Fuck you, Sonic.

Her last words. Those last sounds escaped from sweetest lips. Pink hand to pink head. A pistol raised.

B – A – N –G .

This can't be real. This isn't real.

But it is.

SPLATTER

Red red, everywhere red

Oh god

Oh please

What did I do

What did I do to deserve this

God, oh

"Sonic." On her sweet girlish features hangs an infinite sadness.

He leans across the swingset, the sun burns into the back of his head and Amy's feet are bare in the sand. He wants to reach out and touch one: a small pink foot. He wants to become the sand.

"I hate you."

Spoken from the base of the post, supporting one of those bars that kids do pull-ups from. Metal and leather ripping into soft wrists, ankles. The back of her dress soiled by mud and grass.

He smiles blithely. "Suits me fine, Ames."

Some noise erupts from the pink snout. Then a glob splatters in his direction, white and slimy, rolling across the surface of the sand.

"You're sick! Sick, just sick!"

He rises, pushes the swing aside. Metal chains squeak in his wake. Greasing, that's what they need. A greasing and a licking. He smiles, full set of teeth glinting like some desert mirage. Her head is drooped and turned, eyes shut tight. But he's not just smiling for her, see…

"I love you, Amy Rose."

Amy Rose. My only love.

Collapsed and crumpled, on my linoleum. Our linoleum.

Nausea. Head heavy, world spins. Fall to my hands and knees. One hand squashes silken gel softness.

Brain.

Yelp, withdraw hand. The ceiling swirls. Heart rankling madly quake terror resolve. Crawl to her bruised bloody battered corpse. On her bosom, deposit my head. Breathing slows.

I am sin, she is sin, we are all sin. All creatures are born to suffer, and thus I suffer.

"Amy, Amy. Please, listen, Amy."

On my knees, outstretched hand shaking. Golden ring offered to pink goddess angel.

"With you?" Her voice slows to a hiss. The bruise around her eye was purple yesterday; now it is black. The chains raise her into the sky, just like a real angel. "I'd rather die than be yours, Sonic the Hedgehog."

Without love, there is no future. Only death, stretching across the desert land for miles on end, and one awakens from the dream in a cold sweat.

I am all over you now, your corpse held tight in my strong arms. You are warm, still, even in your untimely death. The maggots shall soon come for their feast.

No!

Don't leave me, Amy!

Not like this!

Rewind.

Two young hoglets run wild in the rain. Blue and pink blur, coloring this world of gray.

She glances back, coy. Rain drips from silken soft quills.

"Catch me if you can!"

He caught her all right. Rolling and laughing on the wet pavement, the two little ones, epitome of sweetness. He looks at her; she looks at him. Her laughter rings in the wind.

"When we grow up we'll get married! And we'll have two kids, a boy and girl! Blue and pink, like you and me…"

A smile spreads over the face. The moment expands beyond the rainclouds, infinite.

"…And like us, they'll rule the world!"

You promised, Amy.

Somewhere in the sky, it awaits us.

Our happiness.

Our future.

Our children.

He crawls upon the linoleum, staggers into the kitchen. Blue quills splotched with blood: hers. In his mind, determination.

A drawer spills open. Within, he finds it.

The meat cleaver.

Making haste, I lift Amy onto the couch, where we had once made love. Prop up her legs with a cushion.

The eggs. I gotta harvest the eggs.

Figure I should go in from beneath, and carve up from there. The vagina connects to the womb, right? Then, the eggs. Right? Something like that.

Fuck.

God help me. Amy help me. You were the woman in this relationship, not me! You're the one who knows how this works! Fuck.

Deep breath in. Slow breath out. You got this, Sonic.

Her panties were already off. So it's easy to just stick my fingers in there, and spread her cooze. Glancing down at the cleaver, I discover the flaw in my logic. It's way too big. Guess I'll have to go directly through the belly, now. Pull back my fingers, now thick with her slime. With both hands now, stabilize the hilt of the cleaver.

This can't be worse than, like, chopping meat. Chicken breast. Pork sirloin. Beef stew. Easy, just like that.

Yeah, just like that.

Hedgehog skin is far tougher than he ever imagined.

Eyes closed, he brings down the cleaver once more. Prays that what's beneath won't get damaged.

Blade displaces flesh, then bounces off. A small line is carved along pink quills. Not deep.

With each push, the belly deflates under the blade and balloons out on both sides. It's all he can accomplish. The blade's not going through.

