The snowman, how soft, how white his flesh was!
It sparkled, it glowed! The snowman was not alive, he was a dead man, like you, like me, we all were dead, a long time ago. Reincarnated constantly, through the many eras of time that are birthed and deadened.
Tails packed the snow in, the globby form of the little white man beginning to form like a fetus in the winter's womb, the snow drifting his scarf, Sonic wondering when his little child will come inside, how cold, how treacherous this winter was!
The snowman reached out to him with his mitten hands, like his. He was his own child. He could imagine the icy being depending on him, reaching to be picked up, yes, a father, and he had created this small snowchild, that Tails wasn't sure at all if it could come inside. It was snow. It could not come inside. It was ice. Water. The sun would melt his skin as the sun had melt Icarus' wings.
Sonic had ushered him in. He said the sun would rise again. And when the sun rose, they could not speak or usher a word. The sun was the almighty wrathful god who would melt everything in its sight.
The sun tempered out from the clouds, the silver lining in the grayblue clouds, and Tails had watched his magnificent creation, the snow child that had stared at him with coalescent azurite blue eyes…The snow child had held, gripped her dress, and she whined, cried as the sun soon swallowed her entirely, the organs melting, the mitten hands becoming amorphous, her mouth so red, so bloody with the color of screams…her hat was soon the only thing remaining of the dutiful innocent snow child, Tails picking up her body as the sun had rose, up, up, up! And he cried, his feelings were down, down, down.
The sun wanted to burn him into a crisp, the blue hedgehog hiding behind the blinds, wishing this winter would be over. His hands had scraped over the paint chips of his wall, falling on the floor, like colorful snowflakes. He couldn't watch the death of his own snow child, the being with two tails, the child was only eight years old, and the tears, they fell down, down, down, like rain, as it soon erupted from the sky, as fireworks blasted off with sparks and flashes of fiery lightning.
Time to get out the beer. One drink. Two. Three. Four. That was enough. No, a little more. Five. Six. Seven. No, maybe more. Eight…Nine…A little more…
His lids had shut off the sun entirely, as each glass became empty, the rose inside his heart, the scars that bled, wilting…
Ten…Eleven…Twelve…
He was only eight.
The snow child of his was only an hour old.
To have a babe wrapped in snow cloth, coming from you, then wrenched away from the godless heretic sun!
Thirteen. His blood had stopped pulsing.
His back turned against the sun. It soon whittled away, the bloom of the chrysanthum becoming as dead and choked as he was.