It was a storm. Not one he was accustomed to, but a storm nonetheless.
Yet, it was not as comforting as thunderstorms had become for him. This time, it was one of even more strength, a hurricane. And it had come- up to New York, even. It had been all across the news and headlines, forewarning people of this massive and ferocious being that tore through the ocean to rip into the land at the first chance with its waves and wind and rain. It was a prime opportunity for Steve to sink into his room and into the shadows of it once again.
He did not even know what was wrong; he just felt like this. It had merely happened, merely appeared there in his gut. The sinking, awful, gut-wrenching feeling that was followed by torrents of falling tears on his face and silent sobbing that could only be heard from just outside the doorway. This time, he did not alert his friends and therefore did not have a need to run. He felt no chill in his room, therefore the Trickster whom had aided his ailments times before was not there.
But, in his mind he deserved it, and he sat. He sat, curled up in the bed, having stripped himself of all sheets and comforting objects and only left with the things in his bedside table that had hidden away the tools of the nights such as this. There were always many things handy; a flashlight, other minor emergency things, a blade, and a sheet of contacts attached to a cellular phone that he almost never used. There were marks of blood on the blade and on the screen of the phone, yet the scars had long gone.
So, he stared at the table, and then shifted his blue eyes to the storm. He could hear the wind howling and screaming about the outer part of the tower, clawing at the windows and trying to enter somehow. The rain pelted the glass, and it seemed as if they were bullets being shot. He shut his eyes tight. The sound of wind, the sound of the wind on the jet plummeting down and down and down. The sound of rain that was heavy and metallic, like bullets being shot at him and like the sounds of metal breaking in the Hydra ship. He snapped open his eyes, having begun to fall out of his bed onto the floor. It was cold and unforgiving as he made contact with it, yet he made no effort to get up. He merely scrambled back from the bed in a pathetic and unruly manner, and he was no longer Captain America. He was little, sickly Steve Rogers who was afraid of everything but tried not to let it show. Who fought his fears and lost and was given scars as payment for losing.
He sat in the corner, eyes locked outside and he was shaking and shivering on the cold ground. It was all a night, a bad, bad night, that he knew he would have a hard time awaking from.
As long as they did not know, they would not worry, and they would not feel bad nor would they pity him.
They would not know how disturbed and how pained the so-called strong and brave Captain truly was.
