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It all started on the day you found out you were broken.
Well, not necessarily broken. You were just different. That’s normal, right? Everybody’s different from each other.
Though, according to almost everybody you’ve interacted with (including your new therapist), you were a ‘different’ kind of different, if that made any sense.
For starters, you can’t read. It’s not that you don’t want to, but you’re actually both physically and mentally incapable of identifying any sort of text symbols. Plus, you often find difficulty retaining any sort of information in general — your therapist suggested that you might have some sort of learning disorder when you mentioned it to them (you weren’t that surprised). You’ve been taking tutoring classes since then, but you haven’t made much improvement (it just shows how incapable you are at being a decent being, you think).
You also have emotional issues. Like, really big emotional issues. You used to get too emotionally attached to people, and you still do, but it used to be worse when you were a teenager. There’s your friend, Sonic, for example. The two of you were best friends since childhood up until the point you started developing a crush on him. At first, it was just a simple crush - nothing to get worked up for. But then, it became strange. You started to become obsessed, constantly feeling the need for just Sonic. He was your all, you would think. You would constantly think about him — daydream, even. You would imagine scenarios where you two were in a happy relationship, and eventually become married. You would draw out these scenarios in your sketchbook, too. Drawing was a nice escape most of the time, and drawing your self-indulgent fantasies on paper only made you more infatuated with the idea of being with Sonic. One day, you decided to take action (you shouldn’t have. you should have just shut up). While most of your memories were hazy and fuzzy, you remember this clear as day — you had made Sonic not just one, but two gifts, and had confessed your love for him. You admitted that he was the only thing you ever looked forward to, and if it weren’t for him you wouldn’t be there as of currently. You weren’t expecting him to say yes — not everyone feels the same way for each other, but you were at least hoping the two of you could stay friends if he didn’t feel the same way. Sonic’s actual reaction, though, was nothing you could have prepared yourself for in your entire life.
At first, when you just confessed to him, Sonic simply stared blankly ahead, not really focusing on anything ahead of him. That was diminished quickly, however, as Sonic scrunched up his face in
disgust
.
“What the hell?” Sonic exclaimed. “Dude, you know I’m already dating Amy, right?”
You did not.
Sonic gestured to the gifts you made. “Are these… replicas of my coconuts? From my coconut collection? What did you even think the point was to making copies of things I already own?”
Why were you so stupid?
“Geez, Knux, I knew you could be kinda ‘out there’ sometimes, but this is seriously creepy. Also, I apologize if what I’m about to say upsets you, but I’m not gay. Especially for someone like
you
.”
You wish you never even existed.
You were 17 when that particular event occurred, and for the longest time your relationship with Sonic (well, not just him, considering the fact that he soon told the entire gang about your little ‘incident’) was pretty shaky. You’re 21 now, though, and the relationship between the two of you has improved somewhat. Sonic still feels around the edge with you sometimes, but he understands your current situation a lot better than he did before. You feel grateful for that.
That event, however, wasn’t the same event when you found out you were broken. It
did
play a part in it, though.
Unfortunately, it was the week after the event between you and Sonic had occurred.
Granted, you had cried nonstop for two days after Sonic rejected your confession. You had calmed down significantly after the following few days, yet you were still a bit on edge. You were going out to eat for Meh Burger with Tails (Tails was a lot more understanding when is came to certain situations than Sonic was, so he wasn’t really upset or cautious around you after being told of your ‘incident’. Besides, it’s not like he didn’t have much of a choice on whether he wanted to come or not — you couldn’t read the menu by yourself). You felt exhausted, more so than usual (another thing you forgot to mention: you’re perpetually exhausted, which apparently isn’t normal or healthy amongst mobians or humans). You were also emotionally drained from the previous days, so you ended up not really eating anything at all (you still do that, sometimes. It’s grown into a really bad habit). You thought that eating something at least once would help you feel better.
On the other hand, though, you felt like you didn’t deserve the food. You felt like you were unworthy of eating any scrap of food, and that you didn’t deserve to eat in general after what you did to your best friend. You mulled over this for quite awhile until you started to hear someone yelling. It took you a few seconds to realize that that someone was
Dave
yelling at
you
. You glanced around your surroundings, surprised to find that you were holding up the line. Tails was giving you an impatient stare.
