The living room looked like a tornado hit it.
A five foot seven one, in fact.
Sorcha took in the destruction as she closed the door behind her. Books had been thrown all around the room, papers shredded and tossed like confetti, even the pillows on the couch hadn't been safe from Hurricane Malcolm.
Why exactly he had torn through the apartment while she was in class was a mystery.
Not that she didn't have one particular guess as to what, no, who, fueled this destructive rage.
"Mal?" she called as she stepped over and around the mountain of debris. "Mal, are you here?"
There was no forthcoming answer from her human tornado.
That's not good.
Worry clawed through her belly as Sorcha crossed over into the kitchen. It, too, had met a similar fate as the living room. Sorcha winced at seeing their breakfast dishes smashed on the floor, the pots flung around, and utensils scattered willy-nilly.
Only one person in Malcolm's life could cause him to flip out like this.
A man she wished the devil would come take to hell.
Sorcha dropped her messenger bag off on the empty counter with a sigh before heading towards the bedroom. What disaster she'd find there, she didn't know. She steeled herself for the worst as she reached for the doorknob.
"Mal?"
The bedroom hadn't been hit as hard as the rest of the apartment. Lost steam, she decided as she pushed open the door and stepped into the room. The covers had been ripped from the bed and everything on the nightstand had ended up on the floor but he'd thankfully left the bookshelf alone.
Course, that was because Malcolm was sitting in front of it, knees drawn into his chest, arms wrapped around them, and banging his head against it while panting softly. Sorcha didn't say a word. She just walked over and sat on the floor beside him.
"Hey." She set a hand on the back of his neck. Lightly rubbed the tense muscles. "Wanna tell me what's going on?"
Malcolm didn't say a word.
He didn't stop banging his head.
Sorcha slid an arm around his shoulders. "It's okay," she told him softly as his breath became a wheeze that hurt to hear. "Just breathe. In, out. Let the air fill your lungs. Release slowly. Repeat until the bands ease."
It was a mantra she'd repeat for the next several hours.
While debating hiring a contract killer to kill sneak into Claremont Psychiatric to kill Martin Whitly.
A/N: Hello, all! Hope this finds you well!
I just want to send a special thank you to Rookblonkorules for their lovely reviews!