His teeth had bled through the white chocolate, the dark chocolate casing, the peppermint candy pieces sprinkled on top. Amy had always made the best peppermint bark he thought, and he felt safe by her (for once, when she wasn't so crazy about her not-so-proclaimed boyfriend, Sonic), as the fire had crackled and growled by him, the house feeling so warm, the snow falling in scattered pieces of glass as God had taken His mighty hands and smashed a paperweight on heaven's floor.
She had made more, blending the dark chocolate with the white, the candy canes being smashed by her hammer, much like the paperweight, much like she herself was God.
The drone of the winter had sounded on. He lied on the couch, hoping something on TV would entice him, the claymation Christmas specials never on when he wanted to see them. He sighed, chocolate smeared on his face, and he sighed, groaning as deeply as the winter had.
The snow continued to drop, the glass flakes shattering once more on the floor, the sparks of shards ready to embed in his feet…
He counted the days till Christmas. It seemed too long. Every other day, even as he enjoyed the warmth, it was sickening sweet, to listen to the lyres of the bells, the TV, the fire, he wondered if he wouldn't develop a sickness in his stomach for it long.
Things seemed burnt out and decayed in winter. Too much fire to make people warm. Too many things dying of their leaves, their green vitality, he thought winter had devoured all the life in the world, all down in its white gullet, and he had brushed his hands swiftly, clasping them, praying to a god that had never believed in him, the child that was so small, so fragile, He often brushed him away, to hear instead, the voice of those who were fallen.
But even He couldn't listen to Satan's words.
The fox had shut off the TV. He counted how many fingers he had, to make sure he wasn't dreaming that he was exactly normal, not malfunctioned, like so many other people in his life.
Shadow was a malfunction, he thought. So was Amy. And Knuckles. They all were sickened, atrophied with greed and pride.
Sonic, even his eyes were no longer green. They were gray. Colorblind.
He had watched Amy pass the presents to him, the peppermint bark still halfway melting in his mouth. She had held the gifts that she thought were appropriate for Miles, the sanitizers and the Bibles and the watches that were inserted with other watches that stared at him with his hourly eyes.
Just like Santa had wished to bring him.
It didn't make much sense that he was dead now.
He knew of everything that went on in his mind. And he decided to spoil it, make it grow it longer, blacker, with thick tendrils of insanity.
He knew his eyes would soon turn gray too.
The peppermint bark melted, and he didn't appreciate the taste. He swallowed it bitterly, as he opened his insensible gifts.