You didn’t know what to do.
“Well, are you going to order something or not? My break doesn’t start until five, you know,” Dave the Intern stated, his usual lackluster teenage voice held borderline annoyance.
“U-Um…” you started, shaking.
You wish you weren’t so sensitive.
Dave sighed, “No, I guess? I guess it doesn’t really matter, though, since retards like you can’t help it, after all.”
You started shaking harder. You remember gasping for air, as it was getting harder to breathe. You touched your face. It was wet.
The shaking wouldn’t stop. You brought your hands up to your face in an attempt to hide it, but then you quickly realized that doing so you be pathetic. You started to breathe harder —wheezing, even — and whimpered. It was pathetic. You were pathetic, you think.
Then, you felt your knees buckle inwards, and everything turned black.
…only to immediately wake up in a bed of some sorts.
You attempted to move around, though quickly realized that almost every muscle in your body wasn’t responding (save for your neck). You tried glancing left, only to feel a rush of nausea bloom over your chest. It was not pleasant.
Your eyes were open, yet everything seemed blurry. It heavily strained your eyes. You felt an upcoming headache rising.
Fortunately, your exhaustion was just enough to overcome your discomfort and send you back into a deep slumber.
A few hours later (or, at least, what you assume) you woke up once more, feeling slightly more energized than previously. Experimentally, you curled your fingers and toes. They worked fine. You continued to move every part of your body until you were sure you could move again. Finding that you could, you sat up from the bed, discovering that you’re able to focus on your surroundings unlike last time. At first, you were confused until you began to recognize the familiar pieces of furniture within the room.
This was Tails’ house.
You were in Tails’ bed.
But…
Why?
You heard humming from across the room. You shifted your gaze to the source of the noise, only to find Tails making something over a frying pan in the kitchen. You also quickly realized that the room held a pleasant aroma.
It smelled like pancakes.
You
love
pancakes.
Apparently, Tails was just about finishing up, as he was bringing a plate to your side of the room.
“Oh, thank goodness! You’re awake!” Tails exclaimed. “I was really starting to worry there.”
Tails handed you your plate. Apparently, he had brought himself a plate as well, just to stay by your side.
Tails is really nice.
“So, Knuckles,” Tails began, “how are you feeling right now?”
You don’t respond.
You remember not eating much of his pancakes.
It goes on like this for awhile — Tails asks you some questions (to which you don’t respond. it’s rude, but you didn’t care at the time), and the two of you occasionally eat your meal (breakfast? pancakes were a breakfast food, weren’t they?). You zoned in and out occasionally. By now Tails has already cleaned up his plate, and yet you’ve barely eaten a quarter of yours. You really were pathetic.
Since you didn’t ask earlier, Tails began to inform you that you had passed out at Meh Burger during your little ‘episode’ (you’re still ashamed of that to this day). He said that no one really knew what to do, so he ended up just dragging you into his house to rest in his bed. You couldn’t have felt any more embarrassed.
You stopped eating entirely, now.
Tails says something else, though you don’t hear him. A thought entered your mind. It’s the same thought you’ve been considering over the past five years. Your attention picks up, though, when you notice Tails started to leave. You began to panic.
“W-wait, Tails!” You start.
Your voice was hoarse.
Tails turned around, his face slightly traced with concern. “What’s up, Knux?”
You really wanted to ask him. Oh, how desperately you wanted to ask him. And yet, on the other hand, you knew you shouldn’t. After all, you shouldn’t have to force your feelings onto someone else, especially Tails. He was a child, after all. It wasn’t the fact that you thought he couldn’t handle it (if you were speaking realistically, Tails would probably be able to handle your situation and feelings better than
you
), but he still had that child innocence that didn’t need to be ruined by some adult’s problems.
Well, you weren’t an adult yet at the time, and you didn’t feel like one, either, but that was beside the point.
Despite all of this, though, you asked.
“Am I broken?”
You didn’t look at him. You heard Tails walk up beside your bed.
Correction:
his
bed.
“
No,” Tails spoke softly. “You’re not. You’re not broken at all, Knuckles.”
