Into the Sea
Warning: Suicide
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
"To one's enemies: "I hate myself more than you ever could."
― Alain de Botton
Some days he wanted to take a knife and just begin to cut, to stain his emerald fur red and cut and cut and cut until he couldn't recognize himself anymore. Cut until he could look into a mirror and not wonder when his eyes had started to look so dead. Had they ever been alive? It had been so long he couldn't remember. Perhaps when he was a child, but he doubted it. He wanted to cut until he could smile and not wonder why it looked so unnatural, to cut until it was genuine and not a corpse-like rictus that he had to put psychical effort into creating.
It isn't possible to cut out hate, but that didn't mean he hadn't tried.
You couldn't fuck away hate, but that didn't mean he hadn't tried.
You couldn't ignore hate by hiding it away behind a mask of arrogance and bravado, but that didn't mean he hadn't tried.
It was always there, pulsing in the back of your head, worthless, worthless, worthless.
The Suppression Squad had always thought that he hated Sonic because the blue speedster constantly got in the way and ruined whatever they had been planning. And that was part of it, but the real reason he hated Sonic was the fact that, no matter how much he denied it, they were the same person. Sonic was everything he could have been, and had everything he didn't.
Sonic had loving parents that did their best to raise him; he had a mom and a dad.
Scourge had a father; one who wouldn't even acknowledge his existence, and who had made sure that Scourge knew how truly worthless he was.
Sonic had friends that would stick by him through anything.
Scourge had acquaintances that would stab him in the back the moment he let his guard down.
Sonic had a purpose in life, a goal to strive towards.
Scourge simply existed, a waste of both air and food.
If Sonic was a song he would have sounded beautiful and harmonic.
If Scourge was a song he would have sounded discordant, full of sour notes and feedback.
Sonic seemed to know what he was doing. He seemed to know the answers, the facts. He knew who he was, knew why he was alive.
Scourge knew nothing. He didn't know why he was alive, he didn't know what he was doing, and he didn't know who he was.
He knew nothing.
Well, perhaps that wasn't quite true.
He knew three things:
It was snowing in Moebius.
He hadn't slept in three days.
He was going to kill himself.
He had decided that he was going to kill himself the day that Fiona left him. She had been the only person that seemed to value him in the slightest and her parting words 'You're worthless' had hit him like a psychical blow.
She knew he was worthless, just as his father had known, and just as everyone else had known. Scourge was worthless.
Worthless, worthless, worthless.
He could hear them all in his head, chanting that damning, truthful word.
When she had gone he had taken his pistol and walked to the bathroom. He had stared into the dead eyes reflected back at him from the mirror and pressed the barrel against his temple. But he couldn't pull the trigger. He was too worthless to even go out with dignity. And so he had turned to Synth.
Synth was the newest drug to hit the streets of Moebius. It was synthesized from an ungodly combination of chemicals (hence the name) and was highly addictive. Those who became addicted to it had a life expectancy of roughly two weeks.
Scourge had been using it for a week and a half. His fur had begun to fall out; he had lost an alarming amount of weight, and he had been coughing up blood since the previous week. He was teetering on the edge of an overdose, feeling incredibly warm despite the fact he was sitting in a snow bank with only his thin leather jacket as protection from the elements. He had lost all feeling in his legs, but he didn't care. He just watched the snowflakes falling around him. They never landed on him, it was as if nature herself was saying that he wasn't worth her snowflakes, but it didn't bother him. The feeling of intense well-being that precluded a Synth overdose kept him from caring about much of anything.
Scourge turned the inhaler over and over in his hand, thinking. He knew that, as it was, he had a very good chance of falling asleep and not waking up. But a 'very good chance' wasn't enough. He wanted to be one hundred percent sure; after all it would be the universe's cruel, cruel joke if he couldn't even kill himself correctly.
The harsh, acrid smoke invaded his lungs, burning his throat and making his chest ache. He held it in for as long as he could and then breathed it out. The empty inhaler joined the others piling up next to him and he leaned back in the snow, letting the Synth do its work.
The pale winter sky was slowly eaten away as darkness began to creep in from the corners of his vision. He knew where the darkness was heading and he was well aware there was no stopping it now. The blackness would continue to creep and consume his eyes at a steady and inexorable pace and then he would be gone forever. The very idea made him happier than he had been for some time. A quote from some childhood moment that had long been lost in the annals of memory floated to the forefront of his mind.
"No man ever threw away life while it was worth keeping."
Worthless.
The darkness became absolute.
A/N: So I had the worst case of writers block and when my muse finally bothered to come back it was all angsty. This was my first angst fic so I hope it was alright.
The final quote was from David Humes Essays on Suicide and the Immortality of the Soul