Insane asylums. Where the truly gifted and most artistic of them were locked away, their views hidden from the world because they were deemed "mad".

These people must be mad. They never listened...they never did and probably never will. The humans are the worst of them. But of course, no one would heed a madman's warnings. Nobody.

That's why this place was his hell. He was ripped away after he was labeled as mental. Now he sat rotting, rotting in this blinding white hell. And hell wasn't a place of fiery pain and torture as it is often portrayed to be. Hell is a place of torment, a place of eternal regret and self inflicting pain.

And hell wasn't of fire and rock. Hell was white, with pillowed walls and strait jackets.

As he sat curled into a fetal position in the corner of the room, he gave the obvious impression of insanity as he cried and chanted to himself.

He wasn't mad, how could he prove it? He was an artist! He had special views! He knew the world like no one else! He could see into the future! His mind was fantastical, he was talented, a gift from his own personal god. Why couldn't anyone else see this?

This thought cause an extra burst of sadness in the form of salty tears from him. He moaned aloud, clawing at his head. This place was called an insane asylum for a reason. It wasn't to keep insane people away, it was to purposely make them insane. That was their excuse! And if you tried to tell them you were fine, you weren't insane, that you had a real life, they would blame it on your "sickness". That you were hallucinating, that you thrived in your own mad little world.

People made company in these places, their own little worlds for a reason. It was to escape this blindingly white hot hell. They didn't want to believe it was true, that they were mad. They convinced themselves every day of their lives that they were normal, that the people around them, not themselves, were insane. Insane for never listening.

People like him were hidden away from the world so they wouldn't spill the secrets of the world, so they wouldn't be able to face the monarchy the so called "free" countries thrived upon. They stored them away to rot like forgotten dolls, once loved, so they could prevent an anarchy.

He stopped rocking to muse to himself, as if his entire body just shut down. He never thought. Thinking only gets in the way of creativity. You never think when you're such an artist, but these people didn't seem to get it.

He felt like that little rabbit doll, in that children's story, The Velveteen Rabbit. He felt like he was loved, used for comfort and protection and then tossed aside at his "flaws". He wasn't flawed, he was gifted. And now he felt like an old doll, the poor little rabbit, replaced with something much newer, only for that to be replaced as well.

His once brilliant emerald eyes were now dulled and emotionless. Thought tears poured from the quivering pools, they showed no emotion when he was alone.

He was a dreamer, and so he thrived in Paradise. He moaned and arched, wishing to really be there. He would, someday. He would soon be reunited with his lover, the brilliant dark angel brought to him in life.

With ebony fur and crimson streaks that slid through his quills and burned in his eyes like boiling blood, that perfect tuff of ivory fur that shamed silk upon his breast. He would be with him again.

He lifted his head from his knees, dreaming about his lover, about the flood of euphoria and ecstasy he brought. Now he was gone, awaiting him in Paradise.

He sighed miserably. This place was the indestructible gateway that blocked him from reaching into Paradise. He wrapped his arms around his knees and continued to rock himself, attempting to shake the torturing thoughts from his mind. His body racked with sobs and he lurched forward, unable to vomit with nothing in his stomach.

They deprived him, all of them, of food in order to "calm" them. All it successfully did was drive his body mad with hunger. And then they would come. They would come with their ultimate weapon that ultimately trapped them here, the medicine.

They pumped the schizophrenics, the maniacs, the bipolar, the diseased with drugs. They racked their bodies with their poison so there was no way of escape.

A surge of anger suddenly took him over. His multi-faced personality changed within an instant.

He growled and stood to his bare feet.

When you could move faster than the speed of sound, you were a real threat in places like this.

He howled and sped in circles, burning his feet. Water built at the corners of his eyes and he jumped and clawed at the wall, trying with all his might to escape. He wanted to find a window and jump through, and maybe he wouldn't survive it. But he couldn't find one. He couldn't will one to form upon the wall with his mind, as he so wished. He clawed mercilessly and yowled like a feral.