You don’t respond. You’re really rude.
“Look, I know that we get impatient you sometimes, especially me. But that isn’t your fault.”
You felt him place his gloved paw on your knee.
“I know I don’t say this often, and I know should say it more often, but I think you’re really g-great, Knuckles.”
You heard a sniff. You glanced down. A waterfall of tears was drifting down Tails’ muzzle, and Tails brought a fist up to scrub them away. If under any other circumstance, you would’ve felt guilty for making him this upset enough to cry.
Somehow, though, you didn’t feel anything.
“A-And it makes me sad, y-y’know? Seeing you you upset like this m-makes me feel really u-upset. I-I-I c-can’t imagine what you’re going through, b-but it must b-be really h-hard. Especially a-after than incident with S-Sonic..”
You’ve stopped listening at that point.
“I-I just… I-I-I’m sorry, I know I c-can’t do m-much, but I’m willing t-to help you o-out to the b-best of my-“
“Stop.”
Tails is annoying.
You clench your fists. “Just stop.”
Your remember your voice being devoid of emotion.
“Forget I asked.”
You had got up from the bed and headed towards the exit, not once glancing back at Tails.
“It’s not your problem, anyway.”
You slam the door.
You walked for a long time after that. From what you can recall, it wasn’t anywhere in particular. Just mindless walking.
You eventually decided to rest beside the shore of the beach. You glanced around, noting that nothing residential was in sight. You laid back on the sand, spreading your arms.
Heh, it’s like a sand-angel.
You stared up at the sky for a long time. It’s about dusk when you decided to sit back up again.
You sigh. You don’t really feel like you exist. Like you couldn’t feel anything around you.
You remember noting that this feeling has happened more than once.
You glanced down to your left hand. The sports tape was only slightly dirty, with the leftover tear stains from your ‘episode’ smeared across it.
Subconsciously, you started to unravel the tape from your palm. You do this until the entirety of your palm is revealed (it’s red. you hate red). You tightly squeezed your hand into a fist, attempting to dig your fingers deep into your palms.
Yet, somehow, it’s not enough. So, you squeezed harder.
It’s not enough.
You decided to stop. Your palms ached. They felt bruised.
You brought your left hand up towards your mouth, gently placing it in between your jaws.
You hesitated, however.
Should you really be doing this?
You remember not having an answer to that.
You roughly clench your jaw.
Your hand hurts. You deserved it. You clenched harder.
You began to taste metal.
You loosened your jaw, releasing your hand in the process. You brought your hand up to your face. A different kind of red gleamed within your palm, dripping down the sides.
You laughed.
You really are broken.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
You’ve always hated feeling skinny. It made you feel less safe — less secure of yourself. Being skinny always made you feel weak, and other people made sure of that. You've always felt like you needed some sort of body build in order to feel the most contented.
That being said, right now you’ve never felt more uncomfortable in your entire
life.
Tch, serves you right, asshole,
you thought bitterly.
You were currently undressing in the bathroom of your own home. Yes, that’s correct — your
home.
You’d gotten it recently, actually. Beforehand, you were living in a rather subpar apartment with mediocre ventilation, mostly relying on your roommate’s funds (you didn’t know him that well, and you wish you did). Back then, you were mainly looking or working for odd jobs, as you no longer could rely on the Teen’s Discount to buy food (seriously, you’d love to thank whoever suggested that idea to the mayor, because that discount has helped you more times than even
Tails
could count). Fortunately, at the time, your friends were unaffected since none of them had turned 18 years of age yet. While that was good on their part, none of them had offered to help paying for your food as they either didn’t have extra money, or they were still “iffy” being around you considering the “one-we-shall-not-name” incident (initially, your friends just called it your “episode” until Amy thought that was too inconsiderate). That had left you scrambling for jobs in order to earn the least amount of cash.
Nowadays, though, things are different.
You’ve managed to find two stable jobs, working as a janitor at a nearby supermarket and a painter at a design studio. Sure, they’re an odd combination, but they both have a good enough pay to support both yourself and your house.
Speaking of which, said house was only slightly less appalling than your old apartment. It was rather small in volume, and held this persistent, tangy aroma in the atmosphere — which was fine by you. You never really had high standards to begin with.
