The gingerbread, they had marched along the cookie pan, with their gingerbread pitchforks, marching down the aisle, ready to defeat the beast that was inside him.
Wasn't that funny, he said to himself. I'm a beast. Me, a hedgehog of all people. Hedgehogs weren't beasts. They were cuddly creatures despite their quills, sniffling and eating mealworms and anointing off anything that smelled strangely. But he wasn't like that. And he wasn't like this.
His gingerbreads had crumbled apart coming out of the pan. They were amputees, their arms and legs removed due to the cancer, the diabetes that spread through their soul. He felt sorry for them. There was only one that came out just right, and he decided to make him a doctor or lawyer. Make him a doctor, just to be safe, he said. Lawyers caused too much trouble.
He even aligned the amputees along their cots, the house that was now a hospital, treating the pained and sojourned gingerbread men that lied in the beds, groaning, moaning and bleeding of their icing. Sonic was beginning to think his humor was a bit morbid, but it was around night that he made these gingerbread men, and he always thought darker when the moon's small cut in the sky, bleeding with the stars cascading across. The razor blade of the moon, it bled too much, and it became full, a pale face staring at him back, his gloves hiding the mortality his skin was shedding, as his teeth had grown into blades, his arms were elastic, and his quills were dark, like the stars shadowed by the clouds on the foggy night of Christmas Eve…
Santa couldn't come and ask him for help. He was a monster! His eyes were slit, his body and mind had no shedding memories of what he used to be. He looked at all the gingerbread men who were sleeping in their hospital beds, ready to be laced with the demon's tongue, the men having their entire bodies torn apart by his scissoring teeth, his arms had grown around the cupboards, dumping sugar and flour into his gaping hole, the monster smearing chocolate all over the floor, tongue licking it apart with the sudden cravings of sweets, on this bladed, lacerated moonlit night.
The stars were beginning to fade away in his thinking. There was no light, and his claws had grown so long, so odious in their design, heinous! He had begun to cut across his skin, but no blood had come rushing out. Instead, simply that part of his body had disappeared from his grasp. Like the gingerbread men that had been devoured, he was being devoured by the werehog, and soon, the nails had come encroaching on his face, his arms, his legs, until the beast had slashed him apart, his body cut into a void existence, and the werehog had wished to be no longer alive, anymore.
—
Miles stepped into the kitchen, seeing the large mess, and the container of pills that were supposed to be one pill short of what was inside, the pill that inhibited the behaviour, the unconscious, beastly mind to lash out.
A chest of a gingerbread men's body, with its heart torn out, still remained on the counter.
Miles spilled the bottle of Prozac on the floor, in remembrance of him. They were his ashes, his reason why he was taken away from himself.