Disclaimer- I don’t own anything.

A/N- This fic is about an event that might have happened in Snively’s childhood. I am in a gloomy mood right now, so I just thought I’d write a gloomy fic.

“Oh please, Father, stop!” the boy screamed as his father continued to beat him. “I’m begging you, stooop!”

But the child’s screams and pleads went completely ignored. The more he screamed and cried out in pain, the more his father would hit him. His father, Colin Kintobor, simply loathed the very sound of his own son’s voice. Just hearing that sickening, whiny, nasal tone was enough to make the man roar in anger. The boy was forbidden to speak to his father, unless he was spoken to. It got so bad that he wasn’t even allowed to speak while he was in his presence, let alone directly to his face. If he so much as opened his mouth while his father was in hearing range, he would get punished. Severely. Like this time.

“Damnit, you fucking little shit, how many times do I have to tell you before you get it through your fucking thick, light bulb-shaped skull- never... use... that... that... disgusting... voice... in... my... presence!” Colin shouted, slamming his fist down onto his son’s already-bruised face between each pause.

The boy tried his utmost to hold in his cries and pleads of fear and agony, but it could not be helped; he was in so much pain and fear that just turning it off was impossible. They both knew that the only way Colin could really shut him up would be to knock him out completely, which was how these beatings usually ended. The boy always longed for the end to come, when he would finally get knocked into peaceful unconsciousness. He grew to not only except this part, but greatly relish it, for he regarded it as a temporary escape from this hell. Fifteen minutes later, when he would regretfully awaken from this peaceful, silent, solitude, his entire body would be wracked with pains, bruises, and sometimes even blood. Than, careful not to even let so much as a sigh or whimper escape from his trembling lips- for fear his father would hear him- he would slowly get to his feet and limp to his room. Once he was upstairs, in the safety of his own bedroom, he would collapse down onto his bed, burry his face into his pillow, and sob for all he was worth, until he had no tears left in him. (His father had never heard him, fortunately.) More often than not, he just wanted to suffocate himself with his own tear-soaked pillow... sometimes he had come pretty close, but the fear of death had always stopped him.

Yes, suicide had always entered his mind. He had come so close to killing himself a number of times, in a number of ways- slitting his throat and wrists, hanging himself, drowning himself, choking himself, etc. But he was too scared of death to ever go through with it. And he was far too scared about the possibility of his soul being forever damned to the fires of Hell for all eternity, for another thing...

But the boy had always thought that what he went through almost every day was already hell enough, as it was. Surely, Hell itself couldn’t be any worse... What did he have to lose? But alas, he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. He felt like a weak, pathetic little coward, with nowhere to turn. There was no way out. He was trapped. He was damned if he did, he was damned if he didn’t. Which was why he always hoped that his father would just kill him once-and-for-all, and be done with it; it would not only permanently end the pain, but then at least it would be a more natural death (at least not by his own hands) and so his soul would pass on to Heaven.

Now the boy was taught to never use his voice around his father, and so he was thus taught to live in a shadow of constant fear. He was too fearful to even cough, sneeze, or sigh around him. Sometimes whenever he felt a cough or sneeze coming on, he would always try to muffle it before his father heard, or hurry out of the room to do it. Sometimes he was saved... other times he was not so lucky. Yes, he couldn’t even cough or sneeze around his father, which made it all the more difficult for him whenever he had a cold. Speaking, laughing, sighing, sneezing, coughing, humming, anything that had to do with using that voice that his father hated so much was strictly forbidden. And so the boy was forced to live in isolation and silence, never saying a word around home, never releasing his true feelings. He grew accustomed to only using his body language to speak, such as nodding his head ‘yes’ or shaking his head ‘no’. He didn’t have a right to use his own voice... it became almost like he didn’t even have one, like his voice-box was removed. And believe me, Colin had threatened to remove his voice-box plenty of times! “The next time I hear that sickening voice of yours, I’ll fucking yank your voice-box right out of your throat!” he would scream, knife in hand.

But sometimes, as much as the boy tried to refrain from using his voice, he just couldn’t help himself, no matter what. Like natural occurrences: sneezing, coughing, and even so much as whimpering when he was in pain. As mentioned before, he tried his absolute best to hold it in, but there were times when he just couldn’t help but let it out. Which was just the case this present time...

You see, just ten minutes ago that day, the boy had been innocently eating his dinner at the table with his father- as usual, in complete silence. It happened that while he was eating his chicken, he accidentally choked on it; as that bite had simply gone down wrong, resulting in a terrible coughing fit. After quickly washing it down with his milk, the bite of chicken finally went down his throat, much to his great relief. He had been so close to choking to death too...