As you slip off your mahogany sweater, you risk a glance towards the mirror, gazing upon yourself. When you were younger, you never really felt the need to wear clothes — you thought wearing them was tedious and unnecessary, and also because stores never really sold clothing large enough to fit your once muscular body. Plus, you always felt uncomfortable with the cloth itself touching your body as you wore them.
Now, however, you feel like you need at least
something
to conceal your now skinny frame.
You study yourself, taking note of just how frail you look. It’s sickening, you think. Grasping your hand, you begin with caressing your knuckles and end with tracing your index finger across your palm. You wince at the feeling of old scars — scars that
you
caused yourself. Yet somehow, you don’t glance down, choosing to instead focus more on the white crescent adorning your chest. While the rest of your body experienced many physical changes, that damn crescent is the only thing that’s remained constant, even after everything you’ve gone through.
You absolutely hate it. You want to punch something — or someone — out of frustration, but all you can manage is a slight clench from your fists.
In retrospect, you aren’t actually as skinny as you feel you are — you’re only slightly under the normal weight of the average mobian, and the only noticeable difference is your slightly sunken cheeks. What’s worse is that you actually
know
that. You
know
that you aren’t actually that thin. With a simple diet change and planning, you would probably be able to gain enough weight and be healthy like everyone else. It’s so simple, really - not only would you
look
normal like everyone else, but maybe you’ll actually
feel
normal, too, and maybe not so broken.
You feel yourself leaning forward, resting your hands on the bathroom counter for support.
Wow, why haven’t you thought of this before?
You think.
It’s so simple! All you have to do is eat like a normal fucking person and stop being so ungrateful for once!
You feel pressure building behind your eyes.
“If it’s so simple,” you exasperate, albeit feebly, “then why can’t
I
do it?”
Tightening your grip on the counter, you risk another glance towards your reflection. Tears cascade rather dully down its face.
You’re crying. It’s sickening.
Immediately, you scrub at your eyes, anxious to be rid of any sign of weakness.
You want to throw up. Maybe you could—
No. You shouldn’t do that.
You really, really shouldn’t.
…
Should you?
God, you know shouldn’t do
that
again. It’s not normal. It’s just wrong. It’s wrong on so many levels that you can’t even begin to describe. You know you deserve it, though. Somehow — you feel in that sick, twisted way of yours —it feels
right.
Your body moves on autopilot as you reach for the door handle and brisk your way towards the kitchen. You fall to your knees as you attempt to grasp the handle of your fridge, yet you pause.
I can’t do this
.
You stare at the floor for awhile, though in reality you aren’t actually looking at anything. At this point, the corners of your vision begin to grow fuzzy, and you barely acknowledge your loosening grip on the handle. You don’t think, you’re just existing. You’re there, in your shabby kitchen, but not really
there
. Hours feel like they’ve past.
In reality, though, only 30 seconds pass as you suddenly snap out of your trance and whip open the fridge, realizing why you were there to begin with. Harsh, bright lights emitting from the fridge make you wince. It’s a rather hard contrast to adapt to compared to the darkness within your home.
You blindly reach for some sort of container and search for an opening. You grabbed a bottle of milk, it seems, that you may or may not have bought four weeks ago — or was it four days ago? Whatever, it doesn’t matter.
You unscrew the cap and ferociously chug the contents within the bottle, not at all eager to but anxious enough to punish yourself as quickly as possible. You ignore your throat’s immediate protests to your sudden binge. A slight cramp begins to form within your abdomen.
Finished with the milk, you carelessly toss the bottle aside and reach out for the next container. You grab some sort of uncovered pan and shove its contents past your throat, not caring that you’re using your hands as a utensil to scoop out the food. From what you can barely taste, it’s that leftover lasagna Amy gave you two days ago. Had she found out how you’re eating her precious cooking right now, she would be disappointed.
This goes on for some time. You blindy reach out for food and shove it down your throat until you’re past the point of feeling full. This isn't the first time you’ve done this.
You pause for a second to catch your breath. You struggle trying to breath, at first, as your throat slightly writhes in discomfort. You shift slightly, the tightness of your stomach protesting in agony.
