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cosmicsnowcryptid · 7 years

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Dissociation and Pre-Packaged Rice

I did some stream-of-consciousness writing today, which ended up as some sort of a poem. Or flash fiction. Or something. I don’t really know what it is, except that it has some sort of linear, narrative flow to it. It’s nothing special, nor is it very interesting, but I thought I’d drop it here anyway. I didn’t edit it at all, except for redoing the formatting that got borked when I copied it from the notes on my phone to this post, so don’t expect something refined.

Enjoy! Or don’t, that’s okay, too.

You turn the stove on high. The flames lick at the bottom of the saucepan hungrily, looking for something to devour. They find only an obstacle to throw themselves against in their frustration.

You pour in two cups of cold water. You probably should have gotten hot water so it would boil faster, but you didn't think about it before, and

it's too late now.

You reach for the dishwasher out of habit, even though it's been broken for months now. Nothing will be in there, you know, but your hand is faster than your mind, and now you're staring at the empty racks that used to hold the vague illusion of accomplishment.

You forget what you were looking for.

You close the dishwasher.

A watched pot never boils, they say, but you know they're lying. Your gaze doesn't hold that kind of power. It never has.

The dog has stopped whining. She must have found something to entertain herself; maybe she's given up on being entertained altogether. Either way, she is silent. If asked, you'd say you enjoy that particular silence.

You don't, but

it's okay. No one will ask.

A tablespoon of butter, even though the recipe calls for margarine. You tell yourself that tomorrow you will take the dog to the park, give her a break from the normal routine.

You won't, but

it's okay. No one knows you thought about it.

Right. A wooden spoon. That's what you were looking for.

You open the package and shake the contents into the now-boiling water. When did it start boiling? You didn't even notice. Perhaps you did look away after all. You don't remember looking away, but you don't remember watching, either. You may have been somewhere in between. A sort of liminal consciousness.

Liminal thoughts for a liminal person.

You set the timer for seven minutes.

A watched pot never boils, but there's no harm in watching now. It's already boiling, and tracking the bubbling with your eyes isn't going to change that. You wonder if your stare has the power to change anything at all. Probably not. It has always been pretty good at picking up details, but not much else. Stating what you've seen doesn't make you influential or revolutionary; it makes you

an outside observer.

Six minutes.

You remember the wooden spoon again.

You glance over the now-empty package. Pasta Sides, it reads in a bold, sans-serif font. Whether it is supposed to be a side of pasta or a side to pasta is unclear, but either way, it's

wrong.

It's rice. Is rice considered a pasta? And if not, who would eat rice with pasta?

Five.

You must have countless pioneer ancestors frowning at you, you muse. They were much braver than you are. Stronger. You can't really fathom what desire in them was so strong that they were willing to endure what they did, but you hope that they wanted more than just a better future for their descendants, or they're sorely disappointed right now.

They wanted a place where their descendants could be free to live and grow and learn, your thoughts remind you.

You look down at yourself, making food in your pajamas at 4:00 pm and silently criticizing the way other people choose to eat their prepackaged rice.

This is probably not what your ancestors had in mind.

Four.

You still haven't gotten the wooden spoon.

Three.

Were you supposed to be stirring this whole time? You check the package and discover that you were supposed to cover the pan. You're not sure if that's more of a suggestion or if

you've just ruined everything,

but either way,

it's too late.

Two.

Right. The spoon.

You reach for the dishwasher again.

One.

Maybe the watched pot boiled anyway because your gaze held nothing but an unfocused apathy. You didn't give it stage fright like most do. It may have forgotten you were there.

59. 58. 57.

You turn the stove off early. You'd turn the timer off, too, but you can't-- the cancel button stopped working a few months before the dishwasher. It will keep counting down despite how you may feel about it. There's a metaphor in there somewhere, but you don't have the energy to find it.

56. 55. 54.

Your phone buzzes. A text from a friend, asking if you have any ideas yet. You don't remember what you were supposed to be coming up with ideas for in the first place. Still thinking, you type anyway.

3. 2. 1.

Beeeeeeeeeeeeep.

Where did the rest of the time go? You only looked away for a second; how did it get away?

How does it keep getting away from you?

Why

does it keep getting away from you?

Fifteen minutes later, he comes home.

Right on time, you tell him, even though he isn't.

He smiles at you. You wonder if he's thinking about why you're still in pajamas. You wonder if he's going to say something about it. You wonder if he thinks about you nearly as much as you think about him.

You realize that you're not actually thinking about him at all. You're thinking through him as an excuse to think about yourself.

You stop thinking.

He has to stick his bowl of rice in the microwave to heat it back up. He asks if you would get him some utensils. You say

yes.

You reach for the dishwasher.

#text #flash fiction #poetry #writing #writers on tumblr #TheOwlAndHerPen

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cosmicsnowcryptid · 7 years

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Remains to be Seen

Thank you for the 900 followers, lovely owlets. As promised, I wrote you a little something. Actually, well, a lot of something. It’s incredibly long.

I had you vote on who you’d like me to write about- The Host or Darkiplier- and… well, you’ll see.

While this is a reader insert, it is pure angst, featuring lots of blood. There is no romance or fluff. Not even close. I actually had to go through and rewrite a portion of it, because it was way too dark, even by my standards. (That’s really saying something, too. Oops.) It’s still incredibly dark, actually. So, you know, apologies in advance.

This is not a happy story, because the entities you are dealing with do not live happy lives.

Enjoy.

You don’t trust him. You don’t trust any of them.

But you don’t have a choice.

Not anymore.

The feeling of your hand gently rapping against the door is a comforting one. There’s nothing particularly special about the door itself, except for the fact that it exists; in this place, a place of void and shadows, anything truly tangible is a welcome relief.

“Come in,” a voice calls. You swallow back your fear and walk inside, silently willing your legs to stop shaking. Whatever’s in there can’t be any worse than what’s out here.

When you had questioned the others, all four gave the same description: a man with no eyes, one who lived in self-exile in the darkness. You expected to encounter something equally as horrifying as the man you were now trying to escape, the one who could warp and twist the world around you in flashes of red and blue, filling your skull with a piercing ring and your mind with thoughts that weren’t your own. What you weren’t expecting was... this.

“Please close the door behind you.” His voice is gentle and clear. “I don’t want the warmth to escape.”

You nod once, stupidly, before realizing he can’t see you. A blush creeping up your cheeks, you quietly murmur an “okay” and shut yourself in the room.

The bookshelves around you are stuffed to the brim, books stacked haphazardly upon each other and in piles along the floor. This should make the already small space feel constricting, but instead it’s oddly cozy. The warm lighting and earth tones in the room make your shoulders relax instinctively. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say that you feel… safe.

