"Mariaaaaaaa."
"Stop drooling like that, moron. I am a barwoman, not a hooker. And my name's not even Maria."
"Mariaaaaaaa."
"What the fuck, dude?"
"I am sorry, hun. I am afraid he isn't talking to you at all."
"Oh, really? Then why is he tugging at my goddamn dress like that?"
"It's the color, prolly. He sometimes loses his shit over blue dresses when he's drunk. He's mostly harmless, I swear."
"Maria they try and break meeeee."
"Ι don't care if he's harmless, I want him to let go of me so that I can do my bloody job!"
"You sure you want him to let go of you? Girls generally swoon when he does that."
"Ew, really?"
"Yup."
"Mariaaaaaaa."
"Well, I have self-respect, and second, I am a lesbian."
"Excellent choice. I am Rouge."
"Okay, that's it. Get out. Both of you."
"But hun-"
"NOW."
.
.
"Αw, come on, bitch. We are just trying to have some fun after a shitty day at work, you can't treat us like we're trash. And besides, we're paying for our drinks, ain't we?"
"We are paying. Everyone pays. I am paying for what I've done. What have I done? Mariaaaaaaa."
"I say take this freak and go someplace else before I make you."
"I say stick this up your skinny ass!"
"Okay, that's it. BARRY! TAKE CARE OF THOSE TWO!"
It turns out "Barry" is a horribly big feline bartender, thus they both get thrown out in the blink of an eye. The few possessions they forgot behind follow suit soon afterwards. Rouge picks up the scattered contents of her handbag while muttering obscenities under clenched teeth. She finds her car keys lying in a nearby lawn, half-buried under the damp grass.
Shadow, already in a place of his own, is squelching against the mud like a deranged starfish. For the first time in weeks, he seems happy.
.
.
OutRun
.
a story by A.M. Palmer
Raindrops are going plop against the car window. Colors and shapes speed past, an eye-popping ensemble of city life. Traffic lights and neon signs mingle with the patterns of the streaming water, dancing and flickering and being pretty. Shadow is watching his breath bedim the view behind the glass, wondering why nothing ever makes sense anymore.
"You should have let me walk."
"You were squelching in a puddle of mud, hun. There was no way I was leaving you behind in such a state."
"I did? Well, I 'm better now. I think."
"Shadow, I am your friend. Take my advice. Stop. You're killing yourself."
"I am not killing myself. She is killing me."
Rouge has an answer to that, but she says nothing and her attention returns to the open road. They take a shortcut and, in a flash, the lively colors vanish and only oak trees are left behind. She tries to commence a painless conversation but comes up with nothing worthwhile.
"Say, this music is a little depressing. You want me to switch stations?"
"No. I like the artist. I think this genre is called electronic garage or something."
"I'd say it's french house."
Shadow snorts as if what he's heard was exhilarating. His eyes roll sideways to meet hers. "French? Seriously?"
"Yep. From France."
"What's a France?"
"Not a damn clue. Fancy sounding tho, innit?", she giggles, for she is a bit drunk herself. "It occasionally works with guys. I once told this to a fox at a record store."
"And?"
"And what?"
"Did it work?"
"As a matter of fact, no."
They laugh in unison briefly before a flash of lightning tears the sky in half. They seem to be moving away from civilization now, so much so that the car lights are casting two streaks of bright yellow upon an ocean of plain black. Kavinsky's distorted voice bewails ominously in the background. I am gonna drive you through the night, down the hills.
Shadow speaks, eyes staring at nothing in particular.
"I am sorry."
Rouge fakes surprise, waiting like a snake that lies hidden behind a bush until its prey appears.
"Sorry, why?"
"You're funny, you're attractive, you are a decent friend. I should 've fallen for you instead of Amy."
"Shadow- "
"No, listen. I understand it if you hate me because of this. It's okay. I blame myself as much as I blame her."
