My name is Silver and I'm alone in this world.

I knew everything about Sonic, dear Mr. Therapist. I caught a hint of the juxtaposition when his mother would die. About April 30th, 2002. I told Sonic and Amy already how she just wished in those brief five seconds that she could die, that she could die like those monks who could reach inside their hearts and clench them and stop them from beating, and it happened. She died. I wasn't sure how it was possible, but all I knew was that it happened on April 30th, 2002. And his father soon went into a diabetic shock and coma and died on January 12th, 2004. Just two years after his mother. He claimed that Sonic was never his son and he never had a wife. The truth is, dear Therapist, was that his father hated himself to the point that he felt guilty for what happened in the past. He wasn't aware of the sexual abuse he committed on Sonic, but he knew he was a lousy father, and thought his son wouldn't think of him much of a father anyhow. It was probably best he disowned him he believed, even if it seemed rude and crass. At the time, the Father didn't realize it was Sonic on the phone, but he hated his wife because he believed she was the one that got him into this diabetic and brain-damaged mess in the first place. He wanted no part of it, and in his white wine-fueled torpor, he hung up and hoped that if it was Sonic, he never had to talk to him again.

His father was somewhat of a neurotic, if you were interested in family psychological disorders. He had somewhat of a schizotypy to him. He believed a hat he had always worn since he was 20 years old had brought him luck every time he bet on a baseball game, and it brought broadcasts from radio DJs from Japan, and he could be like his father whenever he wore it, cause it had his father's hair. The father of the Father was actually very successful and thought that the Mother was a good bride for him, as she was hard-working and beautiful and genteel and just an all-around American girl. I never told you that his mother was also committed to a ward several years back, for depression.

I was there. I can travel back in time. But the mother had received several shock treatments and insulin in her behind for self-harming herself. She believed that being with a husband, trying to accomplish her dream of being a movie star and helping the mentally ill and developmentally disabled at the same time and having a lovely, wonderful baby would help her be happy. She smiled through those vapid glaucous red lips. The nurses and doctors always wondered if those treatments were helping her, and her daily dose of tricylic antidepressants. They actually made her more suicidal. But she always lied through her lovely plum lips and her curled bobbed hair and said it helped, and then believe that she would die the next day by hanging herself so she had to make her will and testament to her parents, who were paying her to be in this incondite hospital and hoping she could go back to her well-endowed college for gifted young adults. She was a very skilled writer who often wrote of these aberrant behaviors in these characters she shared with in her novels, and while the other patients were attempting to tend to their mortal wounds, she wrapped herself in furs and told the doctors to serve cocktail wines and let the idiot savant play the piano, because she wanted to feel elegant. Marvelous.

Her parents weren't abusive, but they were strict and expected nothing but the greatest for her. They were very...um, what's the word that the other personalities used? Hoighty? They were hoighty and had a lot of money to spend and they often used it for their daughter's future. Even extravagant clothes and furs and moving to another big city in case, as her parents put it, those Mexicans and Jews and niggers came into the area and believing their area would be spoiled upon their touch. I never was sure of why they were so racist, until I realized it was the time period, where everyone was so paranoid of them. And the Irish. And the Italians. The mother once had a relationship with an Irishman who was actually quite successful and even treated the Mother right, but his father believed there was no verisimilitude that this man was a Godsend for her. He never saw her again, but continued making a career of writing. He often wrote letters about the unjust treatment he was given to his lovely Stormie Seawaters. Stormie never thought of him soon after, but saw the poems in several publications and wondered if he was talking about her. Of course he couldn't be. I was inside a mental institution for the mentally insane! No one would ever want this maimed little daffodil!

She was released from the institution two years later, her body fattened up by their food and insulin treatments, her brain often in a fog from the electroconvulsive treatments. The doctors thought she could never be depressed again if she kept believing she would find a nice husband and a baby that she could love and caress. She went through many years of her life looking for a potential mate. Or is that what they use for animals? I guess the correct term is "husband".

She went to matchmaker clubs. She went to polo games seeing if there was a man who was off to Harvard, successful, rich, white, hot-blooded. She glanced at the men and thought none of them were authentic. I'm not sure how to explain this, but...Elvie said she thought that they were "phonies" and their face was a plastic mask, that inside they were shallow, cretinous and disfigured men who just wanted money and nothing else to make them happy. They shook hands with everyone they met, including the Mother and asked her how she was interested in polo.

