There were times when he wanted to kill. When a friend was seriously hurt, when someone died, those times when he was in his room alone. Alone with his thoughts. Alone with the bare walls, the weapons, the fear, the pain, and the pure RAGING anger directed at himself for letting the situation happen in the first damn place. It wasn't his fault, it never was, only it was, because he could be more attentive, more aware, more caring. He didn't have to get so caught up in his own job and his own priorities. He didn't have to not care. He did care, too much, and it hurt to care, but it hurt more not to. But caring was tearing him apart. Ripping him to shreds, because caring led to fears that he didn't want to confront. Caring meant he was going to lose something, even if it was time for that thing to go. Caring meant loss, that's all there was to it.
He fisted the wall. Over and over again he fisted the wall until his hand was bloody and torn. The wall was streaked, crying blood, but he didn't care, he wanted it to hurt, he wanted it to feel as empty and torn as he did. He wanted to punish himself. He fisted the wall again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again