Finally losing all restraint on himself, he screamed and threw himself against the wall. He heard footsteps. Calm ones. They didn't rush to come and attack him with the syringe, they never did. No matter how demented or in pain someone was in, they meandered their way to their cell. All they had to do was hold you in place and stick you with the medicine, drug you, and leave. It was the same routine, and they even looked bored as one of their demented patients writhed and yelped and clawed themselves in pain.

He continued to cry, to bawl, and attack the walls that kept him prisoner. He pounded with his bare fists. They were bruised, peach furred. His gloves were stripped from him with his shoes. A glove was an anthro's necessity. White gloves symbolized one's purity, and now he was without them. He wondered if his love still bore his gloves.

He fell to the ground and pounded his head, clawing at his eyes and ears. His love's voice echoed in his head, and though the silky smooth sound was a blessing, it threw him into overdrive, his heart and brain pumping at hyper speeds. All thought was lost as his very organs forgot their functions, he forgot to breath, his blood forgot to flow through him, and for a split second, his heart forgot to work.

He wanted to die. That much was evident. That was why they were kept here, and kept alive as long as possible so the ones in white could relish in your pain and watch you die and rot on the inside.

He wanted to kill them, all of them. His past purpose used to be to protect them, but now he never felt a hatred so strong. He wanted their blood on his hands, their hearts and minds scattered on the floor and innards strung along the walls.

Never had such cynical thoughts entered his mind before, and now he laughed maniacally. He cackled with insanity as they peeked from behind his door.

They watched him, and waited. His breath stopped and he froze, face still buried as he leaned on his arms to the ground, soaking his fur and floor in tears. A high pitched whine emitted from his throat, and the sobs came so hard they nearly made his throat bleed. His eyes burned like fire as he cried more, but he couldn't stop them from flowing down his peachy red muzzle.

He shuddered and stared at the wall beside him, and saw his love, waiting for him.

He didn't smile, he didn't dare to show one. But his eyes beamed, and so did his love's. He stared at him, those beautiful crimson eyes that bore into him and calmed the madness in his soul. He whimpered and reached a tear soaked arm out to him.

They watched, the ones in white as he touched the wall. To them, he was hallucinating, but to him, he was witnessing a sign.

This is your time. Die young today, my love. You should thrive here no longer.

He moaned as he touched him, his hand upon his love's gloved one, wishing so badly to be embraced, as he did when they would make love. But now, he was embraced only in anguish. His touch was ghostly, as if he weren't really there, but he knew he was. He had to be. No hallucination could be so real, so tear-jerking.

His hand pressed against the wall, he cried again as his love disappeared with a bitter smile.

I will be with you very soon, love.

His heart and mind fluttered at his words. He was slow as they came in and two men in white grabbed his arms.

He grunt-whined and bawled again as they manhandled him like a ragdoll. He was so small compared to them...what happened to his power? He now had the strength of a child, and without his shoes, his feet burned from the friction. They held him up by his arms, making him stand. He flung his peach limbs in an attempt to escape their white hot hold. Their touch penetrated his fur like the burn of frostbite. He cried in distress and leaned away from the woman who approached him with the needle, though he knew it was futile. She would inject him with the drugs that would drive him wild until he collapsed in his own exhaustion, like he did daily.

He gave frequent high-pitched moans as he struggled, his eyes wild and rolling as he bared his small hedgehog fangs at the groping hands.

His small body almost slipped through the rough hands before he was, quite literally, slammed to the ground. His undernourished body shook hard and forced a more than pained groan out of him. His small body curled defensively, quills flaring out to make himself look larger than he really was as he relied on his feral instincts to protect him.

They forced a hand between him, gripping his sides hard. He yelped and curled his body tightly, very nearly crushing the large hand trapped between his limbs and belly. He hissed and snarled, determined this time to not let them have their way.

He didn't want to be given medicine for an "illness" he didn't have. He wasn't ill! How could he get it through their heads? He hoped to crush his hand, to hear a bone snap under the pressure he was putting on. He heard him grunt and cry out as he curled his muscled belly as tight as his body would allow. He heard a satisfying snap in his hand, and more hands scrambled about his body. One brave hand dove and grabbed his curled muzzle buried in his stomach. He growled but couldn't flash out any teeth due to his tight position. Those thick fingers dug into his muzzle and yanked his head up, forcing him to uncurl.

