Bully || Septiplier

Chapter Thirty-One

i'm sorry :( for once i'm actually lowkey emotional bc of my own writing

fuck, is this how you guys feel like every second chapter? oopsss

longer chapter bitchess

MARK was crying. He was crying because he was not okay, because this- this fucking life he'd been living was not okay. Maybe, just maybe, his step father's previous encounter made him realize this; maybe Mark wasn't living a life he was deserved of.

Tears streamed down his face like a rainstorm, unleashing everything he'd been holding in the past few weeks. No, forget that- all the trauma he'd been holding in in the past matter of years. Whenever he'd slipped up, whenever Mark did a single thing they didn't like, they always dealt with it like this- and it was not okay.

Four years of this, and he was only now finally breaking. They broke him, they wrecked him inside out, and left this- this thing. This fragment of who he used to be, this fragment of a human. The rest of Mark was.. well, nothing.

Nothing but this crying thing sitting on his bed, feeling broken and worthless. Not a depressed kind of worthless, but he felt like he didn't matter anymore. Because he never mattered to his parents. He didn't matter at school. What purpose did he hold? He was cold and broken. He was just nothing.

And god be damned, Mark would never trust anyone like that ever fucking again. Not like he'd trusted his own mother, not like he'd trusted that man. Not after..

Mark shivered, curled up in a corner in his room with red eyes. He was in a small ball, as small as a boy like him could manage, his hair messy and one of his ribs probably broken. He didn't even want to think about it.

His jaw ached, he couldn't move, and he was sobbing. It wasn't that the pain was stopping him from moving, but every time he tried to, his body wouldn't physically move a muscle. He felt like he was on a comatose, trapped inside himself.

His.. his ass hurt. His head hurt. Mark couldn't even see a spot on his skin that wasn't bloody or bruised at this point, and one resounding thought jolted through him; this had gone too far.

He felt dirty and broken and useless. He didn't know how to describe how he felt, the only thoughts that came to mind were a combination of meaningless words like nothing. Like scared, which was an understatement when he was terrified.

Now, more than ever before, Mark needed to get out. He needed to escape this life, somehow. He needed to reach out. But.. but who would believe him? The Fischbach's were a really respected family. Would anybody believe him? Would anybody try to listen?

Discouraged by the answers to the questions that he already knew, the redhead stood up and walked toward his window. He could jump. He really could do it. It could be that nasty thing he was planning on doing, that insane, mad thing- and it would all be over, if he hit the ground hard enough. No more torment, no more worthlessness, no more nothing- all just gone.

His fingertips found the edges of the window's wooden frame, pulling up with all of his strength. In a jolt, the pressure released and the shut window flew up and open. The air hit his face, and he moved curiously closer to the outside. If he just looked at the sky while falling, he could do it. He really could.

But what would be left? A bloodied red headed boy, crushed to bits by gravity, a mess of red hair and blood that couldn't be told the difference of? Just broken bones and dead secrets? A broken skull, the pool of blood growing like the thoughts spilling out of his head and being free for the rest of the world to discover?