A/N: Yeah I know, sorry for all the depressing ones I've been making. Guess it's getting to be that part of the month where my thoughts are dark, like I'm a phasing moon during December. Sheesh.

This one at least has a bit of a good resolution in the end.

He drank some eggnog, to soothe out his mind.

And yet another, and another.

He had voraciously ate them, drank them, the holiday drink that he so loved, he wasn't sure if his feet could shuffle underneath him anymore, as the drink had dribbled his chin, like a hungry babe.

His children would see them. All like this. Jolly, with the contamination of alcohol in his brain. Taint. Bloodied muscle. He tried to write out his letters, containing his hoarse stomach that wanted to puke his lovelies.

Dear Julia…

Was that her name?

Juvila, like juvenile? Like the sound was coming from a tulip's lips? He couldn't remember any of his children's names. They were forgotten relics. He wasn't even sure of what they were doing now. She wanted to be an artist, he thought. He wanted to be a writer. Such creative types in his family. He could write letters when he was insane, when he was stabbed by alcohol in his brain, and in inebriation, he wrote,

I do not know who you are, but if I do, I cannot be more cursed in this family. This blood of the creative's, their silver blood, I cannot have it. It poisons me to even think of being creative. I could draw bloody roses, daggers through chests, ravens that seep of depression, but no, I cannot be creative. It is deadly. It is arsenic. I cannot live this way. Not any longer.

Stamp it. Send to whoever cared to read it. He didn't care.

The echidna rolled over in his bed. He wondered if he was like Scrooge. Never caring about his relatives, his fellow friends during Christmas. He was a humbug, as they called them. A moldy dirty bug who hated everything. And he wrapped himself around in his blanket, as if he was a mummified corpse, and fell asleep.

His friend then woke him up, his blue hedgehog friend, who came into the house without knocking. Very rude, he thought.

"Do you want to open presents or not? Do you not want to actually enjoy something in your life?"

He coughed and hacked as he unwrapped himself, a present under the Christmas tree. He had unfurled like a new rose during the winter, prepared to die.

"Why are you here?"

"How about you can call me the Ghost of Christmas Past, Present, and Future? Don't be such a Scrooge. I know what you need. You need to lay off the drinks and come and sit with me. We're going to watch a Christmas special. I'm going to take you to your past, to your present, and your future."

He laughed. He didn't believe him.

"Here's your past." He held it up. A bottle of Miller Lite.

"Did you think this would really make you creative, Knuckles? Getting drunk? The Sylvia Plath effect, the Charles Bukowski effect, it doesn't work. It only seemed to work because these people had something to write about. You have something to write about. There was always something in your heart."

"There never was, Sonic," he plainly stated. "The alcohol makes me write. It always made me brilliant. Without it, I'm…"

"Your present, right now." He unraveled the blinds, enfolding the echidna in light. He felt he was blind, too blind to see all the drinks he had around his bed. The wine, the rum and Cokes, the eggnog, the vodka chased down with a sweet lemonade…he hadn't cleaned up the room in years, the springs poking through his bed, the boards and sacks of liquor all around his dresser, his closet.

"Do you like this Knuckles? Do you really like what you're seeing here?"

"What are you getting at…I don't need you telling me what to do!"

"And here's your future!"

And when he blinked, Sonic was gone.

And so were the letters he wrote to his family. So were their pictures, and the works he created when he claimed the drink had made him so brilliant.

Nothing was left. Not even the house he was standing in, as the snow had froze him, pierced through him, and he said, "Okay. Fine. Take me to the nearest AA Sonic. I'll get help. Show me the way, your majesty."

His hand tightened around his. Although the grip was like steel, he could sense some warmth in it. And he could sense the tears in Sonic's face, as they walked, without boots or coats, to the city ahead of them, to a rehab facility.

"Do you still love me?"

"Huh?"

"I said, do you still love me?"

He looked away.

"Maybe. Just get help. That's all I'm asking for you to do. And then we can spend a real nice Christmas together next year. I promise."

And he was soon cold no longer, as the hand slipped away, in the rooms that were built with velvet and detox drugs.