Nothing (One-Shot)

by Cashlin Snow

Nothing. That's all there's been since—since when? My head hurts from the sheer emptiness in it. There should be something! Someone. Any memory. But there's not. There hasn't been since, well, when I first opened my eyes in this empty, freezing, sterile prison of metal. Empty like my mind. Who am I? I don't even know if I ever did have memories at one point.

Revving up to work more on my Scourge fic I guess. Unsure where else this came from. I write sad, terrible, angsty, trauma. Has some Project Miracle vibes, doesn't it?

I just can't—there's nothing. Nothing. Nothing. That's all there's been since—since when? I don't know. It's been impossible to gauge time since the nothing began. Maybe there's always been nothing and I've been here for years. Or months. Or days.

I don't know.

Everything hurts, because my heart hurts. I lay here and I cry—silently. At least I try to be silent. Only sometimes do I succeed. The pain is just too terrible more and more often, and I can't withhold sounds of struggle inside of me when my limbs and chest feel like they're going to tear apart.

But when I cry silently, I disgust myself. When sound comes from my mouth, I hate myself. Something deep inside of me repulses the idea of feeling weak or showing weakness no matter the circumstances. Why I feel this way, where the deeply-entrenched, stubborn vein left in my chopped soul came from, I can't say. I don't know.

There's nothing. My head hurts from the sheer emptiness in it. There should be something! Someone. Any memory. But there's not. There hasn't been since, well, when I first opened my eyes in this empty, freezing, sterile prison of metal. Empty like my mind.

Who am I?

I wish I knew. Someone must know, but no one will tell me. There's just her and him. The two of them. I'm sure there must be more like them, but I've only ever seen them, and by the lack of a single memory I can remember to prove to myself that I'm alive, that I'm someone, I don't know, really, if there's anyone else besides us.

It's just me, laying here curled up inside myself, shivering but trying not to let the cold show on my fur, those two scientists, this room, and the pain.

No memories. Pain. I'm breathing, so I must be alive, even without any memories. Who's to say I ever did? I can think, and so I've been doing a lot of that, but it just agonizes me. When a person has no memories, they have no identity. And when they have no identity, they're no one. They may as well not even exist.

I don't even know if I ever did have memories at one point. No one will tell me anything about myself: if I have a name, where I came from. Maybe I came from here. This room.

I don't know. My body stings and aches and a deep, terrible throbbing pulses in my chest. It visits more often and lingers longer and I lay here and quietly cry, most of the time left to my miserable moments. Unless my body lurches from a sudden gasp of agony, and then either he or she comes rushing in to check me. But they don't really care. I'm—I'm something valuable for them, but why?

What do they pump into me from the tube? What are they monitoring? Why do I hurt so much, so constantly? Why do I have no memories?

When they come and stretch me on my back and poke me and press cold instruments on my body, I lay obediently. I can't ever move when I feel this pain. I just—I just hate myself, whoever I am, and I don't know why. I just do. Like it's right to loathe every breath I dare breathe, every second I wish my brain sore that I could remember anything. One memory. I just want one memory. But some twisted feeling of repulsion at myself for existing whispers deep in my mind that I deserve every second of this pain and misery. That this, perhaps, is even better treatment than I should receive.

Why?

Maybe I'd be able to convince myself I was someone if I had even one second of a memory. Someone out there must know.

I can't tell what hurts more: my empty skull, my physical body, or my illogical self-hate burning in my heart. All of it indiscriminately mixing together just hurts so much. I just want to curl up, and my body tries to follow through with that desire, but he and she are there still reviewing me, and I'm still laying supine, limbs cuffed to the metal tabletop.

I gave up talking some time ago. Weeks maybe. It doesn't matter. They never answer me back, so why open my mouth anymore?

Not like they see me as a thing that can think. But do I see myself like that, either? No one. No memories. Just existing. Breathing. Wishing my head would stop hurting.

In the middle of my endless musings of depression, she grasps my wrist to take my pulse and I close my eyes, head throbbing. There's a shuffle. All the pain in my body subsides, and I exhale in relief, but then I gasp and wrench automatically, only ripping my fur and skin. Of course, I can't rise, fastened as I am. And—bile rises in my throat as I desperately try to suppress panic. It's too late—too late! Not again! I seek his and her face with my eyes, but they avoid me.

With a whimper, I watch more terrible clear liquid running through the snake for me. Seconds after it enters my body, I feel ice in my chest and inhale with difficulty, rasping out a gasp that makes me even more disgusted at how pathetic I am. I can't count how many times they've injected this stuff into me. I don't even know what it does, what it's for, except that week after week, session after session, I hurt more. Longer.