"Look, it matters very little, right? We both know you love her. That's why you've devolved to this."
"What is 'this' supposed to mean?"
"Oh, c'mon."
"No, seriously. Have I become that hideous?"
.
.
"Fuck me."
The words hit him like a hundred thousand volts. His lips move of their own accord, mouthing the inevitable question.
"I beg your pardon?"
"No pardons. I want you to fuck me. Now."
.
.
.
"Is this some kind of joke?"
"No."
"So you'll pull over or something?"
"No."
Shadow wants to object but his confused arousal objects to the prospect of objecting. His fingers are already sliding sideways, towards her seat. Nothing ever makes sense, this much he knows. You are thrown into this world without an instruction manual, kicking and screaming, and from that point onwards you just do whatever you can to keep your mind off the prospect of the coffin that awaits.
Life is an illusion. The universe is indifferent, and I am suffering because I try to make sense of it all.
And sense is an illusion. I am an illusion.
He touches her knees and they automatically part. Her white skirt is pushed upwards by a trembling, sliding hand.
"Are you sure?"-the voice is so lust-ridden it nearly cracks. "The asphalt is- wet."
She smiles ambiguously seconds before taking her blouse off. Gloved hands return to the steering wheel as if nothing ever happened. "You have no idea how wet I am."
Her words ignite him, and Shadow hasn't been ignited in a long time. Amy's infidelities, her excruciating lectures and idiotic fixations all seem to fade away. He can revel in self-pity and guilt tomorrow. For the time being, he is in a speeding car with a seminude woman who's slowly spreading her legs. And that's a hundred thousand per cent dope.
Fingertips brush against her soaking underwear, eliciting a weak yelp. They are both trying to keep their eyes on the road but the sudden sexual overdrive renders it next to impossible.
He clears his throat, blatantly hyperventilating.
"Tell me what it is that you- want."
The sussuration of the raindrops as they fall on the metallic roof, the incessant roar of the engine, the female's subtle moans- they overwhelm his ears. There's a billion unlived lives bubbling in his chest, like birds wondering what it feels like to be outside the cage.
"I want..."
Ghosts within machines. Like birds in a cage. How surreally, unspeakably funny. How blood-drenchingly appalling.
And what a weird, weird night.
"... you."
His fist clenches around the soft silk and rips it off. He starts fondling his best friend in places best friends don't generally fondle one another and, while he does so, his jumbled thoughts keep trailing off. He wonders what Amy is doing. How her day has been. Whether or not she chose to sit on someone else's dick today.
All of a sudden, Shadow is angry; angry at his girlfriend for making him fall in love despite her being an unloveable cunt, angry at himself for making bad choice after bad choice, angry at the world for being the way it is, angry at Rouge for taking advantage of his misery. His eyes abandon the road and meet hers at the exact moment his fingers are pushed inside of her. Her jaw begins to drop, but his lips are forced against hers before she can scream.
"Mhhhmmmppffffttrrrr."
Yes, angry, that's it. He is positively pissed off. Horny as hell, considerably intoxicated, but still very very pissed off. He starts thrusting maniacally, sweatdrops dousing his face. In and out. In and out. Kissing and fucking. In and out.
"MFFFRRRRRTHRSMFCKNCRRRrrriddddddDDDDT! MLLLCRSHHHMMMDMT!"
*Sloosh, sloosh, sloosh*
"LMMMMLLLNNNSSHLLL! MRRRGNNCRSHHHHYYYMMMDMMMT!"
*Sloosh, sloosh, sloosh*
She is now squirming under his weight, she plunges her nails in his back like a savage and-
"THRRRSSSCRRRRR-" *PUFF!*
"HEY WHAT WAS THAT FOR?"
Blood drips off his wounded shoulder, and Rouge finally breaks free. Before either of them can see it's too late, she starts screaming.
"THERE'S A FUCKING CAR AHEAD, WE'RE GONNA CRASH YOU ASSH-"
.
