II. The Plot
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❝UNFAIR.❞
*ృ༅*. 𝕬 hundred times it must have been whispered, growled, screamed. Uttered so many times, now it was no longer a word.
The walls were littered with holes, and both of Sonic's fists were throbbing and bleeding, his knuckles bruised. His new gloves were ruined, and he blamed his older twin. Blamed his brother for his tears, his rage, his pain, the holes in the walls. All that moron's fault.
And it was his fault because he had the crown, and Sonic did not.
Which, then, Sonic began to blame his not-so-long-dead father for dying in the first place.
What did Sonic expect? Of course Scourge would get the crown, no matter that he didn't know a damn thing about ruling—or anything that wasn't fucking around, for that manner.
It made Sonic laugh.
A fuckboy—king.
King, because he was seven minutes older, and nothing more.
Apparently, capability didn't mean absolute shit. Scourge was older, so he got the crown, and that was all that mattered.
So Sonic damned his father. Damned Scourge. Damned them all.
Damn them. Damn Scourge. Damn him to every Hell of every religion.
Fresh rage bloomed a vicious flower, and Sonic punched the wall once more. Something popped, cracked, broke; thus, he screamed.
"His fault, not mine!" A mantra at this point. "His fault, his fault, his fault!" He screamed into a pillow until he had no voice left to use.
Sonic deserved that crown. He actually worked for it. For him. Scourge literally paid him—in cash, in food—in favors, even!—to do his lessons for him. Scourge gave Sonic the crown. This was years in the making. Years of doing his brother's homework.
Scourge practically gave the crown to Sonic, and now he was taking it back?
Damn him, damn him, damn him.
Sonic grabbed the family portrait from above his desk and punched a hole right through Scourge's face. Punched it once, twice. Three times. Over and over and over and over and ov—!
. . . Then the light bulbs went off.
How utterly simple.
How deliciously wicked.
Scourge had to die.
And only Sonic had reason enough to kill him. Only Sonic. No one else. No one else understood. No one else knew how deep this envy and malice went. Scourge must die so Sonic may have peace.
So he would die, and die quickly.
And soon. As soon as possible.
Sonic went to sleep that rainy night with bruised, broken knuckles and a wicked smile on his face.
His only thoughts were that of a thousand different ways to kill his brother. Thoughts became dreams.
. . . Dreams would soon become reality.
And reality was to be a nightmare.