Legal Stuff: Sonic the Hedgehog and Amy Rose and Nack the Weasel belong to SEGA. Not me. Just wanted to clear that up. Again. Does anybody really read the legalities? I mean, really? If you're reading this, you've read too far into the disclaimer. Shame on you. You should be reading the story right now. Go on, go ahead. Really. Well, I appreciate your stamina. ;)




AUTHOR'S NOTE:

"Guilt" is a continuation of my last Sonic fic, "Bleed." There, I said it. Me -- the guy who vowed that he'd never write a proper sequel to anything that he wrote. "Sequels are cheapening," said I. Well, I couldn't resist. "Bleed" all but screamed to me for a continuation in some form, so here it it -- written in Sonic's POV this time. Once again, this story is set in the SegaSonic universe, so it doesn't coincide with my other Sonic fics (except for "Bleed", of course -- haw haw).

A warning though: the following contains some mature themes. Hence the 'R' rating.

Okay, okay, enough blather. Onto the story.

Enjoy!

SJZ.






__________________

Stephen Zacharus
GUILT

__________________




I hated myself. I should have felt sorry for what I had done... but I didn't. Instead, I felt only guilt.

Cheap, petty, selfish guilt.

I couldn't move. I couldn't speak. I could only stare at her ragged, bleeding form at my doorstep and wonder why the fuck this had to happen to *me*.

It began to rain. The pool of blood that surrounded her body swelled and trickled onto the sidewalk. Red. So much red. Her dead eyes stared coldly into mine, her bloody hand still clutching the single razorblade that had severed her life. The look that was frozen on her face was one of pure resentment.

*Resentment*.

It was almost funny. Until then, I'd never thought that someone *could* resent me.

"Amy..."

It was all I could say.

"*Amy*..."

How long ago was it that I had told her off? A month? Two months? I could still hear myself letting go, telling Amy how I really felt about her.

"Stop following me around, Amy," I'd said. Among other things.

Other things.

Things like "grow up" and "I never want to see you again" and "get a fucking life."

It felt so good to get all that off my chest. Finally, the annoying little girl had stopped following me around. I'd all but forgotten about her -- about my explosion.

But it didn't feel good anymore. It made me feel sick.

A nightmare. It had to be a nightmare. That evening had started off so normally: dinner with Knux and Rouge, a living-room wrestling match with Tails, a little T.V., some popcorn, a nap.

Ding dong.

Who could it be?

I never would have guessed.

My eyes were still frozen on Amy's body in some kind of morbid, cynical amazement. I couldn't believe it. She'd killed herself over me.

Me.

*Me*.

*ME*.

Fuck.

Why did it have to be *me*?

I wanted to puke.

The rain was coming down in sheets, now. The blood was thinning and spreading like crimson wildfire all over the sidewalk and into the street. There were angry streaks of red on my white door -- a twisted, gory finger-painting.

The razorblade that she held was slicing into her soft, pink, dead fingers. In her other hand, I noticed a crumpled piece of paper. "To Sonic" was scrawled on the top.

I didn't want to read it.

But... if she'd killed herself over *me*...

I boiled.

That letter probably said too much.

Incriminating evidence.

I'd be seen as a murderer.

No.

Couldn't happen. *Wouldn't* happen.

I snatched the letter out of her hand.

"Sonic!" I heard a small voice call behind me; it was Tails. "What's goin' on, Sonic? Why're you starin' out the door like that?"

"Get back, Tails," I told him, turning, blocking his view. "I can't let you see this, li'l bro. Just stay inside for me and call an ambulance, okay? Call an ambulance!"

The kid did as he was told. Good kid. Smart kid. Smarter than me. Better than me. Even so, he had no clue that the ambulance he was going to call was absolutely useless. He didn't know that there was a dead girl draped across our doorstep.

He didn't know that I was a murderer.

People were already starting to gather around. Typical. I wonder what it is about death that seems to draw crowds in like a feeding frenzy. Thinking about it made me nauseous.

"An ambulance is on its way," I told them all. "They'll be here anytime. Everything's cool, it's gonna be alright. Just stay calm, everybody."

Was I saying that to comfort the crowd... or myself? I'm still not sure.

Two hours passed. The paramedics came, removed the body, wiped up the blood. Station Square was dead again. Bloodstains on the sidewalk and on my door refused to let me forget what had happened, though.

I was still standing outside my door. Frozen.

And guilty.

"You killed her, you know," said a voice.

I looked up.

A weasel.

Nack.

He tipped his fedora at me, wearing a dark trenchcoat and a sharp, crisp, white grin. I wanted to punch that scrawny bastard's lights out.

"How the hell would *you* know?" I spat at him. "You knew her?"

"As a matter of fact, I did. We'd only been together for a couple of months, but she told me enough. After you gave her the cold shoulder, she was only too happy to have me." The little fucker was still grinning. His expensive jewelry glittered in the moonlight. "Damn shame, isn't it? Her suicide, I mean. She was a great cocksucker, too. Should've kept her for yourself, Hedgehog. I guess it serves you right for ignoring her."

I normally would have leveled that asshole and slammed his head into the fucking pavement... but for some reason I couldn't find the motivation. I just wanted him to go away.

"Leave me alone," I said.

Blunt, wasn't I?

Well, at least he listened.

"Catch you later, Hedgehog."

I gritted my teeth. "I hope not."

It was cold. It was dark. It was late.

I was so fucking *tired*.

My fault. All my fault. My fault my fault my fault my fault...

I shuffled inside and shut the door so I wouldn't have to keep looking at those damned bloodstreaks. Something inside me drove my body into the kitchen, my hand into a drawer. Matches. I lit one and set fire to the scrap of paper that I was still holding. I never bothered to read it. I'm better off that way, I think.

The flames rasped over Amy's letter like forked tongues, incinerating it, devouring it. I hoped that my guilt would blacken and die with that letter.

The irony was almost funny. It was the first time all day that I'd really hoped for anything.