752 words (even my read count is higher than that — pathetic)

I listen intently for the sound of breathing.

"Don't hold your breath," I sign, shaking my head. "That's not fair."

"I just breathe quietly." Sidon answers from behind me.

"Mhm, sure." I roll my eyes in his general direction.

Being blind is odd, but I've gotten overall used to it by now. The blackness feels less dark and I've come to remember the look of places when I know where I am. So far, muscle memory hasn't helped me navigate much — I've never seen Sidon's room so therefore I don't have any image, although it feels pretty standard, with a bed and dresser and whatnot.

I miss being able to see people's faces overall. And to see blood, too, as I finish with my enemies. The red dripping onto the dirt? Beautiful. More beautiful than any sunset I've seen or person I've met. Blood in general is a pretty thing to look at, the crimson dripping down skin or a knife, diluting water with those blossoming drops.

I inhale sharply when I feel a pleasant prick on my hand. Was I holding something sharp?

"That's your knife, Link," Sidon mumbles, a tone of something other than annoyance in his voice. Humour?

"Do you think that's funny?" The slate chimes as I sign, mindful of the weight of my blade in my lap.

"Hilarious," he deadpans. "Absolutely hilarious. I'm dying of laughter."

"Could you not," I fake offence.

After a moment of silence, his fingers pick at my hair. "You're such a mess," Sidon said that more to himself than to me, judging by the quiet and reflecting tone of his voice.

"OCD much?" I sign slowly, and he snickers.

"Your hair is so unkempt,"

"I could really care less,"

"Ah." His hands keep fiddling with my hair. "Why is it soft?"

"Because I wash it, duh,"

Silence. I pick up my blade again and continue to fiddle with it, trying to render an image in my mind. It's a pretty knife, given to me by my father, with gems on the handle and a fine silver blade. He said the silver was pure, to ward off fae, but I never believed him. I run my finger along the sharp edge. Cuts are an occupational hazard.

"You should stop doing that," Sidon says with surprising casualty. "You're bleeding everywhere,"

"Suck it," I reply.

He sighs. "You're so reckless. Doesn't it hurt?"

Just now I'm aware of the dull pain ebbing at my fingers. "Nah," I lie. "I don't feel it anymore."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Alarm and suspicion line his voice. When I don't answer, he pushes: "Link?"

"Never mind."

. . .

Sidon:

Water drips on my leg dully, finally waking me up from my dream. Link is still sitting near me on my bed, fiddling with that knife of his.

Wait a second.

Red blood drips down his palm and lands with a plop on my knee, and I look down reluctantly. A pool of it is gathered on my leg.

"Link, goddammit!" I say, and he looks at me, startled. He was halfway through slicing his palm again and the abruptness of my speech sent the motion haywire, the knife sliding across his hand, leaving a deeper and longer cut in its wake.

"What?" He asks, blood dripping faster as he signs with his hands.

"Why are you cutting yourself?"

"I am?"

"Don't play dumb!" I snatch the knife away, its handle wet in my hand. "You're such a... such an idiot!"

There's a deafening pause while he looks down at his hands, as if he could see the hundreds of bleeding, wet red streaks he made with the knife. This could be hours of work — I remember seeing him poke his finger and "accidentally" cut himself while touching the blade, then I sort of drifted off.

"For the love of Hylia Link!" I'm not yelling, for fear of having anyone hear and make this worse, but my voice is raised a bit. "Why?!"

"Because," he signs slowly, "blood is pretty," a deafening pause follows. "What colour is your blood?"

"You creepy little motherfucker," I say, getting up and placing his knife on my dresser, then opening several drawers looking for bandages. I look back at him and see his hands violently shaking.

"I... look, I have to go," he signs quickly, standing up. "Something important... be back someday."

With that, he opens my door and walks out, the sound of footsteps and dripping echoeing down the hall.