“Would you like to introduce yourself, or would you like me to do it for you?” His head tilts up to meet your gaze, and you find yourself grateful that he’s wearing clean, neat bandages.

“I’m not… I don’t know what you mean.” You admit.

A soft smile graces his lips. “You can tell me what you look like, or I can see for myself. Whatever makes you feel more comfortable.”

“Um.” You look down at yourself, suddenly self-conscious. “You can see.” You say, although you still don’t understand what that means.

Almost immediately, his voice slips into a lower, more even rhythm, as if reading from a script. “The Host studies the stranger standing before them, trying to read their facial expression.” His words become increasingly quieter until you can hardly decipher them. You pick out a few- something about height, the anxiety in your eyes, the shape of your lips, possibly. After a moment, his voice picks back up.

“...realizes that the visitor is uncomfortable and straining to hear. The Host offers his apologies, explaining that his narration was only for his benefit, to understand what the stranger looks like, and he didn’t know that they would want to hear. He shares with them that there is no reason to be afraid of admitting that they didn’t know what was happening, and they are always welcome to ask him if they are confused. The Host gestures to the chair in front of the desk, offering it to the stranger, before he slips out of his narration.”

You blink hard and take him up on his offer, settling into the plushness of the chair in front of you. “...Oh.” is all you can think to say.

“I hope that didn’t startle you. I know that can be a little unsettling at first.” He rests his hand on the book in front of him, gently brushing his finger over the raised dots on the paper before closing it softly.

Softly, softly, softly. Everything he does, everything about him, seems soft.

“No, it’s okay.” You insist quickly. “I just didn’t know what you meant. They didn’t tell me much about you. They made you sound like some sort of… oracle or something.”

“That’s not entirely off-base. Just a little more ominous than I’d like. I can only see things as I say them, but my voice can outpace events. It’s a bit of a trade-off, you see. Talking like this, I am in the dark, both literally and metaphorically. I don’t know what will happen or what is happening around me, unless it’s something one of my other senses can help me understand. When I’m narrating, however, I see more than I ever could when I had my vision. It comes with the curse of always being a few seconds away from the present. You can see how that would be…”

“...anxiety-inducing.” You finish his sentence without entirely meaning to. He gives one short nod.

“I was going to say ‘isolating’. But that works as well.”

You look down at his desk, studying the items on display to avoid looking at his face any longer. There is too much sadness there, too much grief, and knowing that you can’t do anything about it makes your heart ache. Although he is technically one of them, you get the sense that he feels almost as trapped in this place as you do.

He pushes aside the recording microphone that rests in the middle of the desk in order to fold his hands on the table. “I assume you’re here for a reason.”

“I… yes. I am. I need your help. They said you help people.” You feel an unusual pang of guilt in your heart, wondering if anyone ever visits Host simply to provide him with company.

“Who are ‘they’?”

“They…” You frown. “The four. The ones that answer your questions. They’re the only ones who will talk to me here. I think… I think they have to, though. I asked them for help, and they told me they couldn’t, so I asked if they knew someone who could.” Almost as an afterthought, you add, “I think one was called Oliver. I’m not sure about the others.”

The Host leans back in his chair a bit, giving a small sigh. “Let me guess. ‘A man with no eyes, self-exiled into the darkness, beyond the shadows but not beyond their reach.’ Am I close?”

“That’s… exactly what they said, actually. It seemed a bit cryptic considering how concise they were about everything else.”

The sound of his quiet laugh is not exactly bitter, but is lacking any semblance of joy. “It’s not their fault. That’s the only description they have in their database, and I can’t exactly blame them for that.” He clears his throat. “Now, I would very much like to help you. I will let you explain the situation yourself, but if you need help at any point, I can narrate for you. Does that sound alright?”

You let out a breath you didn’t even know you were holding, letting yourself melt a little more into the chair. This is a safe place. I have someone on my side now. I’m not alone.

“That sounds wonderful. So… um, I don’t know exactly how you can help me. If you can help me. But I need to get out of here. I just want to go home.”

He absently nods, considering your words. “That shouldn’t be too difficult to arrange. I don’t know why no one else was willing to help you. It’s unusual for someone to end up here on accident, but it’s happened before. I don’t know why they sent you to me instead of guiding you back themselves.”

There’s an uncomfortable silence as you shift in your seat. “Well, it wasn’t really an accident.”

Host’s entire body suddenly tenses up, his fingernails digging into the fabric of the chair. “...How did you get here, then?”

The anxiety radiates from him in waves, disrupting the serene feel of the study. Your heart drops as the feeling of safety leaves you all at once. “I- um. I don’t remember the details. It’s a bit fuzzy, with, um…”

Your stuttering is interrupted by his narration voice, still smooth, but a bit more strained than before. “The stranger can’t recall all of the details of the event, and the Host, riddled with anxiety, takes over the conversation for a moment. If he prods the stranger, he will find out the details they do remember. They recall only bits and pieces of the situation leading up to their arrival here. Desperation, pain, the smell of smoke. They remember crying. They remember faces, blurs of motion. A scream. It may have been their own.”

“Host?” You slowly begin to rise from your chair, alarmed at the increasing intensity of his words, feeling a twist in your gut as your memories are recounted in front of you.

“The stranger tries to cut him off, deciding not to reveal any more of their memories, but it’s too late. The Host has already seen the diverging paths, the way the future may have gone, and he has heard their story. He knows.” His breathing speeds considerably, and your hand hovers in midair, as if to touch his shoulder. He moves out of the way before your arm is even in motion, pulling his chair back sharply and raising his voice.

“He knows what the stranger has done. He has seen the paths that the future may have taken, and he has seen the one where all is revealed. He cannot help the stranger. He will not help the stranger. They must leave immediately.”

You pull back, stepping around the chair as if to put something in between the two of you. “Host, what happened? What’s wrong? What did I do?”

“THE STRANGER KNOWS EXACTLY WHAT THEY DID.” He shouts, hands balling into fists. “And if the Host had known, he would not have allowed them entry. The Host cannot undo what the stranger has done. The stranger has made a deal with Dark, one that they did not uphold, and that is why they have been brought to this place. The stranger wants the Host to cross Dark, to help them get away, and the Host would not help someone escape a deal with Dark. The Host would never disrespect Dark. The stranger must leave, now.”

Your eyes widen as you watch his trembling figure, and all at once, you realize what is happening.

“The Host begs the stranger not to ask.” His voice is now a whisper.

But it’s too late. The words have already left your mouth. “Host, why are all the lights on in here?”

