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It was like a sickness, one that Drystan couldn't stop. To eke out the tender spots and needle, claw at them to satisfy that psychotic urge to hurt things as deeply as he felt hurt, himself. Whether it had been festering inside him all the while, waiting out the perfect moment for him to snap before consuming him, or if it was as simple and cruel as flipping a switch, it had its hooks in him and he was robbed of even the ability to want it to stop. But that poisonous streak was losing its edge, like hurling itself headfirst into an unmovable wall over, and over, realizing nothing was getting better, simply worse.

"No?" he asked coldly, "is my temper tantrum allowed when my wife allows her husband to be cornered into thinking she's having an affair? When she hides the fact that his sister is going down a path of self-destructive behavior? When she knows that girl's life is drowning her, and keeps it from the person who has the most right to know? What about then, Bess?" that indifferent coolness that was such an integral part of his make-up, that was the first trait people described him with, wavered, his voice shaking for the second time that day as notes of desperation crept into it. Mind the baby, he told himself wretchedly , mind Brian, don't—. When he managed to speak again, it was lower, if more strained. "Is it acceptable then?"