Crimson glistens against alabaster skin. He drags the blade again, mind screaming for more, longing for the release. He stops, satisfied with the thirteen cuts he's already made. Watching the blood slowly bead up, he suddenly wants more. The blood isn't spilling down his arm like he so longed for it to do. He needed to be punished. He had eaten two full meals today. Now, he was punishing his fat arse. He lifted his left hand and dug his fingernail into the cuts, one by one, while biting his lip to keep from crying out. Once he was finally satisfied, he placed a towel on his skin, and pressed down hard to stop the bleeding faster.
It was exactly 3:46 AM in the Holmes' house, and Sherlock couldn't even dream of sleep. Instead, he was counting up to 300, and back down again. Anything to distract his mind from the demons that lurked in the shadows and beneath trap doors in his Mind Palace. But even that couldn't keep the tendrils of his nightmares from merging with each other, all flowing into his conscious mind. 'Worthless. No wonder your parents hate you, and everyone else, as a matter of fact. You're just a fat, useless #######. You're going to die alone. Always alone. You'll always be a freak.'
Stop it, stop it, stop it, STOP IT, "STOP IT!"
Sherlock didn't realize he had screamed the last part until it was too late. His mother, father, and brother were already running into his bedroom and turning the lights on. Sherlock's heart sped up so much his hands were shaking as he tried to shove the bloody towel and blade under the covers, as well as hiding the fresh cuts. Unfortunately, he didn't succeed.
"SHERLOCK WHAT DID YOU DO?!" his brother, Mycroft, screeched. It was very unbecoming of the man, to say the least. When Sherlock didn't reply, Mycroft grabbed his arms viciously, causing Sherlock's wounds to start bleeding again. His gaze immediately snapped to his bleeding arm, glazing over as he silently assessed his options. But that was soon lost as the familiar and frightening fog came over his mind once more. Sherlock didn't even register his father shouting at him. His hand was already searching for the blade. Only when Mycroft had shoved him back into the wall with a resounding SMACK! Sherlock's haze cleared just enough to see the looks of disgust on his family's faces as they all stalked out of the room, leaving Sherlock to deal with his nightmares. Alone.
Somewhere in his haze, Sherlock fell asleep, only to wake up at 3 AM to screams ringing in his ears. He was tangled in his bed sheets, sweating profusely. He couldn't get him out of his head. His eyes. His pleas. His stuttered apologies. The gun shot. Then he woke up. Always, every night. Nothing could stop the nightmares from coming over and over, stress-filled and nausea provoking. He laid there 'till the first rays of golden sunlight filtered through his ever-closed curtains. Quickly, Sherlock got out of bed, rising earlier than usual to avoid his "family breakfast", and his family in general. He ran silently across the hall to the bathroom, and sorted through to the back of his cupboard, where he kept his bandages hidden. Wrapping them tightly around his skin, he winced slightly, as the memory of Mycroft grabbing his arm poured back into his mind. He crept back to his bedroom, avoiding looking in the bathroom mirror. Mirrors only reflected what he hated so much about himself. The scars. The fat on his stomach. His messy hair that could never seem to be calmed unless he shaved his head. He buttoned a purple shirt, slid on black pants, and slunk down the stairs to get his coat and hurry out the door before anyone, especially Mycroft, could come down stairs. Fortunately, he crept out the door without anyone noticing.
He jogged the half mile to school, wanting to burn off as many calories before he was forced to ingest the things his school deemed "edible". Since Sherlock had left early, he arrived at school with over twenty minutes to spare. He sat beside a large oak tree in front of the brick building, closed his eyes, steepled his fingers, and entered his Mind Palace. He started fixing everything that had been thrown about in disarray night, carefully avoiding all the hidden corridors, forbidden rooms, and trap doors. He knew every trap that was in his Mind Palace. Or so he thought.
While walking through his 'Other Topics if Someone Ever Decides to Ask About Family' room, he saw a shadow inching toward him.
No, no, not now! Why now?
He tried to run as the panic crept up his stomach and clenched his heart in its iron fist, forcing it to beat faster in time with his ragged breaths, but he couldn't move. He was stuck, right here, until the shadow grabbed him and expelled him from his own Palace, out into 'reality', as his therapist liked to call it. The shadow grabbed him, squeezed so he could no longer breathe, and threw him through the walls, and out the gate. Sherlock opened his eyes and gasped. His hands moved frantically while his chest moved up and down in almost exaggerated movements. No one could see him like this. No one. He grasped at his hair, pulling, tugging, trying to feel some relief without his blades. But Karma decided to turn against him right at that moment.
"Freak! What do you think you're doing? That's our spot. Now piss off!" shouted a dark-haired, dark-skinned girl, Sally Donovan. But then she noticed the shaking hands, heaving chest, fingernails frantically scratching at his forearm.
No, no, not now! Why did she and Anderson have to come now?!
Donovan and Anderson walked over to the panicking Sherlock, Anderson picking him up like doll, and throwing him against the tree. Anderson hit Sherlock in the gut, and kneed him in the head as he doubled over, gasping for air. Maybe Karma wasn't against him. After all, he welcomed the blackness. He and it were good friends.
A/N - Please, please review. But also know, this is a very personal story, so no flames, please and thank you. Constructive criticism welcome! I'll post the next chapter if any interest is shown!