Markiplier Ego Stories!

The Best Way To Be Happy (Wilford Warfstache)

"Sometimes, the best way to be happy is to learn to let go of things you tried hard to hold on to that are no longer good for you."
-Live Life Happy

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He could barely see the polaroid still clenched between his fingers in the gloom, but he had far and beyond memorized the contents. He didn't need to see it. Not really.

Not anymore.

He wasn't sure when the sun had set. It felt like moments ago that light was bursting through the brilliant bay windows facing the gardens. Now it was well past twilight. The moon shared a sliver of its light, a slash of silver and blue shadows that lightened the blackness with their scarce glow. He knew the home-turned-house well enough that he didn't need the extra illumination, anyways.

He glanced down once more, dark eyes wavering as they almost caressed the figures in the picture. He was central to the photo, bombastic and excitable as always, his expression full of fondness and evocative--he could remember this holiday well in fact. It still flooded him with fond memories of exuberance and youth, of love and passion.

It also pained him, oh so much. Her face was so close to his in the photo, nearly cheek to cheek. Her hand rested on his chest sweetly. His arms were slung jovially across his two companions shoulders, drawing them ever closer.

A single tear pattered softly against the matte finish of the photo. He didn't wipe it away. It seemed almost tasteful, the way the tear covered part of his ex-best friend's face. Almost beautiful. Almost meaningful.

But that didn't really matter anymore... Did it.

Damien, Celine... They were gone. Forever. And though part of him fought, drove him to madness, struggled against reality, he knew it all too well. He had seen what they had become. He had seen the... Thing. That they were now.

None of their love, compassion, liveliness, was left. None of it.

Hardly any of him was left, either.

Another tear hit the finish, rolled off onto his thumb, and the touch of liquid seemed to jolt a laughing breath from his chest. It started with a low wheeze, almost a cough. And slowly it grew, shaking his shoulders silently at first until he began giggling, pitch raising, volume growing.

As his laughter crescendoed into pealing hysteria, the photo of the two people he loved more than anything fluttered gracelessly to the ground. It squeaked and crinkled pitifully as, a moment later, a solid boot crushed down on it.

The Colonel had lurched to his feet, eyes quickly losing their sad symmetry and transforming into something far more unstable. Something brighter and far more detached from the pain. Something that protected him.

Inside, somewhere buried away, he knew he had to let go.

But how could he let go of the only thing keeping him sane, in this utterly mad world?