He reached up and clawed at the hand that held his face, ears pinned angrily and body tight. The man held his broken hand, being escorted out of the room.

One man took both of his skinny arms in one hand, holding down his flailing legs in the other while that hand held his muzzle shut. He wasn't afraid to bite anyone, no matter how degrading such a move would be.

The lady bent down, and harshly stabbed the needle into his arm, forcing tears from his eyes. His screams were muffled as the entire syringe was emptied into him. His body lurched though he couldn't move, and his mind went wild as he yelled for help within his mind. Pleading eyes stared up at the rather young boy holding his muzzle. He could tell, he was more afraid than he was, he was barely a man. He was obviously new here. Sympathy welled in his eyes for him, wishing he didn't have to do so. Brown eyes stared down into his, sorrow and anger laced with plea within those watering pools. He gave a pitiful whine at the human, silently pleading for his help.

But he only marginally shook his head, knowing he could do nothing for him. Tears welled in his eyes again and he set his head down into his lap with a muffled whine, much like a dog about to be put down to sleep.

They laid him there, and the next day they would bring him to a room where he sat with another "patient".

There was a line of them, a line of the ones who were unable to be "helped". If they couldn't rid your mind of the madness that plagued you, then they did away with you.

A small fox boy was quaking with terror, rocking himself as he waited beside him.

Unlike him, he had no idea of what was to come of him in the room ahead. All he knew was that nobody ever came out of there once they entered.

He cried, chanting some woman's name, muttering silent prayers under his breath.

He watched him, wishing this didn't have to happen. Nobody like them deserved to rot like this. They didn't deserve to die here. Just because they knew things most people didn't, did not mean they couldn't function properly.

He turned to the quivering fox next to him and put a hand on his shoulder, making him jump. His eyes were wild and tears flowed down his face. He smiled.

"Don't worry. Nothing bad will come out of this visit. I promise. You'll see Paradise."

He stopped shivering and whispered hoarsely. "H-how is it...?" He could barely hear him. He smiled.

"It's bliss."

The fox smiled a little, hope, for the first time in his 5 year stay in this place, shining in his shaking eyes.

"I want to go there." He croaked.

They called his name, and he gave one last look at the fox.

"Tell me, is it better to die a good man, or live a monster?"

The fox froze, all bliss wiped from his face. He stared. It was all he could do.

He smiled one last time before standing and walking to the room, the two men walking aside him. They closed the door behind him and he sat into a chair, smiling. They stared oddly at his smile. Surely he knew what was to happen, right?

They decided it was better if he didn't know. He was mad after all.

But the young man was in the room, watching him. He stared, wondering if they were to put down an innocent man. Was he really mad? Perhaps, in the end, it was them who were mad. Maybe they were wrong all along.

He smiled as he sat into the chair, blissfully unaware of the syringe being filled behind him. He looked to his side and saw his love, standing there, smiling at him. He smiled and stared dreamily at him.

I'm going to be with you, my love. We'll thrive in Paradise together, like we used to.

He didn't even feel the needle plunge into his arm as he lifted an arm to hold his hand, the light fading in his eyes. He smiled as his love held his hand, knowing, they were soon to be reunited. He slipped a little lower in the chair, his hold becoming weak. Though he should've felt the pain of the lethal injection, he felt bliss.

His eyes slipped low, and his hand fell limp, Death at his left, his love at his right. They took him, his two dark angels. They both grabbed his hand as he slipped into Paradise.

And yet his limp body would be merely tossed into the pile with the others long dead, soon to be burned like garbage.

The young man cried, for the first time as he saw the look of pure bliss and euphoria upon his face as he easily accepted his fate. He had been so oblivious, so willing to go. To leave this place so many of them called hell. It opened his eyes to what really was the thin line between insanity and genius.

He gently picked up and carried his limp body out of the room, refusing to toss him aside like a broken doll like they did with the rest of them.

Instead, he buried him in the back, where one other gravestone laid. Side by side.

Sonic Maurice Hedgehog
Mania/Chronophobic patient

Shadow Hedgehog
Schizophrenia patient
       
Let's meet again next time...in...Paradise...