Title: Voices
Anime: Sonic X
Pairing: Sonadow
Chapter 9

The message read HELLO. Sonic lay there staring at it. It said HELLO. He was too startled and shocked by what he found himself in to get up. He was actually stuck in the horrid smelling things that had come from him last night, as though he had collapsed in it.

The ceiling was torn up.

Hello was written on the ceiling.

There were colors—destroyed crayons—and shavings of them everywhere. Whoever it was used the crayons—his innocent joy—to write the message.

Hello was written on the ceiling.

Scary people were drawn stabbing others, and dying, themselves. His fur felt like he had wet on his entire body, somehow.

Hello was written on the ceiling.

He needed to clean up. He could shower forever, if he had the option. He was too afraid to move, though. Who left this message?

Hello.

He finally started to use any strength he could muster to pull himself out of the disgusting bed. This place was no sanctuary. It was a prison. He didn't want to be here. He quickly got out of the room and ran to the bathroom. He trembled, and shivered, and then all of a sudden, wretched. Colors, feathers, lint, wax and other disturbing indigestible things came out of him onto the floor, as well as the ice cream and grilled cheese from yesterday's fun evening. Seeing the new mess made more come out of him. He even saw brown and yellow, and red. These were not from crayons, though. He was horrified. He pleaded to whoever would listen… please don't let any of this be what I think it is…

Sonic made it into the shower and turned it on right away. It was freezing cold but he didn't notice it. He couldn't feel it. He poured shampoo straight onto his head and scrubbed hard on every part of his body. He could barely feel it. He turned the water up as hot as it would go. It would have made any normal Mobian cry out in shock from the sudden burning sensation, but Sonic couldn't feel it. He scrubbed harder until he was clawing his skull, and then his arms. Blood mixed with the unmentionable disgust that wash down the drain. The cuts grew larger until they were gashes. Even the gashes had gashes. He dug into muscles, and may have even scraped bone. In his delirium, he truly couldn't feel a thing of it. Why? Why couldn't he feel any of this?

He lost it even more. He screamed. He was in a panic and was filled with anger. Why couldn't he feel it?

Hello was written on the ceiling.

He banged his head against the slick shower walls, trying to feel anything.

Hello was written on the ceiling.

He nearly broke his hand punching the wall. He kicked and thrashed in the small spaces, scraping himself on anything sharp. If there had been a razor in there—which there wasn't because he had no need to shave, and no other males did, either—he would have shaved his head in his current mental state. He would have peeled his eyes/b.

Hello. Was written. On the ceiling.

He collapsed as a wave of fatigue washed over him. The shower head kept battering his new and old wounds with water, washing the blood away until the water ran cold. He didn't wake up for hours, but at least he hurt himself enough so that he would stay down this time and sleep for real. It wouldn't be enough, though. It never was.