Storming, Outside and In [Sherlock]

Ugly.

Useless.

Worthless.

Stupid.

Gross.

What even are you?

I heard he is a fag.
Fag?
Fag.

Shit.

Asshole.

Pointless.

Waste of Space.

He won't even fight back.

What a weakling.

Soo... Abnormal.

Yea.

What a...

Freak.

_______________________________

The voices echoed in Sherlock's head, on an endless loop, spinning around and around, slowly weighing him down more and more. He pulled out his phone and popped in his head phones. Selecting a song that he felt fit his situation, he began to walk home in the dark. Someone Who Cares blasting, probably too loud, in his ears, he went, slowly growing colder, the streets growing darker with his every step.

As Adam Gontier from Three Days Grace complained in his ears, Sherlock slowly made progress on his long trek across London; wishing he'd brought more than his hoodie for warmth and cursed his whole existence.

First the mist came, slowly creeping up on Sherlock, who barely noticed it. Too soon full, fat, drops began to fall slowly, soaking Sherlock completely. His vision became blurry and more teardrops dripped from his eyes; no longer able to see well and unable to tell what was tear and what was rain, he slowed his pace.

Sherlock couldn't pull himself from his mind, remembering in vivid; details of what had happened the last time he was late rushing to meet him at the door, pain followed his to his safe room, loneliness and cold greeted him once he was inside.

His safe room was much like his room; a large bed with purple pillows, black sheets and comforter, black outside, red inside curtains draped over it in the middle; bands posters littering the walls: My Chemical Romance, Three Days Grace, Muse, Escape the Fate, A Day to Remember, Black Veil Brides, Pierce the Veil, and several other; a dresser on one side, a desk under a window on the other. There were only two doors in this dark, cold room full of darkness. One out to the heartless home he never felt comfortable at, the other to a bathroom that connected to a walk in closet. This was where Sherlock stored all the memories he couldn't keep out of his safe room, stored all the memories made in that room.

From under the door, there was a river of red and pain, slowly seeping out from underneath the door, bleeding through, burning Sherlock's arm that still stung from the last time he's made himself numb a few weeks ago. Numb from the abusive words he heard at school, numb from the abrasive words he heard at home, numb from the beatings he received at school, numb from the physical abuse he received at home, numb from his shitty life and his whole shitty existence. The red slowly faded to clear, the words echoing in his head slowly tapered out and the noise in his ear became clearer, strong, connected him back to the reality of the storm around him, pulling him from the one within.