What the #?*!

He grimaced slightly, concealing it well, as the cloth was pressed onto his palm. His fingers closed around it, keeping pressure on the injury to help slow the bleeding. His hand was echoing his heart in a dull throb, but he was accustomed to pain. A hand injury hardly held a candle to some of the injuries he had endured over the years.       Kalt watched Ashetta snatch the liquor bottle, drinking it and dropping it from her shaking hands. It shattered, and once again, Kalt grimaced, not out of pain that time. He would’ve looked for another bottle, but decided it was pointless. He would get some more later on, when his mind wasn’t telling him to get drunk enough to forget what was troubling his mind. Although he was fun drunk, he didn’t need that frame of mind when dealing with this bullshit, no matter how much he wanted it.       The man hated himself then, nausea flooding him in a wave that he couldn’t fend off. When she withdrew into herself, he had usually been there to bring her back, to remind her who she was. This time? This time he felt almost as shaken as she was. That mask haunted him, and now, when he thought he was finally free of it, there was a reminder around every corner.       He brought himself to the table and sat in one of the chairs, looking up just in time to see her brace herself on the counter. There was an urge to reach out to her, but his body betrayed his mind.       Her voice didn’t sound like hers, and he couldn’t tell if he wasn’t listening properly or if she just really didn’t sound like herself. Kalt leaned his elbows on the table, running his uninjured hand through his hair with his eyes squeezed tightly closed. He fucked up. He never wanted her to know that. Never wanted her to know the truth about his scars. Gods, he didn’t mean for to fucking know that, for her to have that in her mind.       It was his turn for his voice to not sound like his own. ”I couldn’t…” He couldn’t find the words. ”I couldn’t let him take that from you.” Kalt fought the blurry vision that burned his eyes, quickly closing them and willing the tears away. His body ached, feeling the phantom aftermath of the whip with which he had become so familiar.       He watched her sink to the floor, picking up the glass shards, and he shook his head. ”Ashe, stop,” he said in nearly a whisper. His hand waved over the floor, turning the broken glass into dust that could be easily swept. He turned his hand over, extended for her to take. He wanted to touch her, feel her, that contact which had become the only true and solid grip on reality for them. ”I’m sorry.” He had failed her when she was thirteen. Over a year under the whip to keep her from suffering Master’s twisted desires, and it had all been for nothing. So fucking sorry. Kalt I  am flesh and I am bone, i rise up, ting ting, like glitter and gold i've got fire in my soul