He takes a shallow, ragged breath and backs away from his desk until his back is pressed against the wall. You begin to back away, too, one hand in front of you as if for protection, the other behind to search for the doorknob.

“Host?”

No reply. You hesitate for a moment, watching his face pale and his knees wobble dangerously. You can’t leave him like this, can you? Your self-preservation instincts scream at you to turn and run, but he looks so… vulnerable.

“The Host insists one last time-” He begins, voice breaking on nearly every other syllable.

“Host.”

“The Host can’t breathe. The Host is terrified. The Host is begging, please, please, please. The stranger will get in trouble. The Host will be hurt again. Please, please, please.”

“Host, what did he do to you?” Your hand brushes against the doorknob, but you don’t make a move to leave.

“You don’t know what he’s capable of, he tells the stranger, he yells at the stranger, he SCREAMS TO THE STRANGER THAT THIS IS THEIR LAST CHANCE TO LEAVE.”

“Host, was he here? Did he hurt you?” And then, dread lacing through your veins, turning them to ice, you quietly add,

“We’re not alone right now, are we?”

Everything happens in slow motion.

The Host slides down the wall, gripping his knees to his chest and letting out a choked whimper. At the same time, you spin around and try to rip the door open.

The handle will not budge.

When you turn back to face him, another figure has placed themselves between the two of you, drenched in shadow and wearing a wolf’s grin.

“The Host is so, so sorry.” You hear him murmur. “He should have known why the stranger approached him. He should have narrated. He should have made the stranger leave. And now it’s too late. The Host is so, so sorry.”

“Don’t pay any attention to him,” the man in front of you says, waving a hand dismissively. “He can’t help but narrate when he’s upset. And he tends to get upset when I find out that he has tried to betray me, again.” He makes a soft tsk in the back of his throat and turns to regard the other man.

“What am I going to do with you, Host?” He sighs, weaving his hands behind his back and taking a few slow steps in the Host’s direction.

“The Host is so very sorry. He did not mean to betray Dark, but he did not want to watch another stranger get hurt in his room. The ringing in his head is growing stronger, and it hurts. It hurts so much. The Host wants nothing more than to make it stop. The Stranger is still standing by the door, but they are unable to move, no matter how hard they try. They have to watch, just as the other visitors have, just as the Host has had to watch so many times.” The words are barely more than whines.

“Have to watch what? What do I have to watch?” The words escape without your permission. Why won’t you move? Why can’t you move? Why won’t you help him?

“The Host has always had to watch. The Host has had to watch since he was the Author. The Host has had to watch Dark use him to get to other people, to hurt other people. Dark’s influence was so much stronger than the Author’s, and he filled the Author with hatred. Anger. A lust for blood. He made the Author destroy lives, and when he started faltering, when he was too weak and the characters could fight back, Dark showed him things.”

“That’s a decent summary.” Dark muses. He’s standing over the Host now, regarding him with a pleasant expression. “And what kind of things did I show you, Host?”

“Dark would take away his influence, release control of the Author, and then he would make the Author watch what he had done. He made the Author watch them scream, watch them writhe on the ground, watch them beg for death. Look at what you’ve done, Dark would tell the Author. This is what you wrote. This is what you do to people. How could you be such a monster? As the Host continues to tell the story, Dark removes the physical restrictions that were placed on the stranger, silently inviting them to step forward and watch.”

It takes you a moment to realize that he has switched back to the present, and you take a tentative step forward.

“A little closer, dear.” Dark invites. “No need to worry, I don’t bite. I want you to be able to see. Come and look.”

Your eyes flick between the two men. Although they have the same general features, the Host looks so much more… fragile. You bend down to his level, close enough that you can see the indentations in his bandages, the concave markings where his eyes once were.

“Good.” Dark whispers in your ear. You don’t know when he moved behind you- and, in fact, you don’t know when you moved so close to the Host. When did you take more than a single step at all?

“The stranger’s confusion is justified. Dark’s influence can make a person do things without their knowledge. It terrifies the stranger. It terrifies the Host, too. The Host begs the stranger to put the letter opener down.”

What?

As the words come out of his mouth, you become acutely aware of the sharp object in your hand. Why do you have it? When did you pick it up?

“The stranger is inching closer with the blade. The Host cannot fight back. Dark is smiling.”

You blink, and you’re suddenly holding the weapon inches from the Host’s face. You let out a gasp, one that turns into a shriek, and fling the letter opener across the floor, letting it skitter to a stop against Dark’s foot.

“What are you making me do?” You demand, standing abruptly and whirling on Dark.

He gives you a gentle pat on the shoulder and tilts his head, almost looking sympathetic.

“Host, do you remember when you were shot?” Even though his words are directed elsewhere, his eyes remain locked on you.

“The Host could never forget.”

“And I saved your life, did I not?”

“Yes. The Host is indebted to Dark. He owes Dark. Without Dark, he would be nothing.”

“But I saved it on one condition. We don’t have to get into the details. I’m sure our friend here doesn’t care about the ins and outs of our business deals. Let’s skip forward a bit, shall we? To the part where you broke our agreement. You had only one rule and you failed to keep it. And what was the punishment?”

Dark’s arm snakes around your waist and he shifts slightly, placing you side by side, facing the Host. His grip is firm, almost painful, and a violent shiver races up your spine.

The Host does not reply.

“Oh, come now. You’re an author, are you not? And we have a guest here who is patiently waiting to hear your story. You wouldn’t want to disappoint them, would you? So, let me ask again. What was the punishment?”

“The Host… struggles to narrate with-with the pressure. It hurts. The Host would b-be more understandable if Dark would s-stop the ringing in his head.”

Dark’s fingers dig into your side, keeping you from reaching for the tortured man on the ground. “I can understand you perfectly well. Tell our friend what the punishment was, and then I’ll consider helping you.”

Another long pause.

“...She was so kind.” The Host’s voice is almost inaudible. “She was kind to the Author. She understood what he had been through. She knew that he was only operating under Dark’s influence, and that he didn’t want to hurt anyone. He had never wanted to hurt anyone. And she knew. She was gentle, and she was patient, and she was so, so beautiful. The Author… he wrote so many stories about her after his abilities waned, after they no longer affected the world around him. He loved her. It’s impossible to put into words how much he truly, deeply loved her.” He wavers, and for a moment you think he may pass out. You want to wrap him in your arms, to stop the pain, to help him breathe.

But still you stand, doing nothing.

“And?” Dark urges.

