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).
I glare. He attempts a sympathetic murmur as he watches me. Judges me. Smells the crippling failure oozing from my skin. They sit there and smile with the private knowledge that I'm the only one who's not free from blame. Never free from blame because he's dead. - My Hero is DEAD.
He asks if I can talk. He receives no answer.
'Shame...' he says!
SHAME?
WHAT DOES HE KNOW OF SHAME?
SHAME SHAME SHAME!
I'M DROWNING IN FUCKING SHAME!
For the first time in a month I lunge out of my bed. Doctor whatsit decides not to come back, afraid that I'll lash out again.
I just can't stand the sound of his pencil taking notes.
Scribble, silence. Scribble, silence.
That dreaded rhythm again at 4.48
At 4.48 when my mind is clear, I begin to count my ribs.
1, I think of Hero.
2, I miss Hero.
3, I remember Hero.
4, I need Hero.
5, I imagine Hero.
6, I crave Hero.
7, I hate Hero.
8. I love Hero.
I trail one traitorous hand down my side: A mocking imitation of him. I close my eyes and remember those intimate times with him.
He would touch my face, I would stroke his hair.
He would caress my skin, I would bite his ear.
He would grope my thighs, I would moan his name.
He would kiss my lips, I would feel his love.
He was pulled away, I felt my heart break
I felt my mind break.
The space between my legs where he once lay is empty forever...
At 4.48 I shake and shiver without meaning.
He is gone, what meaning is left? What hope is left as I lie defeated and remember the rhythm of our love.
Pain and pleasure, pain and pleasure.
The pattern begins again at 4.48.
At 4.48 when my mind is clear I play with a gash in my arm.
I don't remember making it... or rather I don't remember feeling it. It was just hot and itched for a moment.
How odd. Aren't cuts supposed to hurt?
I prod it with a finger,
slide it in as deep as it will go,
wriggle it in fascination.
A twinge here and there.
More of the crimson liquid shyly creeps out.
I giggle a little. The absence of pain is quite funny it seems.
Hero's wounds must have hurt more than this, he was stabbed after all.
...
...
Maybe I should try that next?
...
...
I keep pressuring my raw arm with my finger. The pain increases but it still feels dull.
Muted.
Salty water is dripping onto the gash. Apparently I'm crying again.
Drop, splash. Drop, splash.
I only half notice the girl has appeared and is pulling my hands apart. She's making such a fuss. Someone should really tell her to be quiet.
She asks me what the hell I'm doing.
I would know exactly what I'm doing if only I could know for sure who 'I' was.
I am Sheik. But Sheik is Link's lover.
Link is like the sun: warm and kind and bright and forgiving. Sheik is a shadow: reliant on the sun for its very existence. There is no Sheik without Link.
He's not here anymore so what am I?
An empty consciousness that exists for an hour and twelve minutes at 4.48.
At 4.48 when my mind is clear my thoughts begin to stall.
Where do dreams stop and where does reality begin?
Where do my thoughts stop and where do my thoughts begin?
Where do I start? Where do I stop?
How do I start? How do I stop?
HOW THE HELL AM I MEANT TO STOP!
They say that I'm ill, but I know nothing about my 'condition'!
What are my symptoms?
Pupils dilated, fever spiking, hallucinations?
How do I feel?
Abused, misused, confused?
This will kill me that much is clear. Let this kill me! Let it crush me and send me to hell!
Only love can save me but it's love that has killed me!
Love love love love love.
What choice could I have made to have kept my love?
Cut out my tongue,
Tear out my hair,
Cut off my limbs,
just leave me my love!
I would rather have lost my legs,
Pulled out my teeth,
Gouged out my eyes,
Than lost my love!
My pulse beats steady. The rhythm of my madness:
Du-dump, du-dump.
I slip out of reality and into his arms after 4.48 is over.
At 4.48 when my mind is clear, I keep my eyes closed.
His face is seared on the back of my eyelids and I'm afraid I will never see it again if I open them.
My movements are sluggish as usual as I raise a hand to my face.
I want to preserve that smiling golden face,
no matter what the cost.
...
...
When the girl next finds me my eyes are a bloody, clawed mess. I hear her screaming and smile through my blessed agony.
Why are you screaming, silly girl? Can't you see I'm happy? Now I'll never see anything but his face!
I think she has fainted now. I can only hear the faint splattering of my blood.
Drip, drop. Drip, drop.
Ah, that sound!
Once again, haunting nostalgia sets in at 4.48
At 4.48, when my mind is supposed to be clear, everything feels slightly fuzzy.
It probably has something to do with the stab wound that the Hero and I now share.
Not exactly a dignified death for the last of my people: lying blinded and semi-insane in a makeshift bed. I should have died in battle.
I should have died with him.
I had snuck a kitchen knife from an attendant the girl had asked to watch me while she was gone.
I still don't understand why she would go through so much trouble to keep me alive, it was a nice thought but in the end it proved unnecessary.
My body feels heavy.
My heart feels light.
It could almost fly out of me.
My breath is ragged
In, out. In, out.
The rhythm of madness strikes again.
Until, the pulse stops just after 4.48 and I can see my hero once more.