I don't know. If I walk around long enough, maybe I'll get there.
Who am I?
Oh, don't even start...
Just say it.
I won't.
I am Link.
I'm not. I'm somebody else.
You look just like me.
You look like a stranger. Nobody knows you. You're not such a big shot.
But I am.
You're an idiot. You smell bad and your intelligence has been compared to that of eastward-facing moss.
Go away.
So I did. I tore my eyes away from the water and shooed away the cloud of mosquitos. Well, I tried. They latched onto my arm. I ignored them.
Is that a bad sign?
I knew that eventually they'd be gone with enough blood to double the mosquito population. I knew by then my arm would be covered with itchy, pink round things. I didn't care. Maybe it'd distract me.
There was too much to think about. There were countries at war and lives to be saved. Thankfully, this time I wasn't involved. But I thought about it. The bloodshed and pain. And the glory.
Always the hero. Another swarm of bugs hovered in the distance. I tore off my shirt and walked towards them.
-:-:-:-
Late the next day when I awoke from my stupor, it was to nature. I must've fallen on an anthill, because black bugs were crawling all over me. There was something else on me, too, and at first I thought that someone had come round in the night and put a thick leather coat over me. When I tried to take it off, I realized it was my own skin. Bites upon bites had somehow layered themselves over a tomatoey sunburn.
Hell hath no fury... ah, I forget the rest.
I've been forgetting a lot of things, lately. Something's wrong. But what?
I'm changing. And it's not because of puberty. Have you ever felt like you're ready to, well... die? Like you've done everything you're capable of doing? Made your mark and got your name down on paper, for future generations to remember and be proud of? That's how I feel. I'm ready. I'm just waiting for the credits to roll.
There's my sword. I could make it happen. I could end it. One good slash and Death might finally show me his true colors. I pretend that my body doesn't ache, that my feet aren't covered in hives, and I make my way towards it. It's in my hands. Once again, I see myself.
I run my finger along the blade; a bright red trail forms in its wake. I notice the rust. It's not rusted for water, it's rusted for blood. What if I could add to that rust... and the adrenaline courses through my veins.
Who am I?
I watch my pupils dilate as I cut my wrist. Right wrist, left wrist. It's always hard to cut the left wrist. I have to use my right hand to do it, and it feels so backwards. Unnatural, even... This is so stupid... papercuts never killed anyone. I look into the blade. It's striped unevenly with red and silver, dripping with life, my heart's contents.... I take a gulp of air and open my mouth for a silent scream that's yet to come... and I slide the metal into my chest... and I taste it in my throat... and I swallow. And a red bubble forms between my lips. And fall and I wince and I die... and it's over... it's over....
Epona's been waiting for me. For a really long time. Forever, even. When I step up to her, she sniffs my blood. I know she senses the pain. I somehow manage to climb into the saddle. She begins to move.
It's not over. Is it?
Then it's like I'm seeing myself from a window. I'm watching me as I slouch over on top of her. As I fall. I'm watching as I lay there, bleeding, paling. The blood mixes with dirt and takes a new form. Epona doesn't stop. Her thin, starved frame keeps going. I count her ribs.Trotting and trotting and betraying... until all I have left are her hoofprints, however temporary. I must be temporary, too. If I could check the date... I think I expire soon....
I close my eyes. And it's not over.
Is it?