Markiplier Imagines

117 | a broken man.

colonel x reader-ish. it's mainly just a story about the colonel. 

There are so many things you can do to a man to break his spirit.

Take his love, take his job, take his friends, take his passion.

And there was a man almost too broken to still be standing, who all of these things happened to. He didn't cry, he didn't whine, he didn't even talk. He just hid himself away from the rest of the world and made sure no one would find him again.

He could remember all of the things that made him happy, that made him William, but none of them did anything but make him hurt. He could remember his laugh, the interviews from news outlets, the treks he went on to study species of animals and the flora around them.

He could remember her beautiful face, her comforting words and her giddy giggles. He could remember her smiling, caressing his face and reminding him of all the good things in life. All of those memories felt so distant, now. Her face was blurry, lost to the abyss of remorse and sadness.

All those people were nothing more than a memory now, and it hurt him so much. It killed him to think that he would never see them again. He wanted so badly to go back to the way it was, to the times where he wasn't hiding away and the times where he wasn't ripping out his hair and losing his mind.

Sometimes he would hear voices in the dark, their voices. He would hear her whisper that he wasn't good enough, he would hear him whisper that he could've helped him, he would hear his victim whisper that he did it, that he murdered him in cold blood.

He could hear Him blame him for His creation. He could hear the echoes of his life in the dark, he could hear the echoes of everyone ringing through his ears and pounding at the back of his head. It was never going to stop.

The pain wouldn't stop.

He wouldn't stop.

She wouldn't ever wake up. He killed her, he killed her, he killed her, he killed her, he killed her. He killed him, he killed him, he killed him, he killed him, he killed him, he killed him. He did it, he did it, he did it, he did it. He was a murderer, he was a murderer, he was a murderer. He murdered them. He killed them. He did it. He killed everyone.

How could he do that? How could he do that? How could he ruin his own life? How could he do that? How could he? How could he? How could he? How could he? How could he? How could he?

He couldn't feel the pain anymore, but he could see the blood in his eyes and he could see the hair falling out of his head. He could see their bodies on the ground, he could see the blood on his hands, he could see the gun on the ground.

He couldn't feel anything, but he could see everything.

Something echoed out into his mind, something that stopped the whispers, something that pierced his mind so badly that it hurt. He could hear it echoing. It was something like a scream, and it wasn't stopping. It wouldn't stop, it wouldn't stop, it wouldn't stop.

Then he felt the pain, he felt the tug at his throat, he felt the twist in his stomach, he felt the burn in his mouth. His teeth rattled as he screamed, as he yelled and cried, as he pounded against everything. He just needed it to stop, he just needed the whispers and the crying and the blood and the shots and the screams to stop.

He needed everything to stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop.

Please. Stop.

Ringing, piercing, dulling, screaming, dulling. Everything was dulling, it was all balancing out. It was all ending and beginning at the same time and he suddenly couldn't breathe. It hurt, it hurt, it hurt.

Then it stopped. It stopped. The ringing silenced, the piercing screams stopped. His throat still burned, his eyes were still bloody and watered and red. But the sounds, the whispers, the screams and the ringing, it stopped.

A sickly sweet smile spread across his lips, something insane and genuine. He giggled in delight, the pain stopped. He was free! He was free!

He couldn't remember why he hurt so bad, he couldn't remember why he was crying and why his throat burned, but he was free. He was finally free.

He started laughing, chuckling then beginning to let out a broken cackle, something that resembled a raven cawing in the night. His laughs bounced off the walls in his mind, and he felt his grip on reality loosen to the point of nonexistence.

He pulled himself from his knees, hands gripping at the wall and chest heaving. He was breathless but felt light. He couldn't walk straight, and his throat hurt so badly that he couldn't speak, but he walked. He walked in the dark until he got to the bathroom, flipping on the switch.

His eyes burned even more as they adjusted to the light, but he practically reveled in the pain. It was a nice refreshment. Then he shifted his eyes to the mirror, and what he saw was almost terrifying.

In front of the mirror stood a broken man in a broken body, but he was smiling. He looked deranged, insane. His hair was a grey color, but he couldn't tell why. It was a mid-grey, and he almost laughed.

His skin was paled and all of his scars were more than evident. He loved it. He touched his face, ran his fingers over his skin and he laughed. He laughed until he couldn't breathe. He laughed until he was blue in the face and he was heaving, doing anything to catch a breath.

But he couldn't stop laughing, he couldn't stop touching his skin, he couldn't resist the urge to rip into it. And then he passed out.

He was out for days, but it only felt like a few hours being stuck in an empty mind with nothing more than himself. When he woke up again, he was still in his bathroom and he was weak, but he was laughing.

The laughing man was not the same man that loved another. The laughing, pale man, was not the same lively man that went on studies. The laughing, insane man, was not the same man that went to the party.

The laughing man was no longer William. The laughing man was someone else, someone completely different.