Fuck, it hurts. It hurts so much.
You deserve it, though.
You glance towards the second shelf within the fridge. An expired pickle jar rests besides the wall towards the back of the fridge.
You chuckle darkly, reaching for the jar.
And it most certainly won't be the last
, you think.
Suddenly, an ear-splitting chime resounded from the front door.
DING-DONG.
You jump in shock and collide painfully against the ceiling within the fridge.
“
FUCK
,” you hiss.
This isn’t good. This isn’t good at all.
You grasp the inside walls of the fridge in an attempt to balance yourself, though your quivering fingers and growing panic make it harder for you to find any sort of leverage. Despite this, you carefully guide yourself out of the fridge, rubbing your head. You feel your breath quickening with each movement.
No—no—no—this can’t be happening this can’t be happening now—no—no—nononoNO—
Sitting straight, you draw yourself to a halt. You feel beads of sweat forming as your heart thumps roughly against your chest. Somehow, the tightness of your stomach feels less painful and more dull.
“C-C’mon dummy,” you murmur to yourself, eyes half-lidded, “think.”
You quickly survey your surroundings. Piles among piles of gross, crusty containers surround you, the foul stench of it unwavering. You rub your face as sudden heat rises to your cheeks, feeling embarrassment with the reminder of how much of a disgusting slob you are.
Another ‘DING-DONG’ resounds from the door, startling you. “Yeah, yeah, m’coming,” you mumble, rubbing your bare arms.
Steadily, you rise from your current position and head towards the door. Your legs move like jelly, and you feel yourself tripping over your feet every once in awhile. You feel like throwing up.
Before you reach for the door handle, though, you stop yourself upon realizing something. You glance down. You’re not wearing a shirt — you left it in the bathroom — and your bloated, tight stomach continues to protrude outward.
Shit
, you think as your hand recedes from the door.
DING-DONG.
Panic arises once more as you quickly search back and forth for some sort of coverage. You find a blanket residing on a couch to the left and snatch it, wrapping your vulnerable frame to the best of your ability. Satisfied, you glance back towards the door. You reach a shaky hand for the handle until you hesitate.
“Mhm.”
Despite your substantial binge from earlier, you feel an empty pit near the bottom of your stomach. You really,
really
don’t want to open that door.
DING-DONG
You know you have to, though.
So, you open it.
“A-Amy?!” You shriek in surprise, though you quickly realize how loud you are and cover your mouth slightly. You feel uncomfortable all of a sudden, gaze feverishly shifting from side to side as you then try to cover an upcoming blush. “A-Amy. Amy! Hi.”
Wow, you’re pretty lame.
“Hi, Knux!” Amy provides, giving you a polite smile. “How are you?”
For some reason beyond your knowledge, Amy decided to dress exceptionally nice today. Standing about a head and a half shorter than you, the pink hedgehog apparently had taken it upon herself to accommodate to today’s (hot?) weather and wear a white floral sundress that extended down to her knees. Correspondingly, she also seemed to be wearing navy blue sandals to compliment her dress, along with a floppy, yet elegant white sun hat with a sapphire ribbon wrapped around the top to complete the picture. As you studied her, you notice that she also seemed to wear a little
less
makeup than usual. Not that you mind, of course. Somehow, you find that she looks prettier that way — more genuine. Maybe that’s why she decided to apply less makeup, you think.
“Good,” you lie, slightly rubbing your foot against the wooden doorframe. You realize that you aren’t wearing any socks. “Just peachy.”
Amy straightens her posture, looking away slightly. “That’s good,” she remarks. “It’s a good thing you’re taking care of yourself.”
The ‘for once’ wasn’t added, but rather implied. Had Amy said that statement a few years earlier, it would have gone completely over your head — you probably would’ve been proud of it, in fact, because you made such an ‘accomplishment’. Then again, you
were
pretty stupid back then, so it doesn’t surprise you. Granted, you haven’t really gotten any smarter over the years, either, but younger you was even more stupid than current you — if that made any sense.
You feel the contents of your tight stomach churn.
“Right! So, yeah,” Amy coughs. “I wanted to ask you something.”
