He waits until it falls silent.
He doesn't know how long it takes, long enough to hear more pain and hatred from a loved one than he ever thought he would. Long enough for him to wonder whether it isn't his own muscles that are beginning to revolt. He stills them and heads back in, his grasp on the handle stills. It blurs under his eyes, from whiskey or tears or maybe both.
He kicks at the wall. His fists join in, striking the surface again and again, tearing the skin and bruising the bone. He feels nothing from flesh but knows that it bleeds, bringing with it, finally, tears. His voice joins in as the world turns red and grey, fury and anger and pain and fear.
This isn't the place. This isn't the time. He wipes the tears away.
The blood continues to run.