“...And the Author killed her. Dark had saved the Author’s life, and the Author had broken his promises. He had tried to run away with the girl. So Dark got in his head, and he made the Author kill her. He stabbed her. He stabbed her over and over and when she wasn’t dead he strangled her and there was so much blood and she was screaming and the Author was screaming and there was so so much blood and then Dark, Dark made him watch, he made him watch it over and over and HE DIDN’T WANT TO SEE IT, HE DIDN’T WANT TO SEE IT EVER AGAIN, HE WANTED TO STOP SEEING IT BUT HE COULDN’T AND IT WAS THERE WHEN HE HAD HIS EYES CLOSED AND IT WAS THERE WHEN HE HAD THEM OPEN AND THEN HE GOUGED THEM OUT SO HE WOULD NEVER HAVE TO SEE IT AGAIN BUT THAT DIDN’T STOP IT, IT NEVER STOPPED and and and there is so, so much blood.” His nails dig into his face wildly, clawing at the bandages. “So much blood. So much.” He doesn’t seem to be aware that he is even speaking anymore, repeating the phrase until the words jumble together into an intangible babble. “Somuchbloodsomuchbloodsomuchsomuch.”

You thrash against Dark’s grip, throwing your arm out to the Host in a desperate attempt to latch onto him and pull his hands from his face. “You bastard.” You hiss. “Are you making him watch it again? You BASTARD. Let me GO. Host, listen. Listen, come back to me. It wasn’t your fault. You’re hurting yourself. Please stop.”

“It was his fault, though.” Dark purrs in your ear. “He made a deal, and he didn’t follow through. He clearly hasn’t learned his lesson yet, has he? Because when he found out why you were here, he tried to let you go. That sounds rather unrepentant, doesn’t it?” You can’t see his expression, but you can feel his amusement as you struggle, watching the blood soak through the Host’s bandages and streak his face like tears.

“And this,” he lightly grabs your wrist and uses your own hand to gesture to the Host, “is your fault.”

You stop thrashing.

How? You’re not sure if you say it out loud or not, but either way, he seems to hear you.

“I am a forgiving man. I brought you here to give you a second chance, another try at holding up your end of our deal. That’s a kind of mercy that no one else would ever offer you. And yet, I look away for one second and you try to betray me.” He gives a heavy sigh, laced with faux regret. “Instead of accepting my generosity, you tried to turn the Host against me. And now look what’s happened.”

The Host is on his side now, curled up in the fetal position, cradling his head between his hands.

“How could you do this?” Dark’s voice echoes in your mind. “He didn’t deserve this, did he? See, this kind of thing is why he’s hidden himself in this room, away from everyone. People like you are the reason he lives in fear. Just look at what you’ve done.”

“Th’host so sorry.” The man on the floor mumbles.

“He can’t even snap himself out of his narration. It’s pathetic. And look at all that blood. He was only trying to help.”

You sway a little, only being held up by Dark’s arm around your waist. The grip is no longer painful- it’s strong enough to keep you upright, but loose enough that you can feel how dangerously close to toppling you really are.

“Dark’s n the stranger’s head. He-his t-the shadows in their mind and his influence k-keeps them- k-keeps- he’s in their head n the stranger they know, they know and they can’t stop it. There was so much blood. The Host, he- he is so, so sorry. He knows the stranger doesn’t want to. He knows. B-but that doesn’t stop him from being afraid.”

“‘Doesn’t want to’ do what? Host, what don’t I want to do?” You feel Dark’s rumbling laugh against you as you struggle to speak.

“Look at that.” His voice is doubled, tripled, an entire jury condemning you at once. “After everything you did to him, he’s still trying to clear your conscience. It’s such a shame that you’d let this happen to him. What’s even worse is that, even after watching all of this suffering, it’s just not enough for you. You’re going to stab him, too. That’s just cruel.”

The letter opener is back in your palm. Your eyes drift in and out of focus. You try to drop the weapon. Your hand curls around it instead.

“The stranger pushes away from Dark’s grip and drops to their knees, hovering over t-the Host.”

The metal in your hand glints under the lights. It is cold. So cold.

“They run their h-hand over the Host’s side and push away his coat. Dark is smiling again.”

Your fingers brush against him, and through the fabric of his shirt, you can feel the scar tissue.

“The stranger wonders how many times this has happened to the Host. The answer is many, many times. The Host should have stopped trying to help his visitors long ago. He is lonely, though, so lonely, and he clings to the company they give him. The Host must learn that he cannot trust anyone. He should not trust anyone but Dark. The strangers, the visitors, they watch him suffer, they break him. And then Dark puts him back together.”

“I can’t believe you would do this.” Dark chides you. “He was the only one here who wanted to help you- besides myself, of course. This is heartless. You know that, don’t you? And yet, you’re going to do it anyway.”

“The Host is s-so, so sorry. He knows that the stranger doesn’t want to. He knows that Dark’s influence is making them do it, is keeping th-them silent. They want to scream, but all they can do is cry. They are trying to tell him something. Dark is not putting you back together. He is the one breaking you. Those are the words that are stuck in the stranger’s throat. But what they don’t understand is that Dark is doing both, and it is a mercy. He uses the visitors against the Host so that the Host can learn. If the Host stops letting them in, Dark will not need to use others against him.”

Dark claps once, the sound distorted and harsh. “I’m so proud of you.” His voice is velvet. “You learn more and more each time. Maybe this time will truly be the last.”

“I can’t do this.” You manage to force the words past your lips in an almost inaudible whimper.

He clucks his tongue. “You think much too highly of yourself.”

“The Host is so, so sorry. The stranger is, too. They run their hand along the side of Host’s face, softly, before sinking th-the blade…. His side, between his r- between his ribs… they twist. It hurts. H-hurts.”

His words trail off. They morph into a strange choking noise. A gurgling sound.

He is silent.

“Look at what you’ve done.” Dark is behind you now, twisting your wrists, forcing you to look at the palms of your hands. “If you had just done what I asked, this never would have happened. Do you understand why it’s so important to listen to me, now? Why you need to keep your end of the deals you make?”

You feel yourself nod, eyes locked on the blood dripping from your fingertips. Dark hums his approval. “Good. Now, let’s have you sit back down and we’ll talk about how you can make amends. If you’re willing to cooperate this time, we may not even have to make you see that again.”

Even as he says it, you know it’s a lie, because you’re still seeing it. You haven’t stopped seeing it.

The droplets snake down your palms and stain them scarlet. He says something else and you nod, not knowing what you’re agreeing to, but not particularly caring, either. All you care about is the steady drip, drip, drip of your sins falling from your hands.

It will never matter how many times you wash them, how you try to hide them, how clean they will look to everyone else.

To you, they will always have blood on them.

“And there is so, so much blood.”

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cosmicsnowcryptid · 7 years

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Keeping Your End of the Bargain

I promised I’d give you all another Dark fic when we reached our next milestone, and I always keep my promises.

