AN: Alexander Young is my original character from "Maybe It's You" and he represents a male version of me. I have two little brothers, and my neighbor was named Nick. Practically every event in this story is accurate to my life. But the bullying have never been intense to the point of transfer for either my best friend and I, so that part is in relation to Alexander going to Dalton. So here's his short story, it won't be talked about much in "Maybe It's You".

Memories

My name is Alexander Young, and it all started when I was eight or nine years old. My father and I used to be close, but when my little sisters came along, they blamed things on me and he believed them. Miley and Loran tend to be the favorites around here. Ever since they were born, it's like I don't even exist anymore. Music is practically all I have, sometimes drawing a bit helps, too. But then everything went downhill.

"Alexander, hey, are you okay?" a pretty light blond girl asked me, her eyes shimmering with concern.

I hurriedly pulled my sleeves down and nodded, "Yeah, I'm fine."

"Are you sure? You know you can tell me anything." Said my neighