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All one could hear was a drip from some unknown place.
The tip, tip, tapping of water to ground.
And thoughts. Oh heavens, the crawling, writhing thoughts.
Sonic had lost track of how long he had spent in the hellhole, quills pressed into his back.
The sight wasn't nice to see either. Beyond the bars were white walls all around, and above some glaring, pale lights.
Sonic had grown accustomed to this great mess. The little cage was large enough to allow him to turn with a squeeze, though he was always in a half ball.
He didn't like thinking much, and not when he was still. Only when Sonic felt the cold air meet his face and his legs pounded against the floor did he ever manage to reflect, or consider, or see beyond the surface.
Truthfully, he liked to think that he was a thoughtful person, and sometimes a little reckless.
Reckless.
That was the word.
A reckless, joyous presence in all his friends' lives. But of course, that's how he got here, isn't it? A stupid, stupid hedgehog who got tempted by curiousity. Something so much worse than a morbid curiousity.
Sonic wished he could start over.