Drip. Drip. Drip drop. Dripdrop. .
He could hear them. He could hear their voices flow inside him, through the very membranes of his brain.
They were here.
And he wished he could make them stop. Anything. To make them go away.
I know the secret to your past…I know the secret to everything you want to know…I know the secret to your bitch slut Maria…
Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Everyone wants you to do it. Jump. Make your wrists plunge under the weight of the knife. Swallow so many pills you can't swallow another, your mouth full of powdery teeth. Kill yourself in your sleep. Kill yourself while you're awake. Kill yourself when you're only semi-conscious, like you are right now.
He was waiting. As he held his head and uttering a great big deep gaping cry.
Cry, cry! Cry like the little bitch you are!
Will I ever see Maria again? Will I? Shall I? Shall I?
Your cries are so deep they plunge into the piercing air, the wind turning into shards of glass…Broken mirrors, broken promises, you gaze at it into those big black recesses of your eyes and tell me what you see. Tell me what you see.
He saw nothing. But a black hedgehog with eyes that were swollen from the lack of sleep, lack of zestful rest that he needed ever since he's been here, ever since he felt dead, his insides cut out and stolen and placed in a big leather suitcase and given to someone else. Possibly Sonic, who was in the hospital right now. Dying. Dying. DYING.
It's your fucking fault he's dying! Your fucking fault!
Run away. Run away. Runaway. Yawanur. Run to a cliff.
And then fall. Eid neht. Like you deserve to.
Satan is here. Satan is here. Satan is here. Wash your sins away. Wash them. Wash them. Wash them.
He counted how many times he washed his hands everyday. This was the 47th time. From the incantation of a spell in his head.
That was how Sonic got sick. That was how he got in the hospital. That was how he was dying. Because of him. Because of him.
He wrung them dry, like the towel he didn't use. Towels had diseases inside their fibers. He was sure someone blew their nose on it. If he touched it, he would die. And burn in Hell. Where he belonged.
The goats in the fire, how they sizzle and crack and burn…the goats in the fire, how they belch for God to save them…
You know you can't save him. No one will. Not even the best doctors in the country can save him. Wash your sins away, NOW.
And he did so. 46, 47, 48…
49, 50, 51…
Wash them again. They're not fucking good enough!
Take a deep breath, Shadow. Start over.
46, 47, 48, 49…
50, 51, 52…
Take baby steps. One of his feet was always a little mutated than the other one. He was born with a club foot. He knew that. They all knew that.
Tap your shoes. It's time to go home.
53, 54, 55.
He tapped them. He took a deep breath. He sighed.
He wondered if the voices were gone now.
But they weren't.
Start over.
Start over.
START OVER.
FUCKING START OVER AGAIN!
YOU PIECE OF GODDAMN SHIT, ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME?
DIE. DIE. DIE. DIE. DIE. DIE.
56, 57, 58.
Wash your hands again. Sing the tune of happy birthday to clean them completely. Sonic's birthday was months away. He thought he should give him a gift anyways. Since he was barely hanging on by his very threads, his very strings by the puppet master.
He wondered if Maria would think he was crazy, if she was still alive.
59, 60, 61.
His hands bled and were cracked from the constant use of soap, the constant water running over him. The soap dried it out. It made him feel guilty. He wasn't sure why.
It's time to go, pal. It's time to go.
He looked at the clock as he held the vial of flowers, just newly bought, peeling away. He hoped Sonic would like them anyways, even if his stress choked the life out of them.
It was 12:45.
62, 63…
He checked his watch again.
Still 12:45.
Would time still tick if he sat in this same exact spot, completely immobile, dead?
You better be dead, you fucking prick.
He groaned. The vase fell to the floor with a loud BOOM. LIKE THE SOUND OF A ROCKET COLLIDING WITH ITS TARGET AND EXPLODING IN SEVERAL MILLION PIECES. THE SHRAPNEL WAS IN HIS SKIN. HE HAD TO GET IT OUT, BEFORE HE GOT INFECTED.
Wash again. Become renewed.
The voices wouldn't stop.
Piece of shit. Piece of shit. Piece of shit. Piece of shit. Piece of shit. Piece of shit. Piece of shit. Piece of shit. Piece of shit. Piece of shit. Piece of shit. Piece of shit. Piece of shit. Piece of shit. Piece of shit. Piece of shit. Piece of shit. Piece of shit. Piece of shit. Piece of shit. Piece of shit. Piece of shit. Piece of shit. Piece of shit. Piece of shit. Piece of shit. Piece of shit. Piece of shit. Piece of shit. Piece of shit. Piece of shit. Piece of shit. Piece of shit. Piece of shit. Piece of shit. Piece of shit. Piece of shit. Piece of shit. Piece of shit. Piece of shit. Piece of shit. Piece of shit. Piece of shit. Piece of shit. Piece of shit. Piece of shit. Piece of shit. Piece of shit. Piece of shit. Piece of shit. Piece of shit.
He gazed at his watch again.
12:52.
He never minded the vase. He swept away all the glass shards, put it in the trash, washed his hands (thinking there was blood running across them in black spurts), picked up the flowers, noticed they were peeling more, but never minded that either.
Sonic really needs you, Shadow. He doesn't care if you're crazy. He loves you. Loves like crazy. He wants you there. He wants you in that hospital. Make it there. You only have a few minutes.
64, 65, 66.
He looked at himself in the mirror again. The lack of sleep was getting to him. He was becoming lanky, skinny, his teeth yellow with the stains of nicotine and forgetting to brush them. He smoked a lot of cigarettes. He thought it was the only way he was going to calm down.
He wiped his brow, as he thought for a moment, he could gaze at the Shadow he used to be. Happy. Full of mirth and joy. Happy with his little Maria. Happy with his little Sonic, before he gave him the disease.
He sighed.
The voices were calming down. He still had time to get to the subway if he was wise about his time. Then meet Sonic right in the middle of visitation hours. He wished he could see him with as much life as he used to have. Like him. Like Maria, before she was shot and turned into a corpse.
And he wished the same wouldn't happen with Sonic. He prayed, even if he didn't believe in a God. He prayed that Sonic would stay here, with him. They could watch movies again, getting scared silly by the scary movies, laughing along with both the funny and even the unfunny parts in comedies, cry along in tragedies and dramas, and feel that warmth in their hands when they watched sappy movies.
He wished he had the time to do that, all over again.
He left, the shadow of his former Shadow still glancing back at his body that was growing smaller and smaller. And he wanted to ask him how it got this way. But he wouldn't answer. And even then, he couldn't answer.