You snap out of your trance, suddenly wide awake and aware that you’re leaning against the doorway. You feel weak and, for some inexplicable reason, out of breath — maybe you should go lay down after this.
“Yeah?” you mumble, rubbing your eyes. “What is it?”
Amy shifts her hat slightly, making her face more viewable. “See, there’s this festival that I wanted to go to — and you know Sonic and Tails won't go with me since they’re both pretty busy remodeling Tails’ lab, and I had already asked Sticks to come with me but apparently she was busy setting up some sort of… traps? I did ask her, though, yet she said she was busy. So!” She exclaims, clasping her hands together to regain your attention. “I was wondering if you could come with me? Please?”
Fucking hell.
You tug the ends of the blanket harder around your shoulders. It’s not that you don’t want to go, no — it’s sounds like going to a festival would be kind of fun, actually. It’s just that you know you
shouldn’t
go, because of how much of a broken mess you are. People make mistakes, sure, but you tend to make more mistakes than usual people. Like, a
lot
more mistakes. You know that by coming on this trip, you’re bound to make one simple mistake and not only embarrass yourself, but most likely disappoint Amy and probably everybody else at the festival.
Then again, it’s not like you have anything better to do today other than your self-loathing. Plus, it’s not often when Amy wants to hang out with
just
you — that itself feels special, somewhat.
You stand there awkwardly, looking in any direction but Amy’s. “Sure,” you timidly respond. “Not like I have anything better to do, anyway.”
You feel like you might actually vomit soon. Nevertheless, you swallow it down.
Amy’s eyes lit up. “That’s great!” She reaches into her purse — the one that you didn’t notice until now — and gently pulls out a small sheet of paper. “If you don’t mind,” she began, “I created a list comprised with the materials I’d like to buy there — it’s a crafts festival, so I kinda need a lot of things. I was thinking that we could split up to save some time—” Amy pauses, noticing your exhausted expression. “...Or maybe we can just stick together.” She places the paper back into her purse. “Yeah, that might be better, actually.”
You feel your knees starting to buckle slightly inward. You grasp the sides of the door tightly, hoping Amy won’t notice. It’s a miracle how you manage to remain eye contact with her.
“So, uh,” you start, trying to cover as much of your body as possible, “what time d-does it start? The f-festival, I mean.”
God, get over yourself! It’s just Amy! There’s no reason for you to be nervous.
“Oh, right!” Amy exclaims. “It actually started earlier this morning, but it’s open for another hour or so. It’s also pretty close to here, so we won’t have to walk far. In the meantime, though…” Amy surveys you up and down, as if she was annotating every one of your attributes. “Could you get dressed? I know you’re not wearing anything under there. I don’t care if you’re hiding something or not, but honestly, I’d rather not walk with you in public if you’re going to be dressed like
this
.” She tugged a corner from the blanket to emphasize her point. “Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind what you wear, either, but I would prefer if you wore something that won’t embarrass me in public unlike last time.”
You don’t recall this “last” time, but you’re aware that Amy does and decide to scold yourself anyway.
“Yeah, I-I got it,” you simply say, nodding your head a little. You feel a cramp spring from your side, yet you fight against the pain by feigning ignorance. “I’ll get ready in a sec. J-Just give me like…” You glance behind your back in search for a clock. Beads of sweat start to pool as you realize that you don’t actually have a clock. No wonder you’re always almost late for work. “...a few m-minutes?” It seems like you keep finding new reasons to hate yourself.
Amy shuffles her feet. “That’s fine.” She says, twiddling her thumbs. “Um, aren’t you going to let me—“
“No.” You slam the door harshly — or maybe just a little too hard. Whatever, you don’t care either way. You hear Amy’s protests resound from the opposite side of the door, but you choose to ignore them.
What the hell does she know
, you think.
She acts all nice to me, and yet I can tell she’s just using me as a backup plan ‘cause she’s got no one else to go with. If someone else was available, she wouldn’t have given me a second thought.
You clench your fists in frustration.
And she insulted me, too! The nerve of that girl!!
You feel tears starting to form within the corners of your eyes.
As if I don’t feel bad enough already!!
You lean against the door, clutching your stomach as you sigh apprehensively.
This is going to be a shitshow.