Mark stood in the middle of his room, eyes staring down dully at the blade in his hand. He was so... confused. He didn't remember the last time he used it, whatever happened to stain it an ugly brown, to make it smell sickly sweet like death.
He took a shuddering breath, looking down at the weapon in his hands. He'd done this enough times (or at least, he was sure he had) that he'd lost count, though it would be easy enough to calculate it... The first scare in the kitchen, cuts in the bathroom... his bedroom with a 'borrowed' knife, twice... One accident with being drunk and said borrowed knife in Celine's old workroom... Once, the last time before now was a gardening tool to the gut because of another accident that he was still very confused about... more so than the others.
And after all this, he still could barely remember any of what happened during those times, having to piece the story together through evidence around him and his foggy memories. He could just barely remember going somewhere every time he was stabbed, in some way. Most of them being probably fatal wounds, so he decided to do it again. This time he was going with a purpose, his own purpose. Not some desperate, disgusting, distraught reason. Not an accident. His own volition. He'd taken his knife- his borrowed knife and prepared himself. He breathed in and out, slowly and carefully as he closed his eyes. His hand shook with an unknown fear. He wanted to do it, he wanted to find what that dark place was, but he couldn't do it.
He could remember the dark place, a void-like area, but not much else other than it's dark and strange. Every time he thought about it his head hurt and something felt like it was exploding in his mind if he pushed too hard. He was curious, deathly curious. But he had been unsure about how to get there, till now. He'd had the oh so brilliant idea of doing what he's sure he'd done, again.
Yet everything inside him was screaming both that he couldn't and that he had to. He curled in on himself some more, the blade pressing uncomfortably against his stomach, his arms and legs a shaking mess as his mind fought over the two possibilities. I want to do this! I want to know what that place is! Why it haunts me yet fascinates me! No,҉you͢ ͘don'҉t! You͏ don̛'t w̷an͞t to͠ go͜ ̛back,̨ it͏'̧s emp̕ty!͏ ҉Ther̷e҉'s noth͏i̸n̸g th̸eŕe f͡or ͘yo͝u! But I have to know!
Mark let out a shuddering breath as determination filled him. He wanted to know more, and from previous experience, he was sure he would come back, so he didn't have to worry. Even though, in the back of his mind, he could hear the stray thought of What if your luck has run out? But he ignored it in favor of burying the butcher knife as deep as it would go into his stomach. He let out a soft whine as he fell to the ground, pain blossoming as he hit the floor.
Mark felt tears in his eyes as he collapsed, clutching at his stomach once more. He'd done it so many times, he was so sure of that... but he couldn't remember a single one while in the waking world. He could only vaguely remember the upside down, as he has started calling the strange void-like place he could just barely remember, knowing, somehow, that it possessed the uncanny ability to make him feel as if he were upside down when he was fairly certain he wasn't. And every time he came back from that place he was filled with a morbid curiosity over what happened and why he couldn't remember where the blood and his fresh scar had come from for at all.
He curled up against the wall, and if anyone were to walk in he would look like a cornered animal, pressed into a corner and curled around himself. He shuddered as his eyes started to close, blood loss making him woozy and glad he was on the floor. He felt tears trickling down his face, but he did nothing to stop them as his body tried to push out the blade anyway it could, spasming and causing more pain.
His vision darkened and he went limp against his wall, dead. For the moment.
26.
He'd woken up 26 times covered in blood, a fresh scar somewhere on his body that indicated a once fatal wound. All of them a mixture of suicide attempts- most of them being suicide attempts- and curiosity to find what he knew was missing in his memories.
26 different scars hidden beneath his clothes and makeup.
And he could barely remember a single one. Quick fleeting memories would enter his mind only to moments later be taken away again. And during all this time, all he could do was get more confused, which led to him getting frustrated, which led to him getting angry. He knew the house had something to do with it, though he wasn't sure how. He wished she was here. She would know what to do, she would hold him and whisper how everything would be okay, that she was there.
He scoffed. He didn't need her. She chose to run away. She chose to be with him. That insufferable, inhuman, mustache wearing soldier. She left Mark alone to deal with this... You could get revenge... His mind whispered to him, soothing him with its soft voice.
You could take revenge on him. Leave him to the house. You can bring her, Celine, back to you... He tricked her from you, so trick him back... He shouldn't deserve to be happy with your wife.