.
ALKNFWOGBOLERJNFLAOJRNGRGUOSHXBFOefjnlwJFNOUW; ;OAUWUEHBNSDLNOFUWE~
AFBIULASBHFLISUEFBHU;SDUFHEIFJ;fejsdifjewitu49sidjlawiqiIWIURJNEITIEORTJPQWKE[rekw[etkrodjfe88o*hod409))ebfaloe~
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA~
.
.
.
.
Amy's eyes. He sees Amy's eyes. She is looking at him through the window, and there is nothing sympathetic about her facial expression.
She is also very much sitting on someone else's dick.
.
.
.
.
The blackness is interrupted by two thin lines of reality, like the first optical stimulus of someone coming around.
Blink once, blink twice. Resist to oblivion. Find your way out of the haze.
Where is he? It's dark. So very dark. He should be home. He was supposed to quit drinking, start taking control of things. And now this.
What is this, anyway? What has happened?
Shadow vaguely remembers squelching in the mud...somewhere. Then a very bright light, no scratch that, two very bright lights growing bigger and bigger. What's the meaning of this?
Okay. Relax. Breathe in. Breathe out.
Breathe?
Why is he not breathing?
I mean. The function is still there, somehow, and his brain can tell his lungs to inhale deeply. But it feels like trying to inflate a torn balloon.
It doesn't work.
The most possible explanation hits him like a hammer. He must be dead. A first examination of the surroundings works in favor of this assumption. He is hanging upside down, looking at a sea of broken glass and scarlet stains.
And Rouge...
His neck must be broken, because he can't turn his head completely, but a quick glance sideways reveals his comrade, eyes flashed wide open in sheer horror, nonresponsive, unblinking. A small river of viscous red is still oozing out of her gaping mouth, streaming down all the way to her eyes and forehead.
He wants to cry but finds out he cannot. He hopes she died instantly, that she didn't suffer too much. He tries to shake off the feeling that this is somehow his fault.
Wait.
Wants. Hopes. Tries. Feels.
No. Nononononononono.
Dead people aren't supposed to be capable of doing all of that, right? This must mean he survived the crash. And yet, he is not breathing. Like, at all.
He looks down at his numb torso. Or up. Or whatever.
Shit.
A large, thick shard of glass has impaled him. Right through the heart, by the looks of it.
It looks like the perfect moment to panic. Why is he not panicking?
"Hello! I'm Omochao!"
"What the...?"
The voice is one hundred per cent annoying, so much so that he decides he wants to punch the fucking idiot in the face before even seeing said face. He turns his head to the right, where the window ought to be, and where now stands a suspicious looking chao.
"Who the fuck are you?"
The chao makes a frustrated gesture.
"I just told you, jackass. I am Omochao."
"Who the fuck is Omochao?"
"Me. Are you a retard, by any chance?"
"Ugh. Okay, I get it, you are Omochao. Omochao is thee. What the fuck do you want?"
This seems to please Shadow's unlikely interlocutor a great deal.
"I am here to explain things to you and be helpful and informative and shit."
Oh, Gawd.
This would totally qualify for Most Surreal Moment of the Century, but for the fact that he is dead and not gone.
"Explain things? Hmph, that's cute. Care to explain then, Mr. Homochao, why I am impaled like this and yet we are having this conversation?"
"No Homo, dude. It's Omo-chao. And technically, the fact that you're impaled is the exact reason why we are having this conversation."
"Can you make sense? Like, at all?"
"It's not rocket science, you retard. You're dead. You're still around. What does that make you?"
"... miserable?"
"A zombie, dude. You are a goddamn zombie."
An awkward silence ensues. It lasts exactly fourty-two seconds. Then, as if suddenly understanding something he previously didn't, Shadow speaks up.
"Why me?"
Omochao shrugs.
"It's Halloween, mate. Someone has to become a zombie, or be bitten by a vampire, or-"
"What's a Halloween?"
