...if you gaze into the abyss, the abyss also gazes into you. - Friedrich Nietzsche

As soon as he got into his hotel room, Mark flopped onto the hard couch in his hotel room and winced. Every part of his body was tense, and sore. He'd gotten used to the feeling after a few years of going to all-day conventions and the like, but occasionally everything overwhelmed him.

Mark groaned pitifully on the couch for a few minutes, the tiredness in his muscles beginning to seep deeper into his body. He knew he should probably get in his actual bed, but he didn't really want to move.

Slowly and painfully, Mark turned onto his back and took out his phone. He thumbed through his Twitter feed idly, replying to people here and there, before pulling up some music. Accidentally, his contacts came up on screen.

Mark sighed a little and scrolled through his contacts, seeing if there was anyone he wanted to delete. He didn't have anything better to do at this point, seeing as his mind, for all his body's fatigue, refused to shut off. All the familiars came up: his mom and step-mom, Bob, Ryan, Wade, Cry, Jack, Matt—

Mark stopped and scrolled back up. The name 'Cryaotic' stared at him from the bright screen. He might as well call Cry, if he was up at this hour. Cry was the voice guy, maybe he could work some voice magic on Mark and make him fall asleep or something.

The phone rang three times before someone picked it up.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Cry."

"...Mark?" a familiar voice replied, although Mark hadn't heard it very often these days.

"Yeah, it's me. How are you doing, Cry?"

"Um, I'm doin' pretty good. Haven't died yet, that's always a plus."

Mark chuckled tiredly, and Cry's voice took on a more concerned tone. "What are you doing calling me so late? At least, late for me...Do you need something?"

"Mm, I dunno yet," Mark responded, turning on his stomach and laying his head on his arm. "I just saw your name and figured I'd say hi. It's late for me too, you know: I'm in the same time zone as you now."

"Lemme guess: PAX East?"

"Wow, look at the brain on Smarty McSmart-Smart," Mark yawned.

"Mark, it's 1:13 in the morning, you should really be going to bed. Like, I know I'm not your mom or anything, but—"

"Well, mom, that's what I was hoping you could help me with."

"Getting to sleep? What do you mean?"

"Do the voice thing."

There was a moment of silence before, utterly bewildered, Cry only responded with, "What?"

"The thing where you...do the other thing and people go to sleep." Despite not being able to sleep, Mark's brain wasn't really functioning like an awake person's brain should.

"You mean the thing where I'm boring? 'Cause I do that naturally, it's a born talent."

"Ha-ha, idiot. No, the other other thing."

"What other thing? The only other thing I could think of would be hypnotism, which, I mean, I can do, but I'm sort of a beginner at it."

"No, that's not what I meant, but whatever, that works. Do you think you could hypnotize me and command me to sleep? I would really appreciate it, my brain's being kind of a douchebag at the moment."

"Uh, I could try, I guess." Mark heard a few noises on the other end—shifting and rustlings of chairs and papers. He wondered what Cry was doing, and a question came to mind.

"I don't have to do a whole bunch of weird shit for this, right? Like, set up candles at the points of a demonic pentagram, or make a bird sacrifice to the Flying Spaghetti Monster or the Great Lord Xenu or something?"

"How'd you guess?"

Both men snickered. "No, nothing like that," Cry responded. "All you have to do is get comfortable somewhere and trust me."

"Okay, that I can do."

Cry sighed a little. "This is sort of strange for me to do over the phone—"

"You're telling me," Mark replied.

"But it should be fine. Just put me on speaker, and do what I say. It's as easy as that." He took a deep breath. "Are you ready?"

Mark shifted a little on the uncomfortable couch, before getting up and laying on the floor between the couch and the coffee table. Surprisingly, it was more comfortable laying on the floor: as cheap as the furniture was in the room, the carpet seemed to be high quality. He reached up and set his phone on the coffee table and put it on speaker phone, as instructed. "I'm ready."

A pause. When Cry began talking again, his voice had changed, becoming smoother and more professional. "Close your eyes. Take a deep breath. I want you to relax and focus on my voice."

Mark did as he was told, trying his best to release the tension of the day with long breaths.

"What do you see, Mark?"

"Nothing," he replied, though he felt like it was a silly question. His eyes were closed, what else would he see?

"Good. The nothing is familiar to you. It's a good nothing. I want you to let that nothing envelop you. Feel it washing over you; warm, comfortable. Keep breathing. Keep focusing on the sound of my voice. Can you feel the nothing?"

"Yes, I feel it," Mark murmured.