She kept shooting the crap with them, chewing at the fat, and all of them said that they were from like Harvard or Princeton or something. Big deal. I mean, Silver told me this memory he found of his mother when he went back in time, and it seemed like she was a lot like me in some ways. That she never found this men to be anything but big goddam fakes. They smiled all the time, pretending to be happy when it was about as cold as balls outside, and Mother was wearing her knit scarf and artist's hat when she soon tried to find people the normal way so you could look for real big dumb morons like Sonic's father was: the bars. She looked at this blue hedgehog that had green eyes and glossy teeth and he wore one of those college professor coats with those little patches on them with coffee and cigarette stains and all that, and they shot the crap and found them to be real compatible. It made me want to throw up.

His name was Selwyn Seawaters and he was a heir to a successful company, about to make like a lot of money when he died and all that crap. Big deal. I guess his mother found something "authentic" in him, but I wasn't sure what when Silver told me. It made me sick just thinking of his father and mom doing the nasty and having Sonic and suddenly she went crazy again because her medication just stopped working.

It just stopped working, and suddenly, she was a lunatic again. It was like at the beginning of her adult life she was locked away in a mental institution, then at the end, she was locked away at one for the elderly and those with neurological problems or something. I later heard from him telepathically that his mother somehow killed herself. I wasn't sure what to think of it. Only that I missed her and when you went away from someone that you start missing everybody and I really didn't care that she abused me. Maybe there was some heart in her after all. I felt sorry for those who had a heart at the end of things if you want to know the truth.

That was all I knew about his mother and father. I wasn't sure if I could tell Sonic that at one point his mother used to be a person and not a thoughtless cliched criminal.

I wanted to be real.

Sonic was real. Sonic had always been real, in the eyes of God. God had stitched them up real nice in his diamond eyes. He had a celestial needle and made his fur with stars and the tears of angels. As for me, I was only a byproduct of his mind. A psychosis. I'm not too aware of the multiple personality stuff and how many of these psychologists had claimed that they refuted it cause of the Sybil case, but I just thought of myself as a hallucination, really. A fragment. Sonic saw me when he was in the hospital that time. I went inside his thoughts and coveted the memories of his mother trying to string together his fingers. I tried to support him, even tell him that Shadow really wasn't real.

Just an hallucinatory fragment. He imagined everything with Shadow. The nurses tried to play along and said that Shadow was dead and would never come back. They played along with the whole thing and expected Sonic to realize that Shadow was him, all along.

The funeral was conducted by him, in a room full of velveteens like him. They clapped when he said his speech on how Shadow would be in their hearts with their soft furry paws. I saw him, tried to tell him the truth, and that I expected to see him again. Cause the Beast would grow angry again. He would be poisoned by the apple of knowledge that Miss Wretched had held for him, along with Elvie's Book of Truths she tried to burn away to protect Sonic.

I'm not sure what to make of this, Mr. Therapist. It's all a ridiculous story that a ridiculous novelist could only conjure up. But these things, they happened. The personalities all became a separate form of their own and they soon had their own bodies. I tried to tell him of the only thing he could do that would make them happy, but Mr. Therapist, have you realized sometimes that there are times where you really want something, in fact you believe that you will do anything to get this thing, and when you finally have it, when you finally have done everything and anything to get this wonderful thing that would change your life and clear yourself of all sins and you would like yourself as a human being, you realized that you didn't want it at all and in fact you feel awful for even wanting this thing in the first place?

It will happen. I've seen it.

Now.

Let me tell you of my feelings of being another personality.

I don't like it.

I once walked into the son's room and saw that he quite a collection of little stuffed animals. Mainly foxes. They were quite cute in their own way. I thought that I could relate to them, you know? That they had these cute little marble eyes and a short little tail and they had a button nose. You know, cause I'm cute, I'm a fascination and a big interest in the media and everyone wants to know so much about his disorder and about me, but then I learn that it isn't so fun being me.

Cause you want to be a real person. You want to be really real. Sonic was so lucky I thought. A real thing. A real thing made by a mother and father and God. I was made from him in order to cope for the things both of his parents had done. A byproduct of trauma. I didn't really have my own home. My own wife. My own kids. My own little life living in a nice place like maybe Ireland or Cornwall. I wanted to be loved like this stuffed animal, not constantly tested and analyzed on. When I looked into that stuffed animal, I wasn't in the reflection at all. It was just Sonic. I wasn't in my real body. I wasn't really a person of any significance that God would even care about. Sonic was my God, and he constantly denied my existence. Imagine, if you will, of a god that doesn't even realize that you exist. It hurts. It really does.

Sonic switched back to himself before I could hug the toy goodbye. Tails asked if there was anything wrong, as there was a hint of a rolling tear on Sonic's cheek. He soon became abient and didn't want any discussion on what happened. Again, God denied my existence.

I whispered "I love you" to his son. Because I truly did. But I didn't think he heard me.