Does This Feel Real?

Mark Fischbach let out a sigh in boredom. There were no new games to play and every social media was extremely slow. Never before had his fans been so silenced. Was it something I did? Growing in anticipation, the handsome man stalked his own tag on Tumblr and Twitter. Nothing. In fact, the posts that were tagged with his name disappeared; it was as if everything was deleted. Running his hand through his dark hair, Mark stared blankly at his computer screen and pondered at the ordeal. What’s going on? Concerned, he finally decided to read through the comments in his last video. His almond-colored eyes grew in size as he felt his heart sink to the bottom of his chest. No.  It isn’t true. This is just a nightmare. It has to be. Or maybe the internet’s acting up. Yeah, that’s probably it.

Terrified of the worst, Mark turned off his computer and placed his head in his cupped hands. Deciding to grab some coffee, he slowly rose from his comfy seat and headed to the kitchen. As he snatched a mug from the counter, he poured the fresh coffee and idly glanced around the familiar room.  Was the kitchen knife always there? The gorgeous man cocked his head as he tried to remember using it. Suddenly, his hand burned with intensity. Jumping in shock, Mark dropped the filled mug and clutched his hand in pain.

“Fuck,” Mark muttered, flicking the hot liquid off of his throbbing hand. Sucking on the new wound, he carefully soaked up the liquid at his feet. Creak. Petrified, the YouTuber glanced around in puzzlement. The eerie atmosphere lingered as he lifted his body in order to look around the room. Nothing. Letting out a sigh of relief, Mark placed the chipped mug in the sink and rested his arms on the counter. Maybe I just need some sleep. Tracing the edge of the counter with his fingers, the internet celebrity stopped in realization and slowly turned to face the knife. It wasn’t there. Taking another look around, Mark clutched a knife for protection and lowered himself to the ground. He wasn’t alone. Sneaking across the hall, he found his bedroom door open. There you are, you bastard. As he slowly moved towards the dark figure looming over his bad, he raised himself to the shadow’s level. Slowly raising the dull end of the knife, Mark aimed for the stranger’s head. Before he could knock him out however, the man standing before him turned dramatically to face the victim.

“Hello, Markimoo.” Mark stared back in confusion as he looked into a pair of familiar eyes.  The man’s similar eyes sparkled with determination and amusement. The familiar figure grabbed the neckline of Mark’s light blue shirt and pulled him closer: so close, he could feel the warm breath on his skin.

“No, this can’t be. Y-y-you’re not real.” Trembling, Mark felt his body raise from the ground and the grip over his shirt tighten.

“Does this feel real to you?” Markiplier flinched at the man’s words, but felt nothing. Reluctantly opening his eyes, he glared at the man holding him who was looking behind Mark.

“Ahem, I said ‘does this feel real to you’,” the stranger replied in frustration. After a moment of silence, he nodded his head towards Mark as if to signal someone else. Following his gaze, the famous man looked behind him in confusion. Standing in the darkest corner of his room, another familiar figure stood in boredom.

“I know what you said and it’s stupid. I’m not ending it like that.”

“Well, why’d you agree to it then?”

“I don’t know, it sounded fine at the time.”

“Dammit Dark. Okay, look, can we just get this taken care of?”

“I don’t see why I have to do this. Get Dark #2 to do it,” Dark replied unenthusiastically.

“Why is that my name? I was the original,” another voice angrily mumbled.

“Someone just do it already!”

“Way ahead of you.” Paralyzed by confusion, Mark was unable to react. All he could do was witness the figures that circled around him before the back of the head was greeted with immense pain and warmth. Mark witnessed the cross smile under a pink mustache as his vision faded.