Darkiplier

     Walking. That's the last thing I remember. I was going home. The weather was nice and I felt elated, it was a good day in general and I was enjoying it. I was in my neighborhood, on my street, a few blocks from my house; cars passing by, children outside playing, the elderly watering their lawns. Yet somehow this happened. It's dark. I'm hungry, I'm sick. My face is crusted with blood and I desperately want to scratch and rub all my sore flesh and tend to my wounds, but I'm bound to this chair. And I look into his eyes. He comes here every day. It gets worse and worse. I know he will be the last thing I see.

     The door creaked open and was pulled securely shut, then locked. There was always a silence that followed that action. If I was awake or conscious, I would see him standing there calmly. He would always admire me, for any given amount of time. There have been times where he would leave after that, and I could relax, knowing that I was safe for just a day longer.

But not today.

     Slowly he walked up to me, dragging his favorite metal baseball bat. The sound of it scraping across the wooden floor made me nauseous. He crouched in front of me and checked attentively to see that my arms were still tied tightly behind me, then greeted me with a warm smile.

"Hey buddy," he hummed, patting my left arm roughly. "How are you? How's the memory? Let's check it. Gotta make sure every thing's in full working order, right?"

He then stood up, and with excellent posture, raised the bat and rested it on his shoulder.

"What is my name?"

Trick question. "Which name?" I forced out. My voice is long gone by now, just a harsh, hissing of my previous tone. He chuckled, bringing the bat down and leaning on it. "Good job! You're learning! I'm proud of you! Ok, what is my Youtube name?"

Though my vision was blurry and my neck ached, I lifted my head up and looked into his eyes.

"Markiplier. Mark. You are Mark, you are...M-Markiplier. I can't fucking forget who you are."

Mark smiled a big, joyful smile. His adams apple moved as if he was suppressing a good laugh. Dressed in jeans and plain black t-shirt, he looked like nothing more than a regular man in his 20's. His face appeared kind and friendly. Yet in his glasses was a reflection of a broken, tortured human, imprisoned and helpless. And behind his glasses were dark, haunting eyes that glinted with anticipation.

I watched as he stood tall again, gripping the bat in both hands. He swung the bat behind him, his arm muscles tight and visible.

"Awe, I only asked you what my youtube name was! I didn't ask you what my real name was!" I watched as he clenched his teeth and swung the bat across my face. I initially felt nothing, but heard bones in my neck crack, as well as my cheekbone, and something in my mouth. I hung there limply, blood streaming and dripping. My ear rang as the immense pain finally registered. I groaned, which was all I was able to do anymore.

     Mark bit his thumb nail casually. "Hang nail! Didn't hold the bat right that time, I was actually going for your head, oops!" he giggled. Aside from his wonderful smile and cheerful attitude, his voice was the biggest shock. Hearing him talk should be a pleasant experience, it was low, smooth, full of character. Instead it was terrifying to hear. Mark was always so calm and happy when he was doing the most horrific things. His eyes always glazed over and sparkled after the first blow. He always smiled, laughed, radiated with pleasure. This was not the Markiplier we all watched on Youtube, though he did give subtle hints on certain game vlogs, challenges and collaborations that no one would pick up on unless you ended up where I am.

"You still there, buddy?" I heard Mark step closer. He used the bat to move my face toward him. I looked at him, in too much pain to do anything more. He let my head drop. "You know what I'm going to ask you next, friend. What am I going to ask you? Remember?" Mark's voice was lowered to very threatening tone. Yes, of course I remembered.

Every single fucking day.

He bent down close to my face, sitting the bat next to him. He brought his hands up and very carefully held my head up, still maintaining that unnatural smile. "Tell me what am I going to ask, and then please tell me your answer," Mark whispered, sending shivers up my injured spine.

I swallowed a few times, and if I could cry I would have started doing so right then.

"Y-you...are going to ask-" I stopped and coughed specks of blood onto Mark's face, who is not phased by it, he barely even blinked.

"You are going to ask...if I know w-why I am here."

Mark strokes my face with his left hand. "Yes, that's exactly right. Good job, friend. And now I just need the answer! That's all, then we can get you out of here! I can untie you, help you up...get you in he shower because boy! You don't smell too great! We can get you some good food! Food, huh? And then I'll drive you home! Sounds good, right? You just have to answer that one question. What is the answer?"

Mark moved his face closer to mine and increased his grip. I could tell his jaw was clenched, and he wasn't smiling anymore. There was nothing I could do to avoid this. Everyday. Every single day for a very long time.

"The answer please." Mark pressed his forehead against mine. I felt my throat tighten.

"I...I... Please, Mark, I really don't know-Oh please no! P-please don't! I'm sorry! I'm really sorry! Mark! Please I can't-NO PLEASE-" Mark pushed my head away and stood up, balling up both fists.

"What I don't get is WHY-" Mark punched me with his left fist, busting my lip open in a new spot.

"No matter how giving I am-" his right fist busted across my already broken nose, causing blood to gush out all over the place.

"You still-" I couldn't tell what he hit that time, I lost vision but felt the damaging impact.

"WON'T. LEARN!"

Mark grabbed me by the hair and with all his strength, launched me sideways and into the floor. Surely my shoulder was dislocated, caught awkwardly under the chair I was bound to. He picked up his metal bat, dull and dented from being used so many times on my broken body. I couldn't feel very much, but he was beating me with it. I was gratefully numb. The bat slammed into my ribs, my hip, my leg, then finally, with an alarming heavy, metallic clank, my skull.

     Mark dropped the bat on the floor, the noisy clatter is always the last thing I hear before I fade out. I never know how long I'm unconscious, or what he does with me during that time. I sometimes wake up in much more pain, with more injuries than I had from the assault. But just like everyday, which is an unknown amount of time to me, Mark walks in, sometimes with his bat, sometimes something else, or nothing at all, and he asks me questions to make sure I'm still functioning. If I can't talk, he beats me. If I answer, we carry on. But no matter how well it goes, I can never ever answer that one question. I do not know why I am here. I have no idea why he knocked me out with his bat that day I was walking home, or why no one saw or helped me. I have no clue as to why he is keeping me here, tied to this chair.

     I don't understand what he wants me to say. I'll never have an answer. His face will be the last thing I see. He will most likely be smiling. He will be holding that bat. I will die slowly, watching him fade into a weapon-wielding silhouette. And unfortunately, neither of us will ever hear the answers we were looking for.