Markiplier X Reader

Chapter VII - (Y/N)

Trigger warning: self-harm and language. This chapter is going to be really heavy btw so please read cautiously.

On days that I work, which is most days, I don't have time in my showers to cut. Which is why, on days like today, I spend a while in the shower while Mark records to make up for lost time. It's like an itch that I just have to scratch.

As I stand in the shower, mindlessly watching my own handiwork, I begin to feel guilty. Here I am, living a great life with a decent job and a famous YouTuber as a housemate, and yet I continue to do this. I shouldn't feel depressed anymore. I'm not on the streets like so many others; my life could be much worse.

I cry, not from the pain, but from the guilt. And yet I can't stop creating more marks on my wrist. My tears blur my vision and I slip a little, cutting much deeper than I intend to. "Oh shit!" I whisper-yell. "Shit! Shit! Shit!"

I get out of the shower and watch as my blood drips like an open tap. My first instinct is to grab a towel and press against my wound. I realize too late that all of Mark's towels are white. "Fuck!" I yell a little too loudly. I search through the drawers of his bathroom, tossing random things aside, looking for anything I could use to bandage myself.

I begin to get dizzy and lightheaded. There's just so much blood, I think. I begin to fall to the floor and grab onto something, I'm not sure what it is, to catch myself. It tumbles to the ground with me and smashes. And all I see is darkness...

~~Mark's Point of View~~

I just finish recording a video and go to the kitchen for some food when I hear something crash upstairs. I go to investigate and find that the bathroom door is closed. I listen for a moment.

The shower is off, and I hear no movement, but (y/n) couldn't be anywhere else in the house. I knock gently. "(Y/N)? Are you in there?" There's no response. I try again to no avail.

"Okay, I'm coming in," I yell through the door. But when I go to turn the knob, I find that the door is locked and I start to panic. What if she's seriously hurt? I worry.

"(Y/N)! Are you okay?!" I jiggle the doorknob more and still I get no response. "(Y/N)!!" I back away from the door for a second and look at it as if it's some complex puzzle I have to solve. I think for a moment, then I back up more. I run shoulder first into the door. It budges, but doesn't quite give. I try again, and it works.

Bursting through the door, I almost slip on what I immediately assume to be water. But when I look down, I see (y/n) naked in a pool of her own blood, and realize that that's what I had slipped in. Next to her is the remains of what was once the glass that I held my toothbrush in. That must be what I heard crash.

Bending down, I lift her face a little and try to wake her up, but I can't. I check for a pulse and find one. I fumble for my cell phone and dial 911 with shaky hands. Holding it between my ear and shoulder, I grab a clean towel and drape it over (y/n), but not before noticing the scars covering her body, and the fresh cuts on her wrist and thighs. She cuts herself, I realize. That's why she only wears long sleeves.

"911, what is your emergency?" the operator on the other end asks.

"Hi! I just found my friend on the floor of my bathroom. She's passed out on the ground with what looks to be self-harm cuts on her wrist. She's lost a lot of blood from it," I say, trying to act calm.

"What is your address? I'll send a unit out immediately," she says. I give her my address and she instructs me to lift (y/n) out of her blood and to take a towel and put pressure on her cuts. I do as she says and lay her head in my lap. "What is their name, how old are they, what is their gender, and what exactly is your relationship to them?" she asks.

I answer mindlessly, semi-shocked about the whole situation. "Her name is (y/n), she's a 20-year-old girl, and I'm her best friend. We live together in my house."

After what feels like forever, the first responders arrive at my house. The door is unlocked, so they enter without knocking. I hear them come in and yell, "Upstairs! We're up here!" They find us, and the rest is a blur.

I drive behind the ambulance to the hospital and fill out all the paperwork needed. The doctor comes out to the waiting room and tells me that (y/n) needed stitches, and that she lost quite a bit of blood, but she'll be fine. She's awake now, and I'm allowed to go to her room.

I walk up to her open door and knock to let her know that I'm here. She lifts her head and then lays back down, not actually inviting me in. I go in anyway and sit on the chair next to her bed. Her face is red and tear-stained.

We sit there for a while, neither of us knowing what to say. Eventually I ask the inevitable. "Why?" She doesn't look at me or respond to my question. It almost seems like she didn't hear me. "(Y/N), why would you do that?" I ask again.

She turns away from me. "No," I whisper. "No, you don't get to ignore my question. You were in my house. So why did you do it?" I press.

She turns back to me, crying again. "I didn't mean to," she whispers, almost inaudibly. "I'm sorry. I just slipped while doing it and..." Her breath shudders. "And I went too deep."

"Why didn't you tell me earlier? I could've helped you," I tell her.

She shakes her head. "I was worried." I wait for her to keep explaining, because I know she's not finished. "I didn't want you to think I was some freak. I already had so many scars, it didn't really matter that I was making more..." she trails off.

I feel my eyes fill with tears. She's been doing this since before she moved in with me. I should've realized when she refused to wear anything but long sleeves. I should've been more suspicious when she got so upset about the bathing suit. I should've thought harder about the blood in her clothes.

I put my head in my hands, realizing that I haven't helped her at all. She needed a friend, and I wasn't there for her. We cry together for a short time.

"Promise me you'll never do this to yourself again," I plead with her. "Promise me that you'll never hurt yourself again. Promise that you'll come to me instead."

She cries more. "I can't promise anything," she replies. "Sometimes I don't even realize I'm doing it until I've already done it. I can't stop; it's an addiction."

I slide out of the chair to kneel on the ground beside her bed. I take one of her hands in mine and I continue to beg her not to hurt herself again. She cries so hard that he can barely breathe, and so do I.

In that moment, in that awful moment, I realize that I love her. I don't realize it because she's broken and I want to fix her. I don't realize it because I love her scars and cuts. I don't realize it because this side of her is any kind of beautiful.

I realize it because I want to help her and protect her more than anything else in the world. I realize it because I want to kiss away every scar on her body so that she can be as beautiful as she really should be. I realize it because this moment is so ugly and raw, that I just want to help her to find herself again.

It's because I love her that I don't tell her how I feel. I can't put any more pressure or stress on her.

So I stay there, kneeling on the ground beside a woman that I can't help but be incredibly in love with, as she weeps.