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THE DAY AFTER

9. Don't answer the phone.

NOTE:  The characters of Miranda, Tyler and Kinoa are the property of Firechidna.  Used with permission.

[TAILS, David Macintyre]

There should have been other things on my mind on the way home and into my room. My homework, school, girls, porno, anything.

But no. All I could think about was what happened in that room. Or more accurately, what got me into that room. And him.

Stress.

Stress gets to Sonic very, very easily. Over the time I've known him, his methods of stress relief have grown and changed as he has. Started with the standard squeezy ball, moved on to punching bag, then to occasionally punching people. A life of heroism tends to take its toll on your personal life, especially when it comes to getting turned down by girls who would otherwise go out with you, because they don't want to be publicity stunts. I'd know.

So then it happened. Some friend of his sold him drugs.

The day I saw him buy that shit–the moment they entered his hand–if you listened really, really close, you could just hear the lid of Hell popping off.

Never let a person like Sonic near drugs. He got addicted. I knew he would, the retard. I warned him.

Sorry, I'm ranting.

He started trying different kinds. It was almost funny. Trying to find 'his' kind. The kind that most made him feel better.

Then he got ME on it. Of course. I'm just a fucking sheep, did I have a choice? I follow him anywhere.

So that's what was. I ended up as a regular. Ruined my life, took most of my money.

I won't even explain the general attitude I got from my family when I appeared on their doorstep after Sonic's trial. I dreaded going back just as much as they reluctantly allowed me back in. But where else could I have gone?

I could tell you later, but I won't.

Right now I've got to answer the phone.

I get up from my chair and pick up the cordless phone from the hallway outside my room.

I'm still dressed in my tux–the fabric breathes in the drafty, yellow-carpeted hallway. I grip the opening in the jacket above my stomach.

"He…hello?"

"Tails?"

It's Amy.

"Oh… Hi, Amy. What do you want?"

"Look, this is–Oh my god, hold on."

This doesn't sound good.

I hear some talking in the background. It seems Amy is trying to fend off a visitor. A

minute later, the creaky door shuts, and she picks up the phone again.

"Tails?"

"Yeah."

"Where the hell have you been? I left you a message."

I've been home maybe half an hour. I checked the answering machine. Nothing.

"Funeral, then… went to get some food, then I came home. I think my parents deleted it." I choked in time to stop myself from saying that I visited Sonic. Even the thought of her scared recoil hurts me now.

I hear her murmur an f-word under her breath. "Look, how fast can you get here?"

Oh, shit… here comes trouble.

"And why should I go over there at this hour?"

"Answer the goddamn question, Miles."

Oops. She called me Miles. This is serious.

"On foot about two hours…"

Surprisingly she doesn't ask how long by air. Just goes straight to

"Any choices?"

I tell her the alternative, glancing around to make sure nobody's listening. She isn't particularly enthusiastic about it, but it will work. She breathes heavily, pausing at a slight crackling sound.

"What was that?"

"Probably just your breath on the receiver. Go on."

"Look, I need you here as soon as possible… this is–oh shit, hold on again." She goes and checks something else, whatever it is.

At that very moment, my 7-year-old little sister, Miranda, strolls obliviously through the door, probably looking for one of her dolls.

She stops suddenly and looks up at me, a blank look on her childish face. She points accusingly and speaks in her innocent infant's tone.

"You're talkin' to Amy again, huh?"

Oh, fuck, not now, Miranda.

"Miranda, go away."

"Yes you are."

I resist the urge to swear at her.

"And so what if I am?"

"Mommy says you can't talk to her, cuz she's a lezbin. And she's dangerous."

"Well, mommy is a homophobic, and doesn't have any faith in my survival skills."

"I'm telling."

God…

"Fine, you do that."

With that, she finally leaves me in peace, exiting the room with a faint cry of "Mommyyyy…."

Fuck. Now my parents are going to know. I'm in shit if I try to sneak out.

Amy picks up the phone again. And I don't feel like fucking risking my skin right now, so I answer in what I hope is a fair and dignified manner.

"And just why should I help you?"

There is a slight pause.

"What?!"

"I went to you when my cousin got killed, and you just blew me off. And it's seven effing thirty, you want me to go traipsing into the city this time of evening?"

She sighs. She sounds exasperated.

"Look, I don't have time for your fucking pity games, okay?! If you're going to act like a little baby, I'll handle this myself, but if you DO get off your ass and come help, bring a weapon."

"Amy--!"

With that, she slams the phone down.

Bring a weapon? This sounds serious. I'd better do something.

Unfortunately, now I know where that crackling sound came from. Shortly after Amy, there is another sound of a phone being hooked up.

My parents were listening.

"Miles!"

My dad's voice calls up the stairs. I'll bet he was sitting his pompous ass on the couch in

that bathrobe of his, listening to every word.

"What?!"

"Was that Amy Rose?"

"So what if it was?"

"We don't want you associating with that girl, Miles!"

Too fucking bad. I don't even listen. I just run back into my room and search for something, anything I could call a weapon. I don't have any (finished) firearms, but the wooden bat that I've barely touched since I started high school will do.

"Miles, what are you doing? Listen to me!"

"Amy needs help," I say flatly, taking the bat and trying to find something I can carry it in. My dad's face is like a tomato as he blocks the door. My eyes scan the room for an exit. I'm good at this.

"God damn it, Miles, you are NOT going out into the city by yourself at night to see

some drug addict lesbian girl!"

My eyes fall on the window.

"She's NOT on drugs!"

I go over to it, trying to look like I want air.

"How do you know that?!"

I hoist one knee on the sill and fully open it, prepping my muscles for the fall.

"Because I'm not a fucking homophobe!"

Even if he had torn down my shelf with the roar of anger that follows, it wouldn't have mattered. My pained tails are already spinning and cushioning the fall from the second floor window.

Dad's voice roars down at me from the window.

"HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND?!"

Probably.

From there I just follow my instincts. I run.

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