Then *Poof* You Were There: A Markiplier fiction #Wattys2014

Chapter 14: Nightmare Fuel

~Lexi's P.O.V.~

The end of the semester came and went. I moved back home with everything I had brought, not sure if I really wanted to go back.

"You have to finish this, Alexis. College is not something to be taken lightly. You already finished one year, you can do the rest." That's what my parents kept telling me, anyway. A really big part of me wanted to stay away from all the memories and all the places I'd been to with...him. They didn't understand that, though. They kept telling me to get over it. But how can I? It's been months, but I can't seem to forget about it. I only told my parents because I felt like they could at least comfort me a little about it. Boy was I wrong!

They said it's the same thing that happened with the guy I used to like in high school. Well breaking news: it's entirely different! He just acted like a jerk while Ma-this other guy...completely toyed with me in a whole new way. I'd never been broken like this before. As much as I tried not to think about him, my mind kept going to that last night, seeing that whore on top of the man I was starting to really fall for, who I almost called my boyfriend. Heh, worst relationship ever, huh? Not even 24 hours in and he's already cheating on me with my roommate. What a dick.

I unsubscribed to him the day after I moved in with Jackie. I deleted all my pictures of us on my phone and burned all the physical copies I had. I stopped watching his videos, unfollowed him on everything, deleted his number, got rid of anything that would make me think of him. But that didn't really help.

Since that first day after the incident, my art has been the same. It all portrayed the same guy, messy hair and no face, doing something ordinary then the next time I drew it was him in that same place but hurt in some way. The one after the mirror showed him punching it with his hand that had been pulling his hair, blood rushing down his fist in a mad fury. Some of the other drawings were him cutting vegetables in his hand and the next scene has hislm slicing his hand, blood going everywhere. One was of him shaving and then cutting his face in multiple places. In every picture, even the ones that were before the man's injury, it felt sad. Like he didn't really know what to do with himself and was always somewhere else. It was also like...like I knew him. There was something familiar about him, but every time I tried to put a face, I couldn't get it right.

And with those drawings came nightmares. I often woke up in the middle of the night breathing heavily with tears streaming down my face. I never screamed because of nightmares, even as a kid. I would just wake up in a daze and then react a few seconds later. But the dreams were always of the drawings, except really happening. They came to me every night and didn't stop. I wanted so badly to tell someone about this, but if I did I'd probably be sitting in a mental institution that same day. So I kept it to myself. Told lies day in and day out to keep everyone else around me happy.

Because it was summer, I had the opportunity to hang out with old friends, but I never had fun when I did. I didn't tell them about what happened because, well, I didn't want to worry them. And besides, they wouldn't even care. They hardly cared when he hung out with us at Comic Con. Every time I told them something exciting that happened, they'd blow me off. Like one time I was at a sleepover at Savvy's a couple years ago and was talking to two of my friends, one of which is not my friend anymore, and they were talking about dreams and psychic stuff. They were talking about dreams telling us things that we may or may not be realizing at the moment, and said that they had both had dreams like that. I tried to talk about one of my dreams where a man was in a dark room and a single light shone on a table where there lay a phone. He answered it and the woman on the other side told him that he was dead but he could have one more shot. I tried talking about it, but they said "that doesn't mean anything" and continued talking about their own experiences. They didn't even try to analyze it like they were doing with theirs to see if it really meant something or not.