It's agonizing. I don't know if I'll live much longer, but death seems so welcome. I feel like I know the desire to kill myself well. Like I've contemplated it many times, back when I may have had memories. It's an almost comforting feeling, for offing myself gives me the illusion of control, which I tingle for. Maybe I had control over something in the past. Not like I know what that is; I just want to have it again.

With that, the other familiar desire to claw his and her faces off forces me to struggle against the restraints again, against the tube, but, of course, in vain.

I gag. Nothing comes up. I reflexively tighten my muscles with what little strength I have and I pant from new pain overwhelming me. Then I relax limp and into tears—not the silent type—but neither of them care. With their starched, white lab coats and their clipboards and them talking to each other about me like I'm not there. Or not a person.

Maybe I really don't exist.

But something in my hollow mind tells me I did. So, why am I here, then? Why do I lay on this cold, unforgiving floor, or on this hard table endless second after second, with no hope, no expectation of anything? When I allow my void mind to trail this question, an empty pit in my growling, hollow stomach grows. I wonder—did I choose to come here?

But if I chose to come here, that would imply I was something, and I had been living outside this place at some point in time.

Did I have friends? Or a family? Or someone that loved me? I doubt it. If there was, even though my mind is nothing, wouldn't I have a fragment of a feeling about it?

I really don't know. All I can do is think and guess and speculate. And wish for water.

She and he open my shackles. He picks me up and places me on the hard floor. I crumple. Then they leave and I'm alone. The pain in my body slowly subsides, but I don't recover much strength.

Interminable time passes. The room remains the same. The lights burn down on me never ceasing, never altering even a flicker. I don't know if it's been hours or days; just that my stomach is so tight from hunger, it feels like it will cave in. I lay on my side against the farthest wall, facing it, pressing my hand to my screaming middle, eyes shut tight.

If I think about how half-starved I am, I'll start crying, and I don't want that. So like the uncountable times prior when I was this desperately hungry, I force my mind to consider other things. Random things. I do that now.

These white gloves. I always wear them. The only time I remove them, for I must, is when I'm washed. He and she don't ask about them. It's the same for my shoes: black and green and clipped with a snap of metal. Maybe that means I had come from somewhere that is not this room. Somewhere that is outside. Because—because these things I wear couldn't have come from in here. Only from out.

My head hurts so much. I catch my breath and exhale slowly, almost worried my ribs will shatter. How long has it been since I was allowed to clean myself? I think of it then, because he enters and I hear him place cold, hard things on a table he also brought in. I lay unmoving, still facing the wall, and wait passively. As expected, he approaches, pulling me up from the ground, placing me sitting on the metal table he brought.

It's always he who handles this task. I could do it, but they never asked me to. I have no idea why, but resisting them the first time did me no good. They just sedated me. So I just sit, eyes cast down, letting the scientist commence his task. As he scrubs at my blue fur, he says nothing. He never does. I feel the cold water and shiver, but try to ignore the discomfort.

Something about this entire bathing process feels humiliating, but I also ignore that heat in my chest. It's not that he's rough or cursory, and it's not that he lets on if he detests this task. It's just that I'm—well, I'm not a little child. I'm not sure, though, if I'm fully grown. But, I'm certainly old enough to clean myself, and I feel like I know how to do it.

So why?

Wait. There's no point questioning him.

He's lifting my other arm and scrubbing it now, with a soapy cloth. Then my tight, empty stomach and chest and then my face.

I shut my eyes and feel something in my mind that I can't access, but that fills my body with a warm, aching desire. It just worsens when he begins to run the cloth through my quills, slowly squeezing to saturate them with shampoo. And he continues this, rinsing and rinsing and I can't resist feeling into it.

It's just an illusion of tender care, but I feel that I've rarely ever had any of it and I greedily want it.

Then he's before me, pulling my gloves off. I'm irritated, but only watch him place them next to me. He claims one hand, then my other one, rubbing the cloth to clean my fingers. With that finished, he pulls my shoes off. As with every time, I fight an urge in myself to lash out protectively for my shoes. I don't know why. They're just shoes and I always get them back after this.

He goes about pressing the cloth on my feet, between my toes, very diligently. What does a scientist think, having to wash a hedgehog? Isn't it belittling? And, why is it, that every time I actually stare at my blue fur, I feel that the color is wrong? I—I hate it.

