#cuntgameplays

i’m a new youtube based blog and i need to follow more blogs! if you have any of the following on your blog please reblog or smth:

• jacksepticeye

• markiplier

• pewdiepie

• crankgameplays

• peebles

• wiishu

• marzia

and generally stuff like that! :)

@markiplier @crankgameplays

It’s been what seems like a hundred years. At first, the days, months, decades were easy to count by the light slanting across the marble, quickly collecting dust and dead leaves. A hundred years since you died, deposited in a mirror by something profoundly Dark. Something had changed, though. Something was different today.

It was then he came around the corner. The one who left you here, cracked and useless. He approached slowly, intent hiding in his features, his two stolen souls echoing around his figure in red and blue. His suit pristine, tie slightly askew, he reached for your frame, dragging his electric finger down the filigree. He finally spoke, the undertones of Celine and Damien’s voices making your soul ache.

“I’m tired of feeling your spirit in this world,” he said. “I can still feel your memories. The poker game, the fall from the staircase, the exact moment Wilford cracked, I remember it all. I can feel your hatred, your longing for revenge. I know all it would take is a single moment of slicing one’s hand on the cracks of this mirror and you’d be free, ready to come after me,” he stepped back. “That’s why I’m sending you away. Say goodbye to your friends.”

He raised his hands lightly, as if he were about to begin a light orchestra ballad, but suddenly you feel more cracks stretching across your surface. The world started taking that strange green appearance from all those years ago, the moment you pieced the answers all together. Sounds begin to distort and a deeply low hum filled your soul.

And then it stopped. You reflected a completely different room. It was strange and foreign, but before you could distinguish anything specific, a boy walked past. He didn’t give you a second glance as he left, but then he came slowly back, his face holding alarm. He looked not a day over twenty and his hair was shaved oddly. He approached, lifting his hand toward you.

He turned his head, directing his voice towards another room, “Hey, Mark? What happened to your mirror?”

Mark? Your Mark? A voice answered, the sound roiling through your memory, “What mirror?”

The boy answered, “The one in your hallway.”

“I don’t have a mirror in my hallway.”

You could hardly believe it. Mark was alive, but not in the way he was the last you’d seen him. His soul was in Damien’s body, but this voice sounded like he did when he was truly alive. This was more more kind, though. It sounded right.

The boy’s eyebrows reached for each other as he brought his hand toward you. A single finger traced a single crack.

A single slice of one’s hand and you’re free.

Dark, if you can hear this…