Destruction visits him in wild dark curls and cerulean eyes that evade him like the ocean tide, bringing with them furtive glances that suggest all the force of the crashing waves. Hell is on his back with white limbs toppling, sometimes twisting, momentarily bruising. Never failing to spark his mind aflame in acrid thoughts and gasoline.
And God is there watching him burn with a sharp twist etching about his features. He knows it's just the Devil. Sitting in their fathers chair, smoking his cigarettes with a tight smirk. It's the Devil he can see through that film of lazy smoke and tired chatoyant eyes. Your brother is not the Devil, Mycroft Holmes.
silence enamors him in bare feet and pink fingers, dancing as bony hands flit through stark white pages of musty books that are too old for him, that have seen more than his bright eyes could comprehend.
He doesn't know whether to run away screaming, or keep burning, writhing in the scent of his own blistering, bubbling flesh, the flames swallowing him whole like some starving animal. It's eating away at him, and he doesn't know how long until he's reduced to some mangled nebula of bones, soot and raw gore. All in orbit around this black hole of a boy. This all consuming and beautifully feral machine of nature that claws away at whatever it's confronted with. Forests, lakes, oceans, cities, it has toppled over mountains. To cease is to die, and that is what it cannot do. It is the impossible function.