Not like I can remember being any other way, and my head starts to hurt again.

He finishes and lets me handle sliding off the table to the cold floor. My legs wobble from weakness, but I hope he doesn't notice. As expected, he hands me a towel to allow me to dry myself off. Why insist on washing me but not drying me, too? Being here is confusing and frustrating, but I put effort into my task for the sheer sake of avoiding feeling colder than I must.

And with that, he plucks the damp towel from me, takes the other items, and slides away through the door. Silence. Again, I'm alone.

I slowly retrieve my shoes and gloves to put them on again. The task exhausts me. Almost gladly, I let my body fall, leaning against the farthest corner. Nothing to do, but I don't want to sleep. My head hurts. No. My heart hurts more. There must be more to me than existing in this room! But if I had ever lived outside of here, did that mean I was forced here against my will? If so, why is there no one that's tried to get me out of this prison?

This thinking wearies me after some time, so I void thought and stare off at nothing for a bit. But questions return to plague me.

I know the sky's blue and I know what blue is—and not because of the nasty color of my fur. And grass being green. Or the sun being yellow. I know what wind feels like. A bed. Running and running just to do it, to burn through energy and feel contented after.

Surely, I've come from outside! So, what am I doing here as a lab rat to him and her? What are they taking from and also injecting into my body?

Just then, they both return with a sparkling purple rock no larger than a small marble. It's been a while since I've seen it, and I automatically recoil, legs to my chest. Against my desire from somewhere to retain my dignity, I tremble, pressing my back harder against the wall.

I know I must have some kind of ability they fear, for there's a set of silver metal bracelets on my wrists. I can't remove them. When they approach with the sparkling purple gem, the bracelets always glow and I feel so hopelessly weak. Just like now.

It takes me almost everything I have, what with my aching, empty stomach, to keep sitting upright. So what that there's no reason to retain my dignity. It's either all I have left or the only thing I've ever had, and I don't intend to lose it before two white coats.

But still—I audibly suck in breath and exhale a little with a gasp. He grabs me. I stumble as he pulls me away from the wall and sits me down near the middle of the empty room, he positioned behind me, keeping my arms clamped at my back. She doesn't hesitate. Her eyes are nothing but professional and stony as she presses the rock right against the two massive scars marring the peach fur of my belly.

A hateful heat spreads a good deal through my torso and I fight a new rising panic. This is so much worse than the dreaded tube! I'm already so weak but I can feel the stone sucking out whatever little pathetic bits of energy from me that I still have. Why do they do this to me? Do they use my energy for something? The rock glows for some seconds after she removes it from my trembling body.

I'm crying; again, not the silent way. They took something more from me. I have no clue what it is, but I know it's an essential part of me; the reason I'm here. I wretch from nausea induced by a migraine and stumble to my knees, then fall to my side and lay still, not making it to the wall.

There's some sounds from he and she, then the door shuts and I'm alone yet again in this miserable isolation. Off and on, I must sleep, for I wake over and over with spots of white in my eyes.

At some period after, they bring me water, but I can't drink it. I'll just throw it up. In response, she resorts to feeding me the usual nutrients and the water through a tube.

And then what feels like a long period of time surrounds me in the cold, head-splitting silence and I cry pathetically until I have no more tears left. Then I just hate them and myself for being filled with nothing. I am nothing.

Absently, I run my hand down my scars and wonder how I received them; if I was, in fact, brought into existence here. It cannot be true.

I must have earned them somewhere outside.

The headache clings to my brain persistently for some time, but it eventually wanes away. I just lay for hours, occasionally turning. Then, something starts to rumble. Just a little, but then it builds and builds until the entire little box I exist in is shaking violently. There's nothing I can do, so I roll against the far wall and sit up a bit, pressing my frame to the wall to steady my labored breathing.

Fear is an emotion I know well, but unlike how I'm freely expressing it now, I feel like I always used to suppress it. Fear wasn't a thing I was supposed to show. Why? Why?

As a new headache starts to build, a loud sound and scraping metal somewhere outside of my room fills me with terror. Some mixture of footsteps and something heavy is sounding closer and closer.

There's a screech of metal near that makes me flatten my ears almost in pain. I half curl up, arms up before me to shield my face, as a mighty blast sends metal shredding in the air and a billow of dark gray smoke belching everywhere. Some metal-sounding creature steps forward and stops.

Silence at first. Again trembling, I slowly lower my arms. First, the smoke outlines several people in dark silhouettes. Then I can make out splotches of color and then pieces of the invaders clear through the dissipating smoke.

