My Crimson Crayon

Chapter Two

"Hi Sonic!"

Eh boy. Not her. "Hi Amy."

The young girl giggled into the telephone. "Say, guess what?"

He sighed, making the best attempt he could to sound remotely interested. "What, Ames?"

"I got two tickets to that new movie!"

"Great! You get to see it twice!"

Amy pursed her lips and glared at the phone with disgust. It was times like these when she wondered why she liked Sonic so much. "Very funny."

"I thought so."

She took a breath, refusing to let his moping bring down her good mood. "So um, anyway, I was thinking that if you're not busy tonight, you want to come with me?"

A movie. Hmm, could be interesting. He gets to watch and see how much someone else's life sucks. A change of pace, if nothing else. "…Alright. When does it start?"

"It starts at 7:20. Should I pick you up?"

A sudden jolt ran through the cobalt hedgehog as he realized what a state of disarray his apartment was in. He couldn't let Amy see this! What would she think? "No, I'll pick you up, around seven."

Amy grinned. What a gentleman he was… "Okay, terrific! See you then!!"

As the dial tone echoed through Sonic's bedroom, he had to ask himself why he cared for Amy's opinion. He scoffed. Knowing her, she'd think it was the new design craze and tell all her friends about it. A nice girl, Sonic thought, walking over to his closet for something to wear, but a total airhead.

He had to be choosy of his outfit. Granted, it being November, it was starting to get chilly, though his fur kept him warm. Still, a nice sweater made him look very attractive; plus it covered his 'artwork'.

Sonic stopped and stared at his reflection in the mirror on his dresser, the ebony sweater in his hands. He released the garment from his clutch and let it fall to the floor, disregarding the soft plump at his feet.

Why did he suddenly care about covering the marks? It didn't bother him a few days ago… of course, he didn't have to go out into public a few days ago.  On one hand, he shouldn't care what anyone thought. On the other hand, he was still a role model to the entire nation… what would they think if they saw the deep scratches in his arm? How would they react to the blood-encrusted razors on the floor near his bed? The people would be disgusted; they would shun him for trying to release a little stress.

It was a horrible cycle. He had to please the people that made him miserable. If he didn't he would lose their respect and their love, however media-fabricated it had been, and it was this respect that sustained him still.

It was so confusing to the teen… but he understood one thing: no one should know.

He put on the sweater.