Mark smiled, he could do that. He would just have to look into it more... find a way to change Celine's thoughts... or maybe himself? He frowned and pulled a string next to his bed, knowing Zadomin Warf would come running. He smiled at the thought of his butler, the man had been a father to him when his own was... unavailable. He sat up with a smile when Zadomin entered. Right on time after rushing up from downstairs.
"Zad!"
"Mark..? You- you're up!" the old man said, his eyes crinkling into a smile. Mark nodded, standing and going to welcome his father figure. Zadomin clung to him, shaking a bit before pulling away with tears in his eyes, "I thought you would never recover..."
Mark smiled in return, patting Zadomin's shoulder, "Well, I'm back, and feeling very hungry," he said with a smile, "Walk with me to the chef?"
Zadomin nodded eagerly. It was quite obvious the older man had missed his adoptive son.
"...Do you think she left because I didn't have a bushy mustache?" Mark asked absently as he, Zadomin, and the chef stood in the kitchen, Chef busy cooking some food up for Mark very excitedly. They had yet to notice a shift in Mark, besides the obvious one from depressed too... normal. They had yet to notice the darker presence that had taken residence in the younger man's eyes. Zadomin blinked and chuckled sadly.
"I don't think it was the mustache, Mark..." he said softly, hesitantly. Mark nodded with a thoughtful look on his face. Now that he was feeling more like his old self, he couldn't help but start wondering, rationally, why she left him for the Colonel. He pouted a bit.
Maybe I could hire a detective to look into it for me. He thought to himself as he stared hungrily at the food Chef was preparing. It wasn't a feast by any means, but Chef had explained that by the small amount Mark had been eating the past couple months, it would take a while for him to eat normally again, no matter how much he wanted to. The Chef had also professed his pleasant surprise at his eagerness to eat after so long of shoving food away.
"I was about ready to march on up to your room and start shoving my food down your unfed gullet!" the man had said with a good-natured chuckle. Mark had smiled, knowing his Chef would never do such a thing to him, but glad he'd had the thoughts to anyway.
Mark smiled at his Chef, greedily taking the food he handed him. He ate right there in the kitchen, not bothering to move to the dining room for food. It would take too long, he hadn't realized how hungry he was till now. He made a strangled noise when the Chef pulled his plate away with a worried, yet fond, smile.
"Sorry, bud, but you gotta slow down or you'll hurt yourself," he said. Mark pouted but nodded, before reaching out and making grabby hands at his plate. Chef and Zadomin chuckled and he felt a small smile resting on his face as he continued eating It was nice, he decided, being able to act normally, like he did so long ago. As if everything was still okay.
When Mark woke up in the Upside Down once more, he barely remembered what happened. He could still vaguely feel the hilt of his knife clenched in his hands. He blinked as his eyes adjusted to the dark hazy place and he frowned, seeing the dark figure he did not remember from other moments he was here. A flash of a crooked moon smile and glowing white eyes flickered across his memory and he shuddered in both fear and confusion.
"Why am I here?" his voice floated around and echoed hauntingly, "Why did you bring me here? I just want to get my wife back!" he cried out, his own voice sounding dull to his ears. He pushes himself forward, the around or thick and heavy as he reaches for the figure. He knew the figure had something to do with it, something to do with the house. That it had something to do with his constant return here.
He freezes when the shadow turns, it's smile nearly blinding him as he saw it full on for the first time. He heard a scream and it took him far too long to realize it was his own before a ringing began to build in his ears and drive out every other noise. Memories bubbled to the surface of each and every other time he killed himself, accidentally or purposefully. He could feel his throat vibrating with noise, even though he couldn't hear it as it felt as if he was tearing his own neck apart.
And then everything stopped.
There was no sound, no sight, no touch. Nothing. All his senses felt very dull as he stumbled forward as the air seemed to lighten. He moved as if he was released and allowed to move about freely, and when his knees hit the ground everything else came back. He heard his screams that were dying out, he saw small glowing particles in the air around him. He felt the pain in his chest from the knife and the pain crawling up his legs from the impact.
It slowly faded out again, the pain in his chest disappearing and everything else evening out to more normal areas. He heard a soft ringing in his ears as some stray tears finished their trail down his cheeks. He looked around himself and blinked once. Twice. Three times before the gray hue and floating glowing specks started to fade away. He felt himself stirring and closed his eyes.