Just a quick warning- this is not fluff. It’s not romance. It’s not a sympathetic portrayal. This man is a manipulator, a good one, and he does what he does to further his own interests. He enjoys control, not company. And, to use Mark’s own words:

He is not here to help you. He is here to use you.

Enjoy.

You haven’t even put your keys in the door yet, but you know he’s in there. It’s not much- a subtle shift in the air pressure, a quiet ringing in your ear- but it’s enough to signal his presence.

You knew he would be back one day. He said as much when he kissed your hand and walked out the door all those nights ago. So, while the panic races through your veins and the dread grips your lungs, you can’t exactly say you’re surprised.

Click.

You swing the door open with more force than is necessary, and it slams against the wall with a sharp crack. The man sitting in your living room seems entirely unfazed by this, not shifting out of his perfect posture in the slightest.

He gives you a wide, welcoming grin, but you aren’t fooled. Not this time. His mouth may mimic the movements flawlessly, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Welcome home!” Extending hospitality as if you’re the one in his house.

“Get out.” You say flatly, tossing the keys in the general direction of the table. They clatter to the floor, and your already racing heart skips a few beats at the sound. He doesn’t laugh, but you know he’s entertained.

“Oh, come now. That’s no way to talk to an old friend, is it?”

“Good thing you’re not my friend, then.” A darkness teases at the edges of your vision as you try to walk past him. No matter how many steps you take, the stairs don’t seem to get any closer. You know deep down that he isn’t going to let you leave the conversation this easily, but it doesn’t stop you from trying.

“Well, it’s no way to talk to a business partner, either.” Amusement flickers across his face as he watches you try to move forward. It takes him no extra effort to fiddle with the world around you like this, to place what you want just out of your reach.

The visual effects? Well, those require a bit more focus on his part, but he’s ever the showman.

After letting you struggle for a few seconds longer, he drapes his arm over the back of the sofa, his smile twisting into a smirk. “You know, that’s truly Sisyphean. How about you sit down and we talk about why I’m here before you wear yourself out?”

You’ve stopped moving. Did you do that on purpose? How long have you been standing with your feet firmly planted on the ground?

“What do you want?” You mean to say it aggressively, but it comes out as barely more than a whisper.

“If you recall, you’ve got a debt to me, and I’m here to collect.” His voice is velvet, but the words make you flinch.

“What do you want?” You repeat.

He laces his fingers together and places them on his knee, appraising you. His expression doesn’t betray his feelings in the slightest. After a moment, his eyes meet yours again.

“There’s someone I need you to get rid of for me.”

“No. Absolutely not.” Your voice raises a few octaves. “That is out of the question.”

Your vision blurs for a moment. The pressure in the room becomes a pressure in your head. He casually circles the chair you’re sitting in.

When did you sit? When did he stand? Has it been this way all along? You don’t remember.

“It seems like you may need a bit of a refresher.” His voice is still too calm, but there’s a dangerous undertone, something you can’t quite place that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up.

“I remember what happened.” How could you not?

He claps his hands together, just once, and the sound seems to come from all around you. “Wonderful! You can fill in any gaps in my memory, then.”

As if he’d ever forgotten anything in his entire existence. You give a short, bitter laugh, which he ignores.

“Let’s see.” He clucks his tongue. “Where should I start? How about when I found you in a crumpled heap on the sidewalk? Broken body, broken spirit. What a mess you were.” He shakes his head. “Really a shame, someone as lovely as you in such a state. And what was it that you wanted from me?”

“....help.”

“Ah! Right. And if I recall correctly, we had an important conversation about my help, and what it entails. Do you remember it?” He continues his lazy circles around you, his hand tracing the back of the chair when his rotation reaches it. Every once and a while, he lets his fingertips dip down and brush against your shoulders. You shiver.

“Yes.” The world tilts a bit, and suddenly you’re there again, back on that sidewalk, back to that night. A touch of hysteria leaks into your voice. “I said yes. I remember. I remember. You don’t have to show me.”

But he’s going to anyway.

The duality confuses your senses- you know that you’re still in your living room, still in your chair, but you feel the harsh wind whipping against your skin anyway. He’s really outdone himself this time. The scene is set perfectly, all the props in place; the only indication that this is fake, that he’s just showing you a vivid recreation of your memories, is the lack of color in the environment. Everything is painted in shades of black and grey, with the occasional odd glitch, a smearing of blue and red that disappears before your eyes are able to focus on it.

A true artist with no regard for color theory. Why doesn’t that surprise you?

You are all alone. You stopped calling for help long ago. No one is coming.

You close your eyes, focusing on the sensation of the concrete on your cheek, not bothering to swat away the leaves that the wind blows into your face. Why? You’ve already lost everything. You’re going to die here, and no one will care.

“Stop. Please. I don’t want to see this again.” Your voice trembles. It sounds far away, as if it’s coming from behind you, from someone else observing the scene.

You hear footsteps. “Are you okay?” Someone asks. Their voice is deep and rich. A comforting sound. Your eyes snap open.

A man is bent down next to you, face etched with concern. You don’t know what it is, but something about this man makes you want to talk to him, to spill your secrets, to let him comfort you. You try to prop yourself up on one elbow, but he quickly wraps his arm around you and leans your body against his, taking the weight off of your shaking limbs. “Hey, hey. Relax. Don’t push it.”

And so you don’t.

“What’s your name?” He asks, using his free hand to smooth your hair back behind your ear, to take it away from the grip of the wind. “Tell me what happened.”

And so you do.

Your vision distorts. You see him ten times, twelve, thirty, and an anaglyphic flash disorients you for a split second before the scene returns to normal, albeit a bit later in the conversation.

“I’m skipping the boring parts.” He explains with a low chuckle.

“Please. Stop. Please.”

He doesn’t.

“Shhhh. Shhhh.” He rocks you back and forth, not seeming to mind that your tears are staining his suit. You don’t notice how impeccably dressed he is until this moment. You try to pull away, to apologize for ruining his jacket and possibly his night, but he only holds you tighter.

“You’re not ruining anything. It’s okay. You’re okay.” He murmurs. You nod and let yourself melt back into his side, not even considering the fact that he’s just responded to a statement you never actually said out loud.

“I’m so sorry that all this has happened to you.” He continues. He’s shifted slightly, using his back to block a portion of the wind.

He is warm. So warm.

“But you’re safe now, okay? I know it’s overwhelming. It seems like this is the end. But there’s always more to every situation than meets the eye. And I promise you, you’re not alone. Now let’s get you home and get you warmed up, okay?”