But the next thing he knew, Colin had pushed back his chair, stormed over to his son, yanked him up by his shirt, and dragged him up into the attic- the traditional place where these beatings occured.

“Oh, please, Father, it wasn’t my fault...” the boy whimpered, as his father carried him up the attic stairs by his shirt. “I’m sorry, Father, I’m really very sorry! But I almost choked to death! I really couldn’t help myself this time! I tried to hold it in, honest I did!”

Colin threw his son roughly to the floor, ignoring him. “Damn it, shut the hell up with that fucking whining, you pathetic little sniveler! (Hence his father’s nickname for him, which had always stuck- even from way before that very day.) That squeaky, high-pitched voice of yours is like a fucking rusty nail shoved in the back of my head! It makes me sick... just like you do, Snively!” He glared into his boy’s face. “If you don’t shut up, you know you’re only going to make it longer and harder on yourself! Do you want that, you little fucker?”

Snively knew that well, from experience. He knew what was going to happen, he was used to it, and so he knew that shutting up and taking it like a man would be the wisest choice. But once the beating started, he always found it impossible to do so. Oh, how he bit his lips- even to the point where he would draw blood- to keep in his cries and whimpers. But to no avail. Oh, how could his merciless father expect him to shut up during such torment?! Oh, why couldn’t he have just allowed himself to choke to death on that chicken? Oh, how he longed for that peaceful ending…

But this ending was different than most other times. Snively, as usual, desperately awaited the final knock-out which would send him into blissful unconsciousness, freeing him from the pain. But, no! This time, Colin didn’t deliver the final blow. He didn’t even have the decency to give his son that sense of escape! Instead, he stood up from beating his shaking, cowering, bruised son... walked over to where a thick cord of rope and a roll of duct tape was kept... and than advanced on his terrified, confused son with them, who glanced up in fear, with big scared, tearful blue eyes...

He then proceded to bind young Snively from shoulder to ankle with the thick rope, wrapping it around his tenderized body so painfully-tight that it threatened to cut off his circulation. Than Colin took the roll of duct tape and wrapped a long strip of it tightly around his son’s mouth, cutting off his moans and whimpers of pain, not to mention his breath.

Colin stood up with a satisfied grunt. “Just be glad I haven’t removed your fucking voice-box altogether, boy,” he sneered. “You drove me to this, Snively. I told you it would be harder on yoursef if you wouldn’t shut up. I’ve told you time and time again to never use that irritating little voice around me... but no matter what I do, you just never learn. You never listen. I fucking swear, you must love driving me to headaches with your voice! So this time... I’m just going to leave you up here for the night, with duct tape on that fucking mouth of yours! Maybe by morning, you’ll have learned your lesson and will show me a little more respect. Just remember: It’s very simple; if you wouldn’t use your nasel, whiny voice around me, I wouldn’t have to punish you.” He turned the light off, and left the attic, leaving his poor son all alone in the darkness with only the rats and the spiders to keep him company.

Poor little Snively Kintobor lay there on the hard, uncomfortable floor, bound and mouth taped up, terrified, confused, and just plain overwhelmed by his own unhappiness. He began to sob huge muffled sobs through the thick strip of tape covering his mouth, the tears flowing from his sky-blue eyes like a waterfall. The tears just wouldn’t stop pouring. He had never felt so miserable, lonely, and hurt- both physically and emotionally- in all his life. He never even imagined that such a feeling was even possible. His heart ached for his own father- his own flesh-and-blood- to love him for who he was. All he ever wanted was for his father to love and respect him like a son. He just wanted somebody to love him! He had nobody in his life... his mother passed away shortly after he was born, he had no friends, and only a father who resented him just because of the natural voice God gave him. (Or rather Charlie Adler, but sorry, I’m getting out of touch with the story here!) It wasn’t his fault he was born with that voice. He never chose it from the very start. How could his fatherexpect him to never use it? He couldn’t very well stay silent for the rest of his life!

Snively sobbed himself to sleep that night. It was the worst night of his entire life, one that would live in in memory forever. The pain he felt in his heart was so great that he just wanted to die... to fade away into the darkness...

All because of that voice.

THE END!

Yes, there is indeed more this power-hungry, dastardly little nephew of Robotnik’s then what you see in the comics or on SatAM.

And just for the record, folks, I FRICKIN’ LOVE HIS VOICE!! (I squeal whenever I hear it!)

Uh... well, that’s about it. Story’s over. I’m going to bed now. Goodnight, peoples!

The moral of this tale: Don’t judge somebody just by the mere sound of their voice.

This has been a Shychick Production!