He went quiet when she screamed at him and slowly he looked at her, the way an angry dog would begin to lower its hackles. His body went almost boneless and he slid down to the corner of his makeshift bedding, knees pressed firmly to his chest, his arms locked across them and folded tight.
"I don't wanna go fucking blind," he whispered, his voice hoarse from the screaming, and he didn't look toward her when he spoke. He sounded younger now, more vulnerable. The knuckles, already scarred, on his punching hand were raw and bleeding again. "D'you know how fucked up it is, not being able to see shit? I'm twenty-five fuckin' years old and you're telling me my life's half-over?"
His voice cracked a little on that and he angrily knuckled his eyes, wiping away the hot tears on his cheeks. They were as much tears of sadness and hurt as anger, and he wasn't used to feeling like that. It wrung you out like a dirty dishcloth.
"What the fuck's a minotaur anyway?" he asked softly. "It's not even something fucking cool that people've heard of, like a fucking werewolf or something."