There's a golden-toned fox sitting high in some sort of blue and yellow machine standing on a set of massive legs. No doubt the machine that had blasted into my prison. A red male with a scowl stands next to the blue machine. There's some pink-colored female clutching a massive hammer, and then, on the other side of the machine, a blue hedgehog.

The second I lay eyes on him and fasten my gaze on his staring green eyes, my entire frame contorts tightly in itself, falling back, away, hand raising automatically in defense of myself against him. I heave in agony of a swelling migraine and sink down on my side, digging my hands into my skull. All I know is pain, and not just from the headache this time.

The blue hedgehog leans down to grasp my wrist, and I hear him asking me a question with that voice he possesses that I now remember very well, "Scourge? Are you okay?"

My brain was empty and I was nothing, but now a million memories are cramming into that small space all at the same time and I can't find a second to organize anything. I can feel him tugging me, and I resist.

The pain is horrendous. I don't want to see him! But, not understanding why I'm resisting, he wrenches me to my feet, and I fall against him. The shock from he and his friends just presses on me heavier. Fake sympathy. Fake words of concern. Why are they even here? How did they know where I'd been taken? Why did they even bother to retrieve scum like me?

All of this had started with a lie. Just like my life. How ironically poetic. Being driven to the edge of desperation, almost to losing my mind, I'd just made myself emotionally vulnerable and mentally gullible. Didn't anyone care about me, see me for something other than a petty Sonic clone?

Yes. He and she had claimed so. The two of them had promised me that I was needed for important research they were embarking on, and they valued me as a unique person. I'd believed them, out of a desire to be my own person. Useless. They'd completely lied to me. For my idiocy, I deserved to be here.

I slip, but Sonic grips me firmer. I feel his friends eyeing my blue fur, but trying not to do so. Yes. He and she had tossed me in this little room and had wasted no time in sucking chaos energy out of me with their strange little purple stone. I guessed that's what caused me to forget my entire life. Stealing my life energy was certainly the reason I could barely function any more.

Maybe I wanted that, for the pain of my memories—my insecurities, self-loathing, lost identity, and so much more—was truly unbearable now that I couldn't find any energy to stand on my own legs.

Rather unceremoniously, Sonic swings me up into his arms and that's how they take me out.

The yellow star blazes on us. A soft wind blows. I hear birds, the sound of grass crunching, and then feel the wind sifting through my fur as Sonic and his friends begin to run.

Tears streak from my face. I'd believed the two scientists because I'd wanted to forget myself—Sonic—that my entire life was nothing but a summed up one-dimensional joke. To be nothing meant at least I wasn't aware I was just a Sonic copy. Expendable.

They'd told me just what I'd wanted to hear: I was unique. I'd believed them. But, they'd then treated me just like that: just a piece of trash. What would killing me have been in the multiverse of thousands of Sonics? Just one drop in the pool. Just one pathetic thug who'd lost the only woman he thought loved him; a greedy fool who'd been tossed aside by those who'd been companions, even if bitterly cruel ones.

What was the point? I'd almost killed myself, but he and she had caught me right at that vulnerable moment and convinced me not to. I'd chosen to go with them. Then I'd forgotten everything and had so desperately wanted to remember. Little did I know the emptiness had been a gift.

And now, with Sonic placing me in the grass and all four of them expectantly, almost curiously standing before me, I lay back and rolled over to bury my face away from them. More stinging tears I tried to suppress bottled up and shot through my body with new aching. This pain was so far worse than that initial shock of when I'd learned I was just one of the Sonics in the crowd. That day, my identity had been ripped from me. The aching loneliness of an empty brain was nothing compared to the burning self-loathing and worthlessness of remembering all of it.

I had nothing. No parents, friends, possessions. My jacket and shades were gone. I didn't care. What were they when I had no purpose to exist?

And now I was blue again, too. He and she had sucked far more than enough chaos energy out of me to have destroyed whatever I'd gained from the Master Emerald.

Why did I have to be me? Worthless. The evil twin. Miserable, with no one that sincerely saw me as my own person.

As Sonic rolls me onto my back and curiously examines the bracelets on my wrists, I long to return to my prison and forget everything, as I'd longed to remember who I was. Looking just like him, sharing any sort of personality traits by virtue of just being a copy, fills me with hopeless agony. If I can, I'll escape their rescue and return of my own accord to the prison of the small metal room. There I went willingly in the first place, and there I'll return; for at least there I'll remember nothing and being nothing is better than being a mere copy of someone else.