"Beats me. I am just reading my lines here."
"Oh."
"Yeah."
"So now what?"
"Hm?"
"I mean. What do I do? I am a zombie. I've never done this before."
Omochao's face brightens up.
"You mean you want a fucking tutorial?"
Shadow considers the words.
"Um... yep?"
Omochao's innocuous face traits sharpen. He smiles slowly, revealing an array of unsettling teeth.
"So now you suddenly want my fucking tutorial, you lots? You reject me time after time after time, as if I have zero replay value, you choose to struggle with the controls instead of devoting five minutes to yours truly, and now you fucking want my fucking help?"
"What?"
"Fat chance, idiot. I hope you rot fast." *PUFF!*
And Shadow is left alone once more.
.
.
He unbuckles the seatbelt and gravity does the rest of the work. Shards of glass pierce through his arms and legs, but the process is weirdly painless. He briefly fumbles in Rouge's purse that's hanging from the upended seat like a piece of decoration. Fifty bucks something. That should suffice. For a bottle of something flammable, that is.
Shadow crawls out of the window, trying to regain composure. Standing straight feels trickier than usual, but he finds out it's easier if you walk with your arms raised in front of you.
Another car lies ahead, crumpled up like a can of coke. A closer look reveals the driver is a grey kitsune with a ridiculous amount of tails. His lifeless face is frozen in an expression that implies he is extremely pleased with himself.
Shadow decides he's better off not stepping closer to the unpleasant man. He might look dead but not even being dead can be trusted these days.
He laughs, mainly with himself, since he is a goddamn joke.
And, like this, forlorn and conclusively undead, he starts taking the long way home.
.
.
.
.
Her eyes are piercing right though him behind the cloud of smoke, facial expression not to be deciphered. The cigarette is still hanging from the tips of her bony fingers, burnt all the way to the butt.
He nearly catches himself wondering how this deplorable accumulation of cinder somehow defies physics and does not fall apart. He very much loathes this cigarette. There are so many other things falling apart, things he would love to keep intact right now, like desperately. And the goddamn thing just refuses to give in.
"Say, are you even paying attention?"
The man shakes a foggy head, making a half-hearted nod. She has always been so overwhelming, so downright abundant. The word isn't quite right, in the technical sense, but his thoughts conclude that it feels right, in the drunk sense. So yep. Abundant. Ridiculously full of everything that can possibly transpire within a single brain, so much so that he often worries whether there is too much of Amy Rose to be able to fit into a sole body.
Sometimes, just sometimes, Shadow toys with the idea just for fun, imagining her burst under the weight of all those tons of superfluous personality. Envisioning all the tiny bits drift farther and farther away from one another, decomposing the sadistic assemblage of cells that is his girlfriend. Puff!
"As a matter of fact no, Amy, I am not. I actually stopped paying attention somewhere between Shadow and we need to talk. Was it about something important? Is it ever? Psh!"
He instinctively prepares for a pang of remorse but there is only void. They engage in a prolonged stare before, unexpectedly enough, her hand drops and the cigarette butt is crushed against the ashtray, next to a million others.
"I am dumping you, Shads."
The kitchen is more reminiscent of a gas chamber than an actual room, but Shadow doesn't mind, first of all because there is nothing that can go worse than it already is in his comedic excuse of a life, and second, because Amy's attention seeking histrionics are far more likely to give him cancer than their self-destructive vices combined. He peeks at the empty bottle sourly.
"No, you're not."
"You know what? You are a huge asshole. You were supposed to come back from your goddamn work at nine thirty tops, and instead you cross this fucking door at three fucking twenty in the fucking morning, totally fucking wasted for the millionth fucking time and you expect me to not bat a fucking eye! How fucked up is that?"
"You forgot a "fucking". It was somewhere between fucking and fucking, but I ain't sure."
"Fuck you!"