When he opened them again he sat up with a gasp. He could remember. He remembered everything. Or, at least, he was sure it was everything. He could remember the emotions that stirred in his gut as he pierced his skin over and over and over and over again. He could remember every single time he'd gone to the Upside Down place, every time being forced away by the strange smiling creature.
He let out a small laugh as his eyes were opened to the world around him, the floating particles he'd seen earlier just barely visible in the slightly gray room he was in. He stood from his spot on the floor and dusted off his robe, eyes searching the room. His eyes scanned the room, searching for something. He didn't know what, though, and after finding nothing of interest he picked up the knife and hide it away in his bedside drawer.
He turned and walked to his window, looking down at his manors grounds, seeing George working among the flower beds. He sighed and his eyes drifted to the small table covered in picture frames next to him. He growled at the sight of a picture of him and Celine, William, and Damien standing behind them. He nearly threw the picture next to it when his eyes landed on the smiling- backstabbing- Private next to him in the picture.
He held himself back, though, because then his eyes saw Damien in the picture. He paused and felt the blood drain from his face. Oh gods, Damien. Celine was one of the only healthy constants in his life, and now- if she's- I have to find Damien.
He swiftly turned from the window and marched to the door. He needed to find his friend, his only remaining friend. He needed to make sure Damien was okay, the other man has been doing so much better, but if he- this may have-. His mind cut him off.
Why ̀d̛o y͞ou͠ c̡a̸r͢e̸ if t́he̷ br̢o̴ther͢ of yo͡ur ͡t̕ra̴iţorou̕ş w̶if̡e ͝a҉n͡d ̀be͘s̨t ̨f́ŗiend ̧t́o͜ yo͜ur̶ ͠oţh́er͏ ͟b͞a͠c̢k͏s͝ta̸bb͝ín̸g ̵fr̴i͠e̢nd͘ iś ͜doing͏ so͘mething̨ ҉s̛tupi̡d?͜ W͞h͏͏͘y ҉d͡o͞ ͘y͘͟o҉̛͝u̷͟ ̷̷c̕a҉r̷̛ę ̷͡i͢f͘ ͏͢h̨ę͢ ̡́g̶̀̕o̵és̨̀ ̨̀t͜͡ǫ̕ ̢f͡i̢͟͡ń͠d͝ ̢̕͡śolac̸e̸͞ ̵̸̶a̛t̡ ̵̀t͡h̛e̕͝ ̢̕͢ȩ̀n͞d̷ ͡҉o̧̡f ̢͏a ͘͟͟b̢͜͠o͏̴̧tt̸̷ĺ̛e̡͜ ̡͘o͡r̛ a͜͝t́͟͞ ̧̨t͞h͢e̸ ͟t̶͜i͘͜p̀ ̸̕o͏̶f̸̧͜ ͡҉a̷̛ s͢͜y̕͜͠r̸̵i͞n͡gę̸͝?̢͢҉
H̴̶̵͟͡ę̵̸̨͡ ̧͝͞҉d̵̡͏í̷̢͟͠d̀͏ ̵͞n̢͢ǫ̸̶̧͝t̨̛̕͟ḩ͘͝í̵̡͘͝n̶̸̡͏g̷͏ ̶͘͝͞t͏̴o̵̶̧͝ ̧́ś̸̕t̵͢o̕͝p̵̵̡͟͡ ̷͘t̨̛h͟é҉̡͜͜m͘͢͢͠.̴̸̢̛͘
͡͏̴
̶̵͝͏̕Ý̨̢̕͡ǫ͏̴͠͡u̵͝ ̶̷̧̕s̛̛h̶͢͟͝o̧͜͢͞͡u̶͢͝͠l̵̴̀͜d̨̀̀͜͢n̨͞͞'̸̶̨͢t̨́͢ ̡͘͘͝c͏͞a̧r̡̡̨̢e͝҉ ̸̧̧́͠à̴̢͠͏t͞ ̴̕a͞l̀͏̵l̶.̵̸̢͡
Mark shook his head, and as if in a daze, turned back to his room. He did manage to stop Zadomin on his way back though, mumbling out something about calling Damien for him, before he continued on his way. As he slowly shuffled to his room he missed the worried look that passed over Zadomin's face, and then the flash of pain that overshadowed his worry as the old man rubbed his chest.