"It's all around you. This is the most important feeling in the world, the feeling of being wrapped in the warm nothing, and now you can feel it seeping into your skin. Breathe. With every breath, the nothing fills your body more and more. Focus on my voice. Don't strain, just listen. I'm going to count to five, Mark, and when I get to five you will be filled with nothing. You will be empty, but through this emptiness, I want you to hold onto two things: your name, and my voice. When I get to five, you will be under my control, do you understand?"

"Mm," came the response, because Mark was so warm and relaxed that he couldn't bring himself to say something.

"1..."

A breath. Mark felt like he was sinking into the floor.

"2..."

The nothing was constricting around him, but it wasn't unpleasant. He felt comforted, loved, almost, by this darkness.

"3..."

Cry's voice seemed to be everywhere around Mark now, just like the nothing. They were intertwined around him. You could not have one without the other.

"4..."

A very, very small part of Mark wanted to see what would happen if he tried to resist, but there was no point anymore. Besides, resistance meant losing this wonderful feeling, and right now, that prospect seemed a fate worse than death.

"5."

Mark felt as though he were suspended in water, in this sweet, sweet nothingness. He felt so relaxed and at ease with everything in the world that he could feel himself slipping into unconsciousness. However, a voice flowed over him, echoing through his body and making him shiver.

"Now, you are empty. Now, you are under my control. Tell me, Mark, what do you feel?"

"You," Mark replies, automatically.

"Me? What do you mean?"

"I'm empty...there's nothing inside of me anymore, but...but your voice is...it's inside me, and all around me, and I feel it, under my skin."

On the other end of the line, Cry let out a pleased sigh. "I'm very, very impressed. You're doing an amazing job, Mark." Mark felt his fingers tingle as the praise reverberated through his being. "Keep focusing on my voice, alright? You need to listen closely. Listen to what's around you."

Mark listened. The sounds of chirping crickets came to his ears, as well as the distant rumbling of cars on the streets. Now that he had spent so much time in his cocoon of nothing, these noises seemed disproportionately loud.

"It's loud, isn't it? Go back to the nothing. Go back to the quiet, and I want you to listen. I want you to reach inside yourself, Mark. Reach until you touch something."

Mark obeyed, and retreated into his internal darkness, reaching out a shadowed hand to the unknown. He stretched until he hit something.

Something that grabbed back.

There was a hand, a dark, powerful, unforgiving, freezing hand squeezing around his heart now. The cozy and serene illusion shattered violently, and he could hear someone's tortured wailing, and it was him, but it was everywhere, and a chorus of voices screamed and whined along with him, and it was so, so loud—

"I know you can hear it, I know you can hear those beautiful voices! Listen to them, Mark. Listen!" Cry exclaimed, almost gleefully. "Let the choirs surround you, engulf you in their melody. That beautiful music: do you hear it!? They're singing for you! They're welcoming you home!"

Mark covered his ears, clutching at his head, tangling his fingers through his hair but that terrible cacophony refused to cease. The nothing was vicious now, its incorporeal fangs latched on Mark's head. He brought his knees close to his chest and rocked, hands still planted firmly on the side of his head, sobbing uncontrollably. The noise was deafening

"Don't you see!?" Cry's voice had risen to a pitch Mark had never heard before, and the passion in his voice as he tortured his victim's mind scared Mark even more. "This is where you belong. You're burning from the inside, Mark, can you feel it!? The blaze racing up and down your spine, it's fixing you, making you who you were always supposed to be!"

Mark dug his fingers into his palms frantically. He hadn't needed Cry to feed the wildfire consuming his very soul. His toes curled in pain as he moaned on the floor, clawing at his hands. In that moment, he felt like there were no other sensations in the world than this, this frenzied panic inside the darkness of your own mind, this internal torture.

Then, in the darkness, Mark saw a face—his face. Its eyes—his eyes—were a dark, blood red. It smiled with teeth that were too white, unsettlingly white. Unblinking, the thing that looked like him opened its mouth, spilling millions of tiny blood red spiders into the void. Mark raked his fingers across his arms, leaving long scratches that beaded blood. He had to get them off, they were crawling all over him, he could feel their legs on him, they were everywhere—

"Shhhh..."

With this command, the piercing racket inside of Mark's head ceased immediately. That didn't take the feeling of panic away, though; in fact, the silence of the room made it worse, and Mark kept his hands on his ears, almost hoping the sounds would come back, so this feeling would be justified.

"Wh-what did you—!?"

Mark couldn't bring himself to finish his sentence as a wave of insane restlessness washed over him. Cry's heavy breathing was slowing as he attempted to calm himself down. Even when he spoke, he sounded mildly light-headed. It only added to the unhinged behavior he had just showcased.

"...are you scared?"

