This was based on "4:48 Psychosis" by Sarah Kane, and written by XxtaintedflamexX. I asked her permission, and she let me. So, thank you, Miss!
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
At 4.48 my mind is clear. I wake up as myself for the first time since his passing.
The hero, my hero, is gone. He's gone. He's gone, he's gone, he's gone, he's gone, he's gone, he's-
...
'Dead.'
...
My cheeks are wet. Have I been crying? That's funny, right? Poor little sheikah!
Ha-ha.
You should laugh at funny things, Hero said so.
He always scolded me for not laughing or crying. Well, I want to laugh now. I want to cry now. I want to break down and scream and rant and beg and tear my fucking hair out now, Sheikah pride be damned, If only it would prove that hero was here.
Prove to all those doubting refugees. Prove to all the future generations. Prove to myself. It's only been a month and I'm already forgetting him.
His scent, his eyes, his hair, his laugh, his love, his life – all gone, and I begin to wonder if he was ever here at all...
I'm clinging to any memory of him that I have left alongside what sanity I have left.
Time ticks forward before tock-ing back.
tick, tock.
That mocking pulse.
Eternally at 4.48.
At 4.48 when my mind is clear, there's a red-haired girl who visits.
She looks at me with sad eyes. I'm uncertain what to think of her, if I think of her at all. To think of those pitying blue eyes takes me away from my precious time with Hero.
Sometimes she talks, sometimes I listen.
She tells me of Hyrule, I don't respond. She tells me of her ranch/home, I don't respond. She tells me of Ganondorf, I don't respond. I don't care. They don't matter, but when she talks about Hero I can't help but look up.
I want to hear. I don't want to hear.
It hurts when I hear. It hurts when I don't.
All I know is that it hurts.
It hurts because at 4.48 when my mind is clear and sanity visits, I am in my right mind for one hour and twelve minutes,
and when it has passed I shall be with Hero again.
She's sat holding my hand in silence while rubbing soft circles on my skin.
Forwards and back. Forwards and back.
That same damn rhythm as we wait for sanity to pass after 4.48.
At 4.48 when my mind is clear, the girl is not alone.
He is an old man with clinical eyes and a stern mouth. He introduces himself as a doctor.
I just stare at the green of the girl's dress. A painfully similar shade to...
The man talks. My mind talks. Even the walls seem to talk in that smooth psychiatric voice.
Asking and probing and invading and penetrating and searching and questioning and inquiring and analysing and infiltrating and observing and theorising and –sending me BLOODY INSANE! (If I'm not already).
