He found his hand's injury unimportant in light of everything else, but on some level understands that he probably does need it tended to. Obediently, he let her have it, realizing how hot it felt in her cooler hand. How swollen it was. How much blood was caked there, his split skin angry and ugly. It was just a small reflection of what he felt like on the inside, not quite scratching the surface.
"She fed someone to her feral dogs. She did that, and didn't blink. She dressed up for it, put on a real show for everyone, she--" he shook his head. "You don't unders-tand," he tripped over a word, eyes on the floor off to her side. "I've been losing pieces of her at a time, little shreds and I kept telling myself it would get better but it never did and she would always promise, never again, but then she would be lying. It always - she - she isn't there, and she doesn't care. She can't feel."