What the #?*!

Pounding. Drumming. There was a pulsating heat that was flooding his body, and Kalt felt like his veins had sent lava flowing through him. He couldn’t breathe, can’t breathe, can’t...       The assassin had red edging his vision, pushing harder, faster, more and more intense by the moment as his hand tried and failed with the knob on his door. Theea wasn’t there, that much he remembered. The only sensible thought in his mind was that his daughter wasn’t there to witness his mind collapsing in on itself. That fucking... Why? He thought he was free of that fucking...mask!       Finally the door swung open, bouncing off the wall when he stepped over the threshold, not bothering to close it after he entered. Forget, forget, forget, fucking drown it away. He couldn’t see it, didn’t want to, but it was all that he could picture in his mind. For seventeen... For seventeen years that mask haunted him, built him, manipulated him, beat him, betrayed him. More times than he could count. No...more times than he wanted to try to count. He could if he wanted to; the curse of having an eidetic memory was remembering everything that sick, twisted son of a bitch did from behind that fucking mask. And now, it was back. Not only was it back, but it was Alistair who was wearing it.       He felt a wave of nausea cascade over him as he made it to the kitchen, spitting curses under his breath as he whipped open cabinets, forgetting the layout of his own house. His heart thundered in his ears, echoed off of his ribs, and he just wanted it to stop, to fucking stop. Why a mask? Why a gods damned faceless fucking mask? Of all things.       His hands were shaking, as he grabbed a bottle of weak liquor from a cabinet. Shaking and... He frowned at the blood he saw on his fingers. Why was there... Kalt held the bottle of alcohol, using his magic to change it into something a lot stronger, and putting it to his lips for a much needed drink.       The wall... That’s why there was blood on his hand. He took what felt like a slow breath, but was really no slower than the near panting he was taking part in. He clenched the fist of his free hand, tipping the bottle back again. He couldn’t feel his legs, but he felt steady in his stance which confused him. That didn’t remain in his mind for long, though. Blinking. Blinking had now become his enemy because every time he closed his eyes...       Gods, gods, he thought he was free of that fucking thing. He thought he was free of the gloves, of the mask, of the shadow of a god that he thought a fucked up father to himself for so many years. He cursed the sun then. Cursed the daylight and the people that were all around. Cursed his inability to throw a knife instantly into the man’s neck the second he caught sight of the mask. Why did it have to be a mask? He should have been thanking the light and the bystanders, otherwise he would have blood on his hands that he would be unable to wash off. But maybe he should! Fuck! Why shouldn’t he take off that night and rid himself of a second faceless mask? It would make his dreams a lot less hellish!       Kalt turned on his heel and hurled the bottle at the opposite wall without thinking, glass shattering on impact and liquor spilling everywhere. He didn’t care. He couldn’t care. If he let himself care, he would be too distracted, unable to keep himself under control. He needed control, control, breathe.       The man took a deep breath, leaning his elbows on the kitchen counter and raking his fingers through his uncharacteristically disheveled hair, closing his eyes and releasing a shuddering breath. What the fuck...? Ashetta Kalt I  am flesh and I am bone, i rise up, ting ting, like glitter and gold i've got fire in my soul