☆Creepypasta Stories☆

~The Endings~

319 Honeytree Lane was just like any other house. It lay in the recently built neighborhood bordering the old downtown streets to the West. The homes were expensive, and only the filthy rich pondered setting their greasy, prestigious lives down in a home on Honeytree. The only difference in the plot of land labeled "319," was that the house atop that plot regularly contained a very unique boy.

Sunday

Mark Graham sat at his computer desk. The lights in his room were off, and the only thing adding any luminescence to his greasy, dirty face was the bright screen of his laptop. This had been his day: another day of sitting down in his squeaky chair forgetting to shower, or rather preferring not to, and wasting away mindless hours of his "life" browsing the Internet.

A tall, fully-grown man walked side to side on Mark's computer screen. He had darker skin, and his black hair was slicked back. The man was in a dark apartment by the looks of it: a dimly lit room with an indistinguishable painting on the back wall, just above his unmade bed. He wore wrinkled pajamas, as if he had just woken up to film this video, and his sweaty face gave the impression that he clearly did not care how he presented himself to the Internet.

Mark knew why; he leaned in closer as if he was preparing for what was coming next. The man leaned in closer to the camera. The webcam adjusted to his nearing face, and produced a clear picture of the gentleman. His lips moved as he stared just below the camera at his computer screen, obviously whispering some important words to the thousands of onlookers that would see this, but the man's "production" had no audio.

Mark clenched his fist and licked his lips briefly. He knew what was coming next. The sweaty man tightened his face and shut his eyes for a moment. A single tear squeezed its way out of the man's tightly closed eyelid and rolled down his cheek. Another inaudible whisper to the camera, and the man stood up and returned to his standing position, this time with a pistol in his right hand.

This was the sixth time Mark had watched this video; he had a rather intriguing obsession with it: the man's face, the last tear, and of course, the end. Mark always loved the end. He had replayed the endings of not just this video, but many before it. In fact, for the past several years Mark had been looking for endings just like this, and this one especially interested him.

Mark wanted to go into the bloody body lying on the rough carpet of the man's poorly kept apartment. He wanted to feel the man's final emotions before he made the decision to pull the trigger. What did the bullet feel like? What was the feeling in the man after the bullet tore through his lively and healthy brain? Did he lose consciousness immediately, or did he slowly fade out of sense and reality as the blood left his skull? The man had slumped over and fell immediately, did that mean he was already unconscious, or did he simply lose his motor skills? Did he immediately regret pulling the trigger, or was there not enough time to think? Plenty of these questions circulated through Mark's curious little mind, but he didn't have the power to answer them. It was getting quite late, and he wanted at least a generous five hours of sleep before school the next day.

As Mark slept, he dreamt up answers to the questions that had circulated in his mind for so long. He dreamt up a world where death took all men back in time before they were killed. Then, they had time to change the path of events that rendered them dead before. It was a curious dream, but for a boy as imaginative as Mark, it was nothing out of the ordinary.

Monday

Mark arose from his bed to a bright sun. A hushed radio announcer read a traffic report. "A fender-bender on Magnolia Road is causing a delay of 5 to 10 minutes..." The radio was barely audible: definitely too quiet to have woken him up. He angrily turned his alarm upward toward his barely-open eyes. 8:40, another day where he had foolishly overslept. He had missed the bus, and his parents were long gone at their jobs. Mark grunted. His parents had completely left without checking on him; he couldn't recall seeing them for the past several days. If he had ended up like the man from the video the night before, his parents may not have found out for weeks. Certainly they would notice a smell coming from his room after the bacteria began to take over...