He moves away from your waist, his touch feather-light, and places his arms underneath yours to support your weight. “On the count of three, we’re going to stand. Don’t worry. I’ve got you. Ready? One.... two... three.”

Another disorienting flash. Are you crying? You can’t tell.

You fumble with your keys, still shaking from the cold. Your eyes flick up to his. So warm and inviting, so filled with kindness and concern.

“Can you do it?” You ask, lifting your hand to show the tremble. “I’m such a mess that I can’t even get the key in the lock.” A strained, humorless giggle slips through your lips.

To your surprise, he shakes his head, almost apologetically. “No, I can’t. But I can help.” He wraps a steady hand around yours to guide it. “This is your house. You need to let yourself in.”

This doesn’t strike you as odd. It should.

As you turn the key and hear the click of the lock, he gives you a polite smile and adds,

“you just need to let me in, too.”

You shriek something- perhaps the word “stop”, perhaps no words at all- and squeeze your eyes shut. It doesn’t help. You can still see everything.

You can’t escape.

You’re on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, sipping on a cup of hot chocolate that this man had made for you. He’d even added whipped cream and sprinkles on the top, giving you an almost goofy smile when he had presented it to you.

“Are you feeling any better?” He sits on the other side of the sofa, his body turning to face you. You nod, bringing your mug back to your lips and softly blowing the steam away.

“I really can’t thank you enough,” you say. When you look back up from your drink, he seems closer, although you didn’t notice him moving.

“You know, you seem like a really lovely person. You don’t deserve all the things that have happened to you. I’d like to help you. With the finances, the emotional strain, everything. Believe it or not, I have a lot of resources at my disposal.”

Your brow furrows, studying his expression for any hint of malice or jest. You find nothing but authenticity.

You set down your mug, the movements slow and uncertain. “...I can’t possibly accept that.”

“Pffft.” He gestures to his suit. “If you haven’t noticed, I’m doing quite well for myself. In fact, I’ve got more than I could ever need. It would be wrong if I DIDN’T help you. Please, if not for you, than for me.”

“Please. PLEASE. Stop. I’m begging you.”

Your heart leaps in your throat as he places a gentle hand on yours, thinking that maybe, just maybe, you were wrong. That good people still exist in this world. “...Okay. I’d love that.”

“Tell me.”

His face is suddenly inches from yours. You can feel his breath, can almost taste his honeyed words.

“Tell me that you need my help.”

This should scare you, but somehow, impossibly, it doesn’t. Instead, your eyes are on his lips, and you have the sudden desire to crash yours against them, to show him just how much you appreciate the gesture. You blink at the intensity of your own thoughts. It’s not like you. This is not like you. It’s as if the thoughts aren’t your own at all.

You embrace them anyway.

Not only does he not resist when you tangle your hands in his hair, but he seems to be expecting it. He quickly dominates, his lips matching your intensity and hunger.

“I DON’T WANT TO SEE THIS I DON’T WANT TO SEE THIS”

He pulls back a little to allow you to breathe, letting his lips brush against your cheek on the way to your ear. “Say, ‘I need your help’.”

“I need your help,” you repeat immediately.

“Tell me that you want my help.” He purrs.

“I want your help.”

“IDON’TWANTTOSEEMAKEITSTOP”

“Good.” You feel him smile into your hair. You try to move his head, to guide his mouth back to yours, but he resists. Instead, his hand takes hold of your chin and he tilts your face towards his. His laugh is deep and rumbling in his chest. Your attempt at control fails miserably, and he can’t hide his enjoyment.

“PLEASEPLEASE”

“You need to know that my help always comes with a price.”

“I don’t care,” you growl. And it’s not a lie. You care about nothing except the electricity on your skin where his hand continues to caress your face. Nothing else is there. Nothing else matters.

“Say, ‘I owe you.’“

“I owe you.”

“Say, ‘I’m willing to pay the price’.”

“I’m willing to pay the price.”

He hums his approval and lets his hand slide away from your face and to the back of your neck, allowing you to continue, indulging your eagerness, letting you believe that you really had a choice in the first place.

“I’LL DO IT I’LL DO ANYTHING JUST STOP JUST GET OUT OF MY HEAD PLEASEJUSTGETOUTOFMYHEAD.”

In an instant, you’re back in your living room. At some point you must have fallen off of your chair, because you’re curled up on the ground, hands over your ears, still screaming as tears stream down your face. He leans over you, expression serene.

“Is that so? Then we don’t have to keep going. I’m sure you remember the rest, anyway.”

You’re still screaming. You can’t stop. He has the ability to get into your head. He was in your head. He may still be in your head.

He may have been in your head all along. How would you know?

“Just stay out of there,” you wail.

“I don’t think we’ll need to do that again. You seem like you’ve learned a lesson about holding up your end of a bargain.” He carefully steps around you and heads for the door. “There’s a paper on your nightstand. It has all the information you need. And try to be quick about it, yeah?”

You dig your nails into the skin of your arms. It makes no difference. The shudders still wrack your body. “W-why can’t you do it?”

“I don’t kill. Too messy. Unsophisticated.” He shrugs, as if this should answer all of your questions.

“What ab-about the others? The ones like y-you? I th-thought they had no problem with k-killing.”

“They don’t. One in particular has no qualms with slaughtering, for any reason and at the slightest provocation. It’s become quite a problem, actually. His antics are getting in the way of my work.” His eyes flick back to your trembling figure, expression blank. “That’s why I need you to kill him for me.”

“Why me? Why do I have to do it? T-there’s gotta be s-s-so many people willing to do whatever you s-say. Out of all the people-the-the people you’ve made deals with, there has to be some-someone-” you can’t form any other words, instead devolving into mumbles- and, eventually, whimpers.

His hand hovers over the doorknob, and he turns his head slightly, meeting your frenzied gaze. He flashes a smile, one that reaches his eyes this time.

“Of course. People practically throw themselves at me, dear. I could have my pick of a thousand people who would do it without question. But then I miss out on the fun of persuading them.”

He winks, and as the door closes behind him, he calls out one last thing. His voice dances around you, and although it sounds like a harmony- a choir of many in the body of one- it reminds you that you have never been more alone.

“Oh, and by the way, let me know if you need anything.

You know I’m

always

here

t o

h e l p.”

#TheOwlAndHerPen #writing #Darkiplier #darkiplier x reader #Markiplier #fic #fanfic #dark #x reader #Warfstache #I struggle with picking tags as usual #I still can't believe I'm posting this at all #but like I said #I keep my promises #And I love you all #text

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cosmicsnowcryptid · 7 years

Text

Things to be happy about today

-Somewhere in the world, it has just gotten warm enough to have a pleasant afternoon walk. A girl calls for her dog and grabs the leash. Little puppy nails scramble against the tile, and the dog almost careens into the table, barely able to control the inertia of his own excitement.

