/ Song-fic kinda, cw suicidal Wilford kinda
/ one of my favorite songs btw cus yea.
Listen up, boys,
I’m gonna die
The seconds counting
To my final cry
Ah!Mark my words, y’see
I’m breathing in the
Open gates to hellWilford was walking along the edge of the rooftop, arms stretched out to keep his balance. He was swaying a lot, tilting and tipping on purpose. Wanting to fall, not wanting to? The sun was setting, the sky a deep red and orange, clouds turning purple and violet and lavender.
Tag: admin writing
Only Silence
It was quiet. So so quiet. Silent, even.
The library was quiet. The Host was quiet. Sitting there, feeling the blood run down his cheeks, gather at his chin, and drop off down onto his clothes. It was the only thing he felt. Other than the silence.
The silence was pressing down on him, deafening in its completeness.
Hadn’t he wished for this?
For silence. For the narrations to stop, to give him a bit of quiet. To not have a headache from the amount of words flooding his mind. To not have to move his lips and speak what his mind was supplied with.
But now he had the silence. And the silence was almost painful.
It was weird. It felt weird. He wasn’t used to this, and he didn’t like it. It was so so silent, and for all he knew, he could be entirely alone. Everyone else could be gone. Something terrible could have happened, and he wouldn’t know.
He was just here, alone, in the library. By himself.
And the silence.
He concentrated on the feeling of blood on his face. The only thing that ground him, that kept him in this reality. Making him remember he was real, he was here, he was existing and alive. But it was the only thing
And soon, he got used to it.
The feeling of blood on him was just another thing. And who said he wasn’t imagining this? Who said he was real? Maybe he didn’t exist anymore. Maybe he never truly did. Maybe he wasn’t really sitting here, in this silence.
It hurt.
He was alone, and the world felt empty around him. It was a scary thought, to be all alone. To be well and truly alone. To not have any other living and breathing being around him, nothing else to make sounds, to speak, to laugh, to cry, to shout. He was alone, all alone, and only silence accompanied him.
He hated silence, he hated this silence, and he wished for his narrations to come back. He wished for this silence to end. He wished for it all to end, if it meant he wouldn’t be feeling this painful silence anymore.
“But the Host’s narrations didn’t come back. The Host was just talking to himself, trying to feel normal. Like his narrations hadn’t left. Like the silence wasn’t there, wasn’t something unwanted.
But the Host is alone. Even his muttering couldn’t help him feel better.
There was only silence.”.
For if you don’t exist
Nothing.
There’s just. Nothing.
Well, there’s everyone. All of the Ipliers are there. He can see them all, so clear, but so fuzzy. Memories of their looks, mixed with how his narration describes them. They seem to glow, almost.
That wasn’t what was important, though. Because everyone was there, but there was nothing. There was no change.
As doctor Edward Iplier tended to his patients in his clinic.
As the Jim twins reported on the newest big scoop they had found.
As Bim Trimmer did his gameshow “Hire My Ass”.
As Wilford Warfstache interviewed whoever was interesting.
As Yandereplier stalked their senpai.
As Ed Edgar tried to sell his babies and children.
As Silver Sheperd saved the day.
As King of the squirrels was among his subjects.Nothing was different, without the Host. Without the Host existing.
The library was still there. The recording room was there, speaking of the man who had once been there, every day, every night, broadcasting an ominous show. There was even the Host’s room, leading from the library.
But the Host didn’t exist, here. Not anymore.
He didn’t know why, or how. He knew the Host had existed, at one point. He could see it in their faces, as they passed the library. He could tell from the empty seat at the conference table from time to time. He could tell from how whenever anything closely related to the Host was mentioned, their expressions would shift for a moment.
He didn’t exist anymore. He must have ceased to. No wonder, with his creators having abandoned him. Markiplier himself had said the Host wasn’t his character. But the cyndagos had most likely disregarded him as soon as the April fool’s prank was done with.
Of course he’d cease to exist.
But seeing how nothing had changed. Seeing how no one seemed truly affected by his missing. It hurt. It hurt.
It hurt.
He couldn’t express how much it hurt. Not falling to his knees, not clutching his chest. No screaming and wailing, no body-wrecking sobs. To thick red drops of red dripping from his cheeks, bandages soaked beyond recognition. Nearly sliding off his face. Not begging, not pleading to please be remembered, please have been cared about.
Nothing could express how deeply it hurt his soul.
He had existed, he had mattered, hadn’t he? But, here, he hadn’t. He hadn’t mattered, he hadn’t been cared about, he wasn’t remembered other than as another ego too weak to survive.
It hurt his very being, what made him up. Though, what did, even? Nothing but ideas. Ideas which would fleet long before anyone else, ideas which would be drowned by other thoughts, ideas that would be disregarded.
It hurt, it hurt, it hurt. It hurt so badly. Even choking on sobs, choking on begs, choking on pleas. Even shaking, curling up tightly on the ground. Even quieting down, blood from his eyes pooling beneath him.
Even admitting defeat, abandoned like an unfinished story.
Even that couldn’t express how much he hurt.
For if you don’t exist
Nothing.
There’s just. Nothing.
Well, there’s everyone. All of the Ipliers are there. He can see them all, so clear, but so fuzzy. Memories of their looks, mixed with how his narration describes them. They seem to glow, almost.
That wasn’t what was important, though. Because everyone was there, but there was nothing. There was no change.
As doctor Edward Iplier tended to his patients in his clinic.
As the Jim twins reported on the newest big scoop they had found.
As Bim Trimmer did his gameshow “Hire My Ass”.
As Wilford Warfstache interviewed whoever was interesting.
As Yandereplier stalked their senpai.
As Ed Edgar tried to sell his babies and children.
As Silver Sheperd saved the day.
As King of the squirrels was among his subjects.
Nothing was different, without the Host. Without the Host existing.
The library was still there. The recording room was there, speaking of the man who had once been there, every day, every night, broadcasting an ominous show. There was even the Host’s room, leading from the library.
But the Host didn’t exist, here. Not anymore.
He didn’t know why, or how. He knew the Host had existed, at one point. He could see it in their faces, as they passed the library. He could tell from the empty seat at the conference table from time to time. He could tell from how whenever anything closely related to the Host was mentioned, their expressions would shift for a moment.
He didn’t exist anymore. He must have ceased to. No wonder, with his creators having abandoned him. Markiplier himself had said the Host wasn’t his character. But the cyndagos had most likely disregarded him as soon as the April fool’s prank was done with.
Of course he’d cease to exist.
But seeing how nothing had changed. Seeing how no one seemed truly affected by his missing. It hurt. It hurt.
It hurt.
He couldn’t express how much it hurt. Not falling to his knees, not clutching his chest. No screaming and wailing, no body-wrecking sobs. To thick red drops of red dripping from his cheeks, bandages soaked beyond recognition. Nearly sliding off his face. Not begging, not pleading to please be remembered, please have been cared about.
Nothing could express how deeply it hurt his soul.
He had existed, he had mattered, hadn’t he? But, here, he hadn’t. He hadn’t mattered, he hadn’t been cared about, he wasn’t remembered other than as another ego too weak to survive.
It hurt his very being, what made him up. Though, what did, even? Nothing but ideas. Ideas which would fleet long before anyone else, ideas which would be drowned by other thoughts, ideas that would be disregarded.
It hurt, it hurt, it hurt. It hurt so badly. Even choking on sobs, choking on begs, choking on pleas. Even shaking, curling up tightly on the ground. Even quieting down, blood from his eyes pooling beneath him.
Even admitting defeat, abandoned like an unfinished story.
Even that couldn’t express how much he hurt.
emptynarration 