"No, fuck you!"-he propels himself to a standing position with one hand, whilst the other is pointing an accusing finger at what is definitely the wrong direction. The sheer force of gravity, multiplied by the ridiculous amount of ethanol particles within his circulatory system, makes him return to the safety of the chair almost immediately. The bleak realization that nothing really circulates if your heart doesn't beat fails to sober him up.
"Me? Are you completely fucking nuts?"
"No, you are nuts! You are the very definition of nuts! You and your bitch-ass special snowflake problems! I like having a glass of whiskey or two, once in a while, so sue me! At least I don't screw everyone in possession of functioning genitalia every time I'm feeling ugly and undesirable!"
"Well, I have to screw someone, since you are always busy being sad and cutting your wrists!"
"You do realize that, whenever you wanna fuck, you can simply ask, right?"
"So now I have to ask for sex? What am I, your goddamn dog? I must bark so that you throw a bone at me?"
"Do I look like I fuck dogs? What is this, a cornwallace fic or something?"
"I was drawing a parallel, you idiot. What's a cornwallace?"
"No idea. You were saying?"
She starts laughing in a worrying manner that shows off teeth, gums, and mental instability in equal measure. She pushes her chair back and produces a hypertrophic pink piece of luggage that was, it seems, kept under the table.
"I am dumping you, that's what I was saying. You want me to spell it out? It's d- u - m -"
"Me and Rouge had an accident on our way back from work, you senseless cunt. She died."
Amy is taken aback by the reply. Her instinctive reaction is to protest, but Shadow's eyes speak volumes, causing her to deflate. "What?"
"Some asshole was driving directly towards us. He looked like he wanted to kill us or something."
Her expression now betrays true hurt, and Amy momentarily becomes the person Shadow fell for. She reaches out for him, touching his face as though it were unreal. Man and woman, living and deceased, they stand close to one another and her chaotic breath makes up for the lack of his own.
"And you are...okay?"
"No, I am not. This is why I bought a bottle of whiskey on my way here. I am the exact opposite of okay. And you started talking and talking and talking before I could utter a word."
She balances on the tips of her shoes and they share a quick kiss.
"I am sorry for screwing other people", she whispers.
"I am a zombie", Shadow says.
Without being given the time required in order to handle the information, Amy looks down and a shriek of utter horror escapes her lips: a large, bloodstained shard of glass is protruding from her lover's chest, in the face of medicine and common sense.
"What the..?"
"And, to be honest, I am not very keen on the idea of forgiving you. I am too dead for this shit. I just came here to tell you I love you. And leave, of course."
"..."
"There are many things an undead can do. No responsibilities, you see. Money is useless to me and, as a dead person, I am not obliged to pay taxes, since I do not exist. So I am leaving you the house, and you can make a brothel out of it, for all I care. I am quitting both you and my shitty life as an agent."
Tears are smudging Amy's makeup, thick mascara now all over her cheeks. "But...we were supposed to be together."
He shrugs. "I don't give a shit, actually. I am not the cheating psychopath here. You can drop the act."
"It's not an act!"
She tries to hug him but she is yanked by the shoulders and pushed back into the chair. "I beg to differ, sugar. It is an act. And since I am hereby a free man, I can assure you that, once I cross this door, I'll hit on the very first female that crosses paths with me."
"No, you can't! You're mine, Shads, and don't you pretend otherwise!"
Amy looks thoroughly schizophrenic now, pulling her own quills with her blotched face contorted to a mask of freakishness. She stumbles, rather than walks to the kitchen drawers and opens one, producing a handgun she points to his direction.
Shadow finds this hilarious.
"Ahahahahahahahahaha. You can't be serious, surely."
Amy's eyes become two slits of pure indignation. "I've never been more serious. Cross this door and you're fucking dead."
"Tsk. I am already dead, bitch. I told you so."
She considers this. A deranged smile trembles on the edges of her lips. "Then I'll shoot you in the face. I bet the ladies will love that."