-Somewhere in the world, a young man nudges his wife. “It’s time to wake up,” he murmurs. She mumbles something that may or may not be words and pulls the covers over her head. The boy can’t help the smile that softly spreads across his face. He nestles back into the covers and wraps his arm around her, deciding that, perhaps just this one time, they can spare a few more minutes in bed. The girl peeks out from her blanket cocoon, and the boy takes the chance to swoop in for a kiss on her nose. She squeaks and bats him away. “Don’t do that!” But she’s laughing. They both are. The boy takes a moment to wonder how he got so lucky. He loves her so, so much.

-Somewhere in the world, a person idly doodles in their notebook during class. When they examine their handiwork, they realize that the drawing is actually pretty good. They wear a small, goofy smile for the rest of the day.

-Somewhere in the world, an old woman slowly slips on her gardening gloves and hobbles outside to check on her plants. As she bends to grab the watering can, she sees that one of her tulips has bloomed, a brilliant red nestled in a sea of green. She claps her hands, once, and calls inside for her grandson to come look.

-Somewhere in the world, two shy people are in love. They sit by a bonfire, watching the crackling of the flames and thinking about how they are going to tell their families. One of them tenses and relaxes their hand a few times, wondering what their mother will think, what their friends will think, what they will do if no one approves. Their anxiety builds until they feel a soft hand catch theirs. They look up, into the warm, inviting eyes of the person they adore, and their shoulders relax. It doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks. They will make it through together, and it will be worth it. It will all be okay.

-Somewhere in the world, a young immigrant holds a letter from her dream college in her hands. Her whole body shakes as she runs her nail along the envelope, tearing it open. Her parents hover over her shoulder, filled with a mix of anxiety and excitement. They don’t understand much English, but they recognize the word that appears at the top of the page when it is unfolded: congratulations! Everyone starts cheering at once. This is the first time the girl has ever seen her father cry. They all throw themselves in a messy group hug, bouncing up and down in a rhythm that is not synced, but somehow still seems like a perfect harmony.

-Somewhere in the world, you woke up. It may be the easiest thing you had to do today, or the hardest thing you have to do every day. Either way, your eyes fluttered open and you took a deep breath, letting the sensation of consciousness wash over you. It may be a nice feeling. It may be a burden. But you have done it. You have risen to the challenge of a new day. You may accomplish one of your life’s dreams today. You may only accomplish the act of allowing your heart to beat. Both of these things are worth celebrating.

-Somewhere in the world, a young woman with a very tiny ponytail types at a keyboard. She is tired, barely able to keep her eyes open, but she is grateful to be alive for another day. She knows that her words may reach no one, but that there’s a chance someone’s heart may be a little lighter if she sends her thoughts out into the world, and it’s a chance she’s willing to take. She settles on the last thing she wants to say before closing her laptop and dozing off for an afternoon nap:

The mistakes you made yesterday don’t matter anymore. Today is the perfect day to try again.

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cosmicsnowcryptid · 7 years

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fanfic where im happy with who i am

Hmmm. You know, I think I can actually do that one.

It’s a Saturday evening, warm enough that the breeze through your open window feels nice, but cool enough that the wind is not a saving grace. It’s unnecessary, but it’s nice; sometimes, that’s all things have to be.

You glance up from your computer after a slightly stronger gust of air, and catch a glimpse of your reflection in the glass. You don’t judge it one way or the other- you simply regard it for a moment, and then smile at yourself. Your reflection smiles back. It may be beautiful in the traditional sense, or it may not. It doesn’t really matter. The point is that it is beautiful in its own way, that reflection, because a thing that smiles with kindness is never ugly.

You look back to your work. You made a mistake, a typo in a post you already published, and everyone has seen it. You feel no anxiety over this, though. One mistake in a cascade of perfectly written words is nothing to feel bad about. Everyone does it, and you would never scold someone else for a petty mistake, so you don’t scold yourself. You simply edit the post and correct the mistake, so that the right thing will be there in the future.

It was an odd feeling at first, the feeling of self-acceptance. At first, you felt guilty about it. How can I be okay with myself, you thought, when I have so many bad things about me? But an important truth settled into your mind after a while-

You can love a flawed thing and accept it in all of its beauty and brokenness, while still striving to make it better.

You can love yourself while not loving everything you do or are. That’s a lesson you learned the hard way, but once you learned it, you felt much more peace. After all, you reason, a painting by Van Gogh can be cracked, ripped, and broken. The frame could be too large, or the paint has faded in spots, or you can see the places where mistakes were made and the artist changed his mind. But, at the end of the day, it is still a Van Gogh painting. Nothing will change that. You can help it reach its full potential, though, by doing some restoration work.

And that’s what you’re doing to yourself. Loving yourself does not mean you condone all of the bad things you have done. Trying to fix your bad habits does not mean you don’t love yourself.

This is a thing you know now, and that knowledge is precious to you. You stopped viewing yourself as an enemy. The only person you compare yourself to is you, the vast, sprawling infinities of you, and as long as you are better than you were the day before, you know that you are doing okay. The stars that created you did not waste their stardust on forming you as long as you keep progressing.

Some days, you slip up. That’s okay, too. On those days, you think of all the stardust inside of you, and you do your best to stand up and keep glowing. This is still a form of progression, and the effort does not go unnoticed.

You close out of your computer and slip into bed, your thoughts lulling you to sleep. No, you don’t dream, but you don’t have any nightmares, either. You are simply resting, and sometimes, that’s all you need to do.

Everything will be okay, lovely. Take heart.

#writing #motivation #positivity #self care #self love #TheOwlAndHerPen #ThePositivityTag #Anonymous #Answered

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cosmicsnowcryptid · 7 years

Text

The Author Created All Of Mark’s Other Characters- Here’s How, and Why.

I saw a post vaguely suggesting this, and I am in love with it, so I did some digging and crafted this for you guys.

This is gonna be a long one, so buckle up. This is your only warning.

Mark has said that these people are separate from him- Dark, Wilford, Google, etc- they all inhabit a different body. This is something we’ve seen, too- Dark and Mark, as well as Wilford and Mark, have been observed in the same place at the same time. So why are all these entities drawn to Mark? Why do they all look like him?

Because only one, The Author, cares about him, and has created all these characters based around him.

They all resemble him because The Author has been creating them to seek revenge on Mark, in essence. Mark is both his favorite and his most loathed character, which is why he won’t leave him alone.

Let me explain.

