Bully || Septiplier

Chapter Thirty

tbh i can't choose between two different endings and i don't know how i'm gonna wrap it all up so?? this is a mess???

anyways enjoy i guess

MARK sat against the wall, legs tucked in against his chest as he contemplated. There really wasn't much else to do other than sit and think, (his phone was taken away from the moment he left the school after being suspended) and he didn't exactly have much privacy in the act.

The only time he was allowed to keep to himself was at school, and then even then kids were on his case. School was particularly frustrating, having to deal with grades and his sudden downfall of popularity all at once. He just couldn't keep up with it all, his numbers were falling, like the ticking of a repetitive clock that was his perpetual hell.

To put it simply, Mark Fischbach was going insane. Just about everything was driving him to the brink of complete insanity. The sound of the clock ticking and spinning out, the damn thoughts, averages, the names his peers called him, the names Mark called himself..

Basically, inside Mark's head was a warzone, one that people who got close to him end up being trapped inside. He was insane, he'd draw you in with a good time, and he'd kick you out as a bloodied and mangled corpse with not much left other than bones. He'd take up your headspace, roam your thoughts but it was always a waste of time. Because in the end, anyone whom got close to Mark got hurt, and since the redhead was now practically living inside himself, he was his own personal downfall.

He hit his head back against the wall, a thud sounding around the room. His thoughts refused to be silenced, and he was going insane- he was going to do something crazy. Something mad.

Before he could get around to doing this, however, there was a loud yell from downstairs. His thoughts didn't react, but his body seemed to automatically react to the sound and stand in command. Mark walked out of his room, and the second he fucking moved, the jolt of pain from a bruised rib left him breathless.

He held it in, however, because the wounded weren't normal. He wanted to be normal. Or is that what his parents wanted?.. Didn't matter, anyways. To express his pain in a more discrete way as he walked downstairs, he twitched his head, and even though it was probably a questionable movement on its own it was probably a lot better than screaming bloody murder.

His limbs were sore, too, but it was nothing outstanding. Mark couldn't even feel the small cuts and bruises anymore, he could only feel the more prominent injuries like his ribs and his ankle and the lashes on his side. He might not have looked normal yet, but if he wanted to heal, he couldn't act up.

That's why he had to behave. He could be bad later. He could go completely insane later, after he was healed, after he'd proven something.

Mark walked into the kitchen with good posture, though his ribs cried out in utter agony. He didn't flinch while he was in their presence. He couldn't fuck up, he couldn't fuck up, he couldn't fuck up.

As he sat at his spot at the table, his mother set his plate in front of him normally. He wondered how it didn't get under her skin, seeing her son all bruised up. But perhaps she didn't look at him much these days.

And then he walked into the room. Like the devil, any room sort of turned evil when he was in it, and a creeping feeling loomed over Mark at his arrival. But no, he couldn't be scared. He couldn't fucking loose it, not now. He was about to be fed.

The man seated himself across from Mark, and unlike the boy's mother, his gaze burned into him. It made Mark uneasy but he refused to show it, which, perhaps made the man more upset.

"Look at me," he growled.

Without a second guess, Mark's eyes flickered up to look into those brown eyes. They're more shit coloured. He reminded himself that it he said that, he'd be beaten, and the process of healing would have to start up again. He couldn't afford to think like that, because he could slip up and speak.

He looked content. "Are you hungry?" Mark nodded. "Use your words."

"Yes sir." He nodded, which seemed to please the man.

He walked in right after the accident. He's been living with them for a few years, and he's always hated Mark. But now he'd taken it to a whole new level, because he was the one hurting him, and Mrs. Fischbach didn't seem to care much about it.

After dinner, Mark headed back to his room after his mother said he could go. He walked up, lefthis door open like he was told to, and seated himself on his bed, hands in his lap. Time to think again.

Mark found himself laying down on the made bed, staring off out his nearby window at at the blue sky. Blue. The colour reminded him of something, of a pair of eyes. He grit his teeth to stop the thoughts, but, as usual, they protruded out of his brain.

He missed him.

And it was when he thought those three words that his stomach dropped and he felt like he was going to cry, but he couldn't, but he really wanted to- it hurt all over when he became aware of the little scars and scabs that littered his skin almost everywhere.

There were heavy footsteps that made half of Mark's body swing up into a sitting position, eyes wide and fearful. He already knew who it was, he was expecting it. It was like he could read his mind. One thought on that topic, and he would be punished, they'd told him. They weren't kidding.

The man closed Mark's bedroom door behind him when he walked in, which was scary. But what was scarier, terrifying, even, was the little click it made when he locked it.

Oh, man, Mark must have messed up, really fucking bad. He sat as still as a twig, unwilling to move as he stared at his step father with wide eyes. The man looked down at him, seeming to think for a moment.

"Are you hungry for dessert?"

Mark was awestruck by his question. Dessert? Like, a pie or something? He wasn't allowed something like that. He must have been good recently, really good. Mark nodded his head unsurely.

The man walked closer to Mark, which startled him because he almost shrank back for a second. His arm was grabbed forcefully, and he was dragged off of the bed and into the floor. The man stood in front of him.

Mark glanced up to see him unbuttoning his pants. What was he doing?

"You're such a fucking faggot," the man spat, brown eyes colder than ever before. he pulled down his pants and pulled out his- woah.

"On your knees." And he didn't know why, maybe out of fear-

but Mark obliged.