Wrinkes appear on his forehead.
"Wait. Where did you get this?"
"I am not obliged to tell you."
"Is this my old handgun?"
"DOES IT MATTER YOU FUCK!? I SAID I'M GONNA SHOOT YOUR GODDAMN FACE, GODDAMNIT!"
Shadow takes a hesitant step forward, arms outstretched. Sweatdrops are falling down his temples, eyes imbued with genuine worry. "No, Ames, wait-"
"So now you're scared huh? You know what Shadow, I am gonna shoot you anyway, you big fat pussy. I love you and I'm gonna turn your face to meat so that nobody else does."
"NO AMY WAI-"
"DON'T YOU STEP CLOSER ASSHOLE!"
"BUT AMES-''
"I SAID DON'T YOU FUCKING COME CLOSER!"
"BUT IF IT'S MY OLD GUN IT WILL-"
BANG.
.
.
.
Amy's lifeless body collapses on the carpet like a sack. A deep, gaping crater, as weird as a detonated onion, resides where her face should be. A gut-churning mixture of fur, blood and biochemical goo is adorning the wall in front of which his girlfriend was standing seconds ago.
Shadow wants to cry, but realizes he cannot. He is just sorry he didn't take the chance to kiss her lips goodbye while she still had any.
"So long, love", he tells the hole before shutting the front door, finally leaving everything behind.
.
.
.
.
The darkness shrouds him, a light breeze carresses his quills as buildings and city lights sprint past. Shadow, riding his trusty motorbike, has already set off to someplace new, dead but free.
He's going fast, and bits of nightlife keep swirling in an almost ethereal dance. Leaves rustle and the stars are flickering like halos above and-
"Hey, watch it!"
The brakes screech horribly, and he manages to stop the vehicle just in time. Immersed in thoughts, Shadow hadn't noticed the girl crossing the road.
"I am sorry. Are you alright?"
A pair of chocolate brown eyes look up, straight into his. She is a young feline, with a smart and pleasantly ugly face. Her unusual features compose a whole that, while not conventionally beautiful, can still be called potentially attractive.
She smiles broadly.
"Why, I am fine, thanks. Aren't you Shadow the Hedgehog?"
Shadow lets out an elated sigh. A fan. She is a fan. And she sounds like a fairly decent person.
"Yep. Say, miss-"
"-Anna-" she adds helpfully.
"Anna. You wanna come with me?"
Her eyes widen in a mixture of shock and delight.
"Really?"
"Yep. Drive off into the night, two strangers on a motorbike, journey to the unknown, that sort of thing."
The feline seems so excited Shadow worries she might swoon. He smiles back at her, infinitely thankful for the chance to talk to a sane individual, for a change. Anna mounts the motorbike and her arms clench around his waist meekly.
"Okay. Where to?"
He chuckles.
"We shall see. You can tell me all about yourself in the meantime."
"About myself?"- she sounds hesitant. "I am fairly average. I am a singer. I am also into fanfiction and star-crossed romance."
The engine begins to roar, and they start moving.
"That sounds neat." says he. "What's a fanfiction?"
"Not a clue. Let's go."
She clings onto him, as happy as a person can be. They speed up, progressively leaving the city behind.
"You know what? If you're a singer then you should sing to me. That'd be awesome."
Shadow cannot see the blush on Anna's face. "Aw. You really want me to?"
"Yep!"
.
.
"You start to look and answers find you!"
"Your inner purpose lies ahead!"
.
The camera backs farther and farther away, floating above the road, above the forests and the scattered houses. In the distance, two animals on a black motorbike are singing together as they escape from everything they've ever known. Their voices, distorted by the air and the speed they are moving at, are only an aloof hum, before they vanish into the vast horizon.
.
.
"Waking up, breaking out!"
"This is what it's like to be free..."
A.N.: This is for you, Cornwally. Happy birthday, you sick bastard. Have my love.