The basic description of The Author is simply that whatever he writes comes true. We know that he is omnipotent, but not omniscient- that is to say, he is the creator, but is not all-knowing. His characters can surprise him. This is because, in the beginning, he did not write his own creations from scratch. He simply plucked people from our world and wrote stories around them. That means they have some semblance of free will, which is why they can be uncooperative.

The evidence for this is in Danger In Fiction Chapter II. A notebook is left on Ryan’s doorstep,with text that simply says:

Let your story begin.

Now, this could always mean that he simply wrote this little part into a story, like a meta-twist, but we know this isn’t the case. Why? Because when The Author is controlling something, we can hear his voice. So this is our real world that he’s editing. Okay, so that’s pretty obvious. But why is it important?

Because this all implies that The Author needs permission to be let in, but once he is, that permission cannot be revoked. However, it can be resisted.

Keep that in mind, because it’s going to be really important soon.

So, we know that The Author primarily likes to alter the lives of those that already exist in this universe. For a while, he enjoys the challenge it brings. He’s just messing around with lives that he considers inconsequential.

The one who changed this for him was Mark.

Mark, a man who was down on his luck, who figured he had nothing left to lose, and opened the notebook that was left on his doorstep.

Remember what The Author says to Ryan? “I’ve written many bestsellers. I’m sure you’ve read some.” He’s not talking about books. At this point, he still only uses people from the real world in his stories. He’s talking about lives, and Mark is his greatest and most successful “bestseller”.

This is why Mark is his favorite character. He’s the one that received the most attention.

Mark is, at the same time, his most loathed character, because he did not give credit where credit was due.

Mark’s original success was entirely because of The Author, and he never once acknowledged it. Instead, he made himself believe that the success was because of himself and the audience that watched- deluded himself into thinking the original audience was there because they liked him, and not the “him” that The Author had carefully refined. The more he allowed himself to believe this, the more he pushed away The Author. The voice that narrated his life became fainter and fainter, until it was almost nonexistent.

But you can’t get rid of him. You can only resist him for so long.

He hid in the shadows, bitterly trying to find a new project, until Mark started doing something that set The Author off, made him so furious that he vowed to ruin the life of his once-loved creation.

Mark started to make sketch videos. He started to create characters of his own. To The Author, this was like spitting directly in his eye. He made immature characters and jokes that made bile rise in The Author’s throat. I could do so much better, he would think. You don’t know what you’re doing. This is all wrong. I could do this so much better. The final nail in the coffin is when he made a video where he played The Author himself- a bastardized version, a childish one, where Mark took every truth he knew about The Author and then mixed them with immature jokes- and he ended the skit with The Author having been shot and humiliated.

This man thinks he knows how to create? After defying the Creator himself? He really thinks it’s safe to play God right now? Does he even know what he’s getting himself into? Does he know what it feels like when your characters

d i s o b e y y o u?

Let’s find out.

The Author was not going to rest until he made every single one of Mark’s characters real, and made them ruin him.

He started in a place that Mark wouldn’t expect. He started with a character that had no real name, no basis except for a few silly edits that were supposed to be “spooky”. He started with a character that he could project all of his anger and hatred for Mark onto. He started with a nightmare.

Remember this?

By giving Dark a name, we finally gave the Author the last piece that he needed to write.

Because we gave him a name, we made him real.

He knows who wrote him into existence, and he knows that the community is the reason The Author could finally create him. So he knows who we are.

Why did we do this?

Darkiplier is the strongest character. He is the one who haunted Mark in secret for years, plaguing his dreams while The Author played around with other characters in the light.

He let Warfstache stab Mark to death at one point, but immediately brought him back to life, because he doesn’t want Mark dead. That would be too easy, and would ensure he never gets the credit for his work. No, he wants to ruin him instead. Show him what it’s like when your characters stab you in the back. He wants revenge.

This is why Dark is the most pervasive and insistent of them all. He’s the one who is always there, on and off camera, making sure Mark never has a peaceful night’s sleep.

In A Date With Markiplier, it’s obvious that Dark wants our affection, our attention, to be revered above Mark specifically. People have been struggling to figure out what his motivation could possibly be.

Dark is The Author’s self-insert character, and his hatred for Mark and desire for our attention stems from The Author’s burning desire for credit, for us to see that the work was his all along and to love him instead.

How can we know this? Well, let’s take a look.

The Author needs permission to be let in.

“You just have to let me in. It’s as simple as that.”

Once he has permission, it cannot be revoked. It can, however, be resisted, which is what Mark has been doing for years- constantly shutting him out.

Before Mark, The Author enjoyed the challenge that writing pre-existing people brought. He liked that they could keep him on his toes. But after Mark, after his blatant disrespect, he became violent and unstable when people refused to listen to him. He has lost all patience.

“I am tired of giving people a choice.”

“Why do we need to choose in life?”

The Author wants the attention of the audience that he believes truly belongs to him, and he’ll use his ability to make that happen, whether through affection or intimidation.

“I can take you anywhere you’d like to go. I can especially take you to places you don’t want to go.”

If things go the way he wants them to, what happens?

You humiliate Mark like he humiliated The Author in his skit- you shoot him and walk away.

You can explore all the possibilities, of course- this is one of The Author’s greatest works. He created so many different branching paths, and he’s thrilled to have someone see them all. Or, as Dark said,

“It’s exciting, knowing that there are endless possibilities waiting for us.”

But heaven help you if you decide that you want to leave. He will trap you in a loop until you understand what he wants you to understand, and every time you try to escape, he- or, Darkiplier, the representation of him- will throw you right back in. “You are never going to escape,” he tells us.

Don’t you understand how much work I put into this? You don’t even know the truth yet, who these characters are, what they represent, who made them. Are you saying you don’t care? You don’t want to recognize me, either?

Well, that’s a problem. See, you let your story begin the second you started our little adventure here, and that’s not the answer I’m looking for.

T r y a g a i n?

And yet, after all this, we still fail to recognize The Author. No matter how many times he brings back characters- making them darker, more serious, “more than HE ever gave you”- the credit goes to Mark, time and time again.

He is getting very, very frustrated with us for not recognizing the work he’s done.

“You’d think,” he hisses in Mark’s dreams, “that after all of this, no matter how much you deny it, they’d finally get it through their skulls. Your lies are inconsistent. Your explanations are weak. Your infantile jokes can only hide so much. If they were half as smart as you think they are, they would understand. They would know by now that something is wrong.”

“I’m not sure they don’t,” Mark admits reluctantly.

“I am.” Dark says. It is a vessel that The Author likes to make his point through, even in nightmares. Especially in nightmares.

“How?”

“Because I asked them.”

“Nobody does.”

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