things that existed were his anger and the object of it. It seemed like there was only one thing to do. Unfortunately, Francis thought of it first. Of course, she knew about the gun in the nightstand. He'd been the one to teach her how to shoot it. She lunged across the room and had it in her hands before he could even blink. Her hands shook as she held it up, pointed directly at his head. Do it, he said. I dare you. A shot rang out. Benedict felt the bullet whiz by his head, missing him by less than an inch. You bitch! He was on her in seconds. They grappled, falling to the floor in a tangle of limbs. Another shot rang out as they both struggled over the gun. Benedict lifted his knees to his chest. His feet found the soft flesh of her belly, and he kicked as hard as he could. Francis dropped the gun as she flew across the room. It slid along the hardwood floor and landed between them. For a moment, all that could be heard was their ragged breaths. Then they moved. Francis went for the gun, while Benedict reached behind him to grab an empty ceramic vase. Just as Francis' fingers curled around the trigger, Benedict smashed the vase on her head. She toppled to the floor and remained there. Francis! Francis, get up! Francis! Benedict sank to his knees and turned Francis over. A shard of the vase was lodged in her temple, and she stared back at him with unseeing eyes. Blood dripped onto Benedict's fingers as he silently held his wife. Francis! It came out as a whisper. He glanced up and saw the scene reflected in the mirror. For a moment, it was not him and his wife he saw, but his parents. His father, holding the woman he killed. But those eyes were not his father's. They were his. Somehow, Benedict had become the monster. He released a howl of rage and horror. How did this happen? How did things get this far? He clutched Francis' lifeless body to his chest, willing her to breathe again. He hadn't wanted her dead, but she had wanted him dead. The thought left him cold. Why had she wanted to kill him? Why had she gotten so angry over dirty laundry? Why had he? He'd tried so hard not to be like his father. He convinced himself he was a better man, a man worthy of Francis' love. Had that all been a lie? Had he merely been fooling himself this whole time, he would have thought that was impossible. But now he had no choice but to face the awful truth. Benedict was his father. Mother, forgive me, he whispered. A sob tore from his throat. And as he breathed in, he caught the familiar scent of blood, along with notes of saffron and vetiver from the perfume all over the floor. That was it. The perfume. Everything changed when she started wearing the perfume. He was told it would help her sales. He knew it had some kind of side effect, but they told him it would be fine. They told him it would make everything better. They lied. Benedict stumbled to his desk and opened his email. Subject, I want a fucking refund. He typed like a madman, pouring out his hatred, confusion, and shame into the words. It wasn't his fault. It wasn't him. It was the perfume. It was their fault. I didn mean to do it he wrote I not a bad husband Oh God I couldn think straight We just kept yelling louder and louder at each other over and over and over until we couldn do anything except that Until I felt like she was like, she was going to... Please, what the hell is wrong with you people? Did you intend to sell me something that would turn me into a wife beater? Did you intend to sell me something that would send me to hell? That would make me hurt the woman I loved the most. Fuck, all that therapy and all that time, all that goddamn money and breathing exercises and fucking shitty meds and I still hit my wife just like, just like. He paused, his breathing ragged. Was it the perfume or was it him? Was it simply inevitable that he turned into his father? Tears dropped onto the keyboard and he returned to the email. Please do something. I don't know what, but you guys are magic, right? Can I, I don't know. Can you fix this, please? He pressed send, but he knew it wouldn't do any good. Nobody could reverse what he'd done, who he'd become. Benjamin Belmont IV was hiding in his closet, stuffed among dress pants, shoes, and stuffed animals. He hugged his favorite teddy bear to his chest as he listened to the horrible screams coming from his parents' room. At first, he didn't recognize the voices. He thought there were monsters in the house. He flinched when something shattered and nearly jumped out of his skin at the first gunshot. He rocked back and forth in the darkness, tears crawling down his cheeks. Another gunshot sounded, and he covered his ears. He wanted his mommy, but he didn't dare approach the bedroom. When minutes passed and he didn't hear another gunshot, he slowly lowered his hands and listened. There was only one voice now. He recognized it as his father's, but it wasn't normal. It was strained, raw. Benjamin slowly rose from the closet and crept to the hall, where he grabbed the phone and dialed 911. He sank to the wall outside his parents' room, and a guttural howl ruptured the air. Benjamin sucked in a breath and tried not to cry as the operator came on the line. He whispered his address as she told him to calm down. Something's not right, he explained. I heard shouting and something breaking and then there was a gunshot. It's okay, son. I'm right here with you and the police are on their way. Can you tell me your name? Benny. Benny, where are you right now? Outside the door. Okay, Benny, I want you to move away from the door. Can you do that? Benny stood on shaky legs, but as he took his first step, another gunshot sounded. He froze, heart hammering against his ribs. Mommy? He went closer to the door and pressed his ear against it. He couldn't hear anything. Daddy? Benny? Benny, don't open the door, okay? Benjamin dropped the phone as he reached for the handle. He had to make sure his parents were okay, no matter what the phone lady he said. The door creaked as it opened. Benny took a deep breath before pushing it all the way and stepping inside. His brain couldn't fully comprehend what he was seeing. His father was sitting at the desk, slumped over the chair with the back of his head missing. Bits of flesh and blood spatters covered the bookshelf behind him. A few feet away, his mother was lying on the floor surrounded by shards of a vase. Blood trickled from her temple. Benjamin's first thought was that The monsters had done it. But then, where were they now? He stepped further into the room, glancing between the bodies. His stomach turned over, yet he couldn't look away. They were his parents, and they weren't. That was his mother's dress. That was her blonde hair catching the light of the lamp. But the eyes were different. Her eyes were playful, bright, alive. These ones were dead. The world pounded through his skull, trying to make him understand. He looked at his father, focusing on his face. Something thudded to the ground. Benjamin startled. It was the gun, fallen from his father's hand. The pieces came together then. A monster had never invaded the house. It always lived here. He remembered the monster his father had told him about years ago, the one that took his grandma. His father said the monster was gone, that he would never have to worry about him. But here he was. If his grandfather was a monster, and his father was a monster, what did that make Benjamin? He was a Belmont, after all. And the Belmonts would only ever be one thing. Murderers. SCP-8116 is a perfume held in a non-anomalous 50-milliliter glass container, engraved with the label Eau de l'Efinite. When applied to a sapient being, SCP-8116 causes the transmission of the wearer's emotional state to individuals who perceive its scent, eliciting an involuntary empathetic response.