Its not the first time he's let her sleep when he's still near, or in, a pent up rage. He'll never tell her, but its the main reason his knuckles end up bloody and raw. Its on nights like this one, when he refuses to tell her hes close to losing it so she can get the sleep she so deeply needs, that he goes out back and beats the brick walls like the bodies of so many enemies before him, until they buckle under the rain of blows and his hands are as heavy as lead, and as red as the sunset. He holds back the cries of anger and frustration, hoping not to alert her to his actions, glad she has never caught him doing this. He knows that if she ever realizes the reason behind his damaged hands, she won't be happy and might blame herself. He grits his teeth and closes his eyes, the vivid imagination he possesses turning the wall into wave after wave of zombie hordes, reveling in the satisfying thump of his fist on the wall as his mind sees another zombie's skull crushed inward, flesh on flesh and the brunching of bone. He's smiling now, even as his hands drip blood. He pulls his fist back again, the wall now a hound of hell. His smile widens; he enjoyed fighting these the most in the war with Hell, something primal in him soothed as he has dominated more and more of these savage, slavering beasts. He strikes the wall again and again, his hands more and more beaten and bloodied, until he is out of breath. He stands straight and tall, breath like a bellows, his eyes now open and staring at his knuckles.
"Shit" is all he can muster before the pain sets in and he doubles over as he tries not to cry out even a little. His hands are like fire, the cold blue fire of war razing cities and destroying everything in its path. He walks over to the barrel next to the wall and dunks his hands in, closing his eyes and clenching his teeth, the cold of the water painful at first, before it dulls the burning of his hands to a faint throbbing and he pulls them out to inspect the damage this time.
They're not as bad as the last time, of this he is certain. This time, he can bend them and make a fist. He shakes his shaggy head and walks inside, making a mental list of the supplies he'll need to bandage his hands properly. He looks at the wall before shutting the door; the red brick betrays nothing of his evenings events. He considers it a small consolation to his hands, and smiles a little before shutting the door.