Somewhere beneath lie the ovaries, holding their clutches of ova. They play hide-and-seek, torture him, drive him mad.

Cleaver is tossed to the ground. Hollow metal clatters. Wipe sweat from my quills.

Need something sharper, smaller. Like that fruit knife. The one you used just last night, to serve me a plump red apple. I find it in the sink still, marooned in dishwater.

There we go.

Back to the belly. The efforts of the cleaver have left it bruised, deformed. But outside, intact, remains the thick rubbery skin, lined with quills.

I make a guess, some rough approximation of where the eggs might be. I'll start here, and move closer to target once I'm in. Found a suitable place, just above the belly button. Point the tip of the fruit knife.

This time it slides in, not without effort. But slide in it does. Pink flesh ripping apart. The blade is withdrawn, and inner fluid gushes out, red and black. A horrendous stench erupts, of rot and shit and death.

Fuck.

Soft belly. Liquid pink ooze. Knife plunged in, again and again.

Anything, everything to save us!

Somewhere inside, the womb. Somewhere attached, precious and gleaming: two egg-balls. And inside, our children.

Our future.

Entrails soft and slippery, blood that just won't stop gushing. The mess grows, pink drenching blue. The white quills on his chest bathed in blood. The knife wanders and probes, desperate. He sobs as he carves, seeking something lost. The creator in reverse.

Fuck, Amy.

Fuck.

I –

Just –

Wanted –

To –

Be–

A –

Hero –

Your hero.

I've failed, haven't I.

I've failed.

Hold the hunk up in the air. Like I'm raising, into the sky, the hopes of a generation.

Your corpse, unrecognizable from the belly up. Grief gnaws in my stomach. God I'm so sweaty. When did I get so sweaty. My quills are beading with the stuff.

Fuck.

I think I'm gonna throw up.

The room smells even stronger now, of something raw. Like meat.

I did it. I really did. It's what was best for us. Yes, I had to do the right thing and now that I did the right thing what else is there for me to do. Please, tell me.

Amy, Amy. Answer me!

Oh, Amy.

At least I've got the eggs. At least, that's what I hope this is. First steps first, right? Now I gotta find some doctors. They'll extract the eggs, I guess. Maybe the ambulance can tell me what to do when they get here. But what if the paramedics see this mess, and call the cops instead. No, I'm better off going to the hospital on my own.

Flesh spoils, I know that. How long can eggs survive, outside the body? What about outside a dead body? God, so many questions. But no answer.

Maybe I'll get an ice pack from the fridge. Maybe I'll just stick it all into the fridge, freeze it, and hope for the best. That'll give me time to think. It's what they do with embryos, right? Freeze them, so they don't die before getting to a womb?

But I can't move. I'm paralyzed, stuck to the linoleum. Armpits slick with sweat, wrists slick with blood. The fridge, an eternity away.

Knees shake, won't hold the body upright. Collapse again, on my side.

Failure.

I won't make it to the fridge. Not in time. Not at this rate.

Another try. Dizzy. World blurry oh god damn it –

Linoleum hard, cold.

Close my eyes.

Weep.

Hold my children closer, us, our children. Or whatever it was I carved out from your sweet supple form.

Fuck.

I'm tired right now, Ames. So, so tired.

Above, the ceiling is bright. Is this what they call the light? You know, at the end of the tunnel sort of thing.

Turn head to the side and I see: in arm's reach, the pistol.

It takes all my strength to reach out. Weary fingers grip around the handle, my salvation. Cold metal caked with your blood, your death. Soon to be joined by mine.

I point the barrel to my temple, with only half the braveness that you had. In my other hand, I hold the hunk closer, cradling the seat of our future. Our beautiful, dying children.

I pause, swallow. At last, my breath has steadied.

Goodnight, Amy.

It was nice knowing you for the while we had here.

In the next world… maybe things can be better. Maybe we can start again.

Maybe this time I won't fuck things up like I did. And we really can have our children. One girl, one boy, blue and pink whatever. Except the girl's gonna be blue, and the boy will be pink. I don't know why I'm so sure but I just know it, I see it in front of me emerald-clear within the haze, everything is patchy white discontinuous and –

–in this world you'll be happy, I won't hit you anymore with the backs of empty beer bottles, won't smash your face into the bathroom sink until the soft cartilage of your snout ruptures and call it love. This time, I'll set things right, really really right, I can promise that, I really really promise.

I'm sorry, Amy.

Please…

Forgive me.

Merry Christmas, everybody!