Who Killed Markiplier One Shots

Athazagoraphobia - Abe

The Fear Of Being Forgotten, Ignored, Or Abandoned. 

He had been expecting the gunshot. 

The pain was consuming, but only for a moment. That's what frightened him. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he figured he was going into shock. No pain left that quickly unless your body was trying to protect itself from the inevitable death that would come soon anyway. 

Besides, it wasn't as if he was a stranger to agony of that level. He was capable of working through it. In his line of work, it would have been a miracle if he walked away from each case unscathed. 

Although, after everything that had happened, maybe death would be better than the alternative. He closed his eyes, welcoming the Darkness with open arms. 

The true panic came when he opened them hours later. 

He must have fallen asleep; the hallway was dark and the house was quiet. When he lifted his hand away from his chest, he discovered that it was caked in dry, crusty blood. He had stopped bleeding hours ago. That in itself was a miracle.

"Hello?" he called out apprehensively, his voice weak and hoarse; both from lack of use and dehydration. 

Of course, he received no response. 

Standing was the next obvious plan of action. He didn't bother to take into account the effect that might have on his poor, abused body, but in the end it didn't matter. The pain showed no signs of returning and the movement did nothing that would cause alarm. The biggest thing he had to worry about was his muscles, which were stiff and sore from being held in an uncomfortable position for such a long time. 

After standing, the detective's next move was to assess the situation and and take in his surroundings. In doing so, he noticed a dangerous tension hanging in the air. He impulsively reached to draw his gun before realizing it had been left on the floor. 

The puddle of blood it sat in didn't look like much, but it created feelings of apprehension and unease. In the end, the weapon was left behind. 

"(Y/n)?" he shouted, making his way to the nearby staircase. Again, he received no reply. 

"...Colonel?" Silence.

"Damien? Celine? Anybody?!" Nothing. 

At the bottom of the stairs, he found another pool of blood with no body to go with it.

"George? Benjamin? Chef?" His voice echoed in the entryway. The darkness of the house was overwhelming, the emptiness even more so. 

Throughout his career, Abe had had many partners, each one dying a more unpleasant and gruesome death than the last. He wished he could say he had gotten used to the losses, but each one left him with an inordinate feeling of abandonment. 

For as long as he could remember, that had been his greatest fear. Now, the realization that he had been left alone to die hit him full force. His friends had deserted him, or... or they had died. He sat down hard on one of the benches. 

With his head in his hands and pain in his heart, he swore revenge on the ones he had loved. The ones he had trusted. The ones who had left him behind. The ones that had forgotten him. 

The house was empty.

He was alone.

[Cover done by @heart_for_writing ❤️]