Mark groaned, took his left hand off his ear, and sank his teeth into his wrist. It felt like something was trying to burrow its way out of him. This was a feeling of helplessness, of insanity, that Mark had never experienced. He felt like a feral animal. Cry chuckled from the other end of the line, a smooth, lazy sound that Mark could only describe as venomous.

"Very good," he purred, as if he were standing over Mark, watching him writhe on the floor. "You're doing so well, Mark. In fact, I think you've performed the very best out of all my patients. I'm so proud of you." Despite how unsettled and fidgety Mark felt, these words made the piece of him still wrapped around Cry's little finger glow with happiness. "I can hear you, you know. I can hear your heart. It's pounding, isn't it? Harder, and faster, and harder, and faster. It feels like it's going to explode, doesn't it?"

Mark felt as though he wasn't in control of his body anymore. His already racing heart sped up even more at Cry's words; the sound of rushing blood grew louder in his ears.

"Yes, you're very, very scared. The real question is, what are you scared of?"

Somewhere within his panicked psyche, Mark considered the question. What was he scared of? The frenzied fear and the madness; why was it affecting him so strongly? Cry had barely said anything to him, so why did he feel so afraid?

"Are you scared of me? Or, perhaps, something else...something...inside you?"

More tears came to Mark's eyes as he feels the warmth of the fresh blood now streaming from his wrist. Something about the sharp, coppery taste somewhat pacified him, but Mark still felt like scratching his eyes out.

"You feel something, don't you? Something trying to make its way to the light, from out of the darkest corners of your soul. Something primal, something twisted. You know what it wants, Mark. You know it won't stop until it's satisfied."

Gruesome images flashed in Mark's mind. Blood, gallons of it, pouring over pure, untouched snow. Teeth ripping at rotten meat. A woman in a blue dress with red hair and slate grey eyes being stabbed with a hunting knife, over and over, stabbed by him, and be could feel himself smiling, smiling widely, enjoying the sensation of her tender flesh giving way under the metal, the sounds of her weak gasps, the despair in her eyes—

Mark screamed and clawed desperately at his eyes, his scalp, trying to rip the horrible images out of his head. He thrashed around, kicking the coffee table multiple times with a dull 'thunk'. With the pain in his foot slowly mounting, Mark felt himself descending into a silent terror. He whimpered.

"...w-why?" he whispered, a pathetic rasp that was barely audible.

"To help you, Mark," came the reply, and a deep, breathy laugh. "To show you who you are, who you can become. I want to be there for you, to help you discover your potential. Think of me as...a therapist of sorts."

Mark was curled in the fetal position on the floor of his hotel room, and the pictures wouldn't stop: the rivers of thick, crimson blood; the torture of weak, innocent people; the inexplicable feeling of satisfaction Mark got from these visions. He was sobbing now, muffling the sound with his bleeding wrist.

"Good night, Mark. Sweet dreams." Cry said, in a mocking sing-song voice. "You'll call me tomorrow, hm? I'm looking forward to it."

A click. Cry had hung up the phone. Mark took a few deep breaths, tried to steady himself. Now that Cry had stopped talking, he felt more in control. Even so, something had awoken inside of him, something that thrived off pain, suffering, and sick cruelty. Mark felt an urge to stab himself for just a moment, to end whatever misdeeds he might commit before they began. Trembling, he stood, and wobbled to the kitchen of the room. He'd forgotten there were no real knives in there.

It was at times like this Mark really wished he could drink.

He opted for a cup of ice water instead, and sipped it hesitantly while leaning on the counter. The suicidal urge passed, just as quickly as it had come. Blood trailed down Mark's arm lazily and dripped onto the linoleum-tiled floor, the wet plunking of its drops the only sound in the room. Mark took a few more deep breaths, picking up a napkin and pressing it into the shallow tooth marks in his arm. His hands were still shaking, more than he'd like to admit.

It was fine. Mark was fine. That...thing, that Cry had done, it was just a joke, some sort of weird hypnosis. Maybe tomorrow Mark would call Cry back, demand an explanation. He told you to call back tomorrow, a piece of him said. You're playing right into his hands. You want this, don't you? You want him to tell you how pleased he is with you once you kill someone.

More vivid scenes crossed his mind's eye; the sensation of breaking bone under a boot, the image of fingers writhing like worms in a bathtub filled with innards, a stench of formaldehyde, sweat, and singed flesh. Troubled, Mark ran his fingers through his hair and sat down in one of the rickety wooden chairs. He put his head in his hands, and was blessed with darkness instead of the bright lucidity of these waking nightmares. Tomorrow would come in time, and Mark would choose what to do when it came, but until then, he just had to make sure he knew what was real.

Mark wasn't crazy, and he most definitely wasn't a murderer. Everything was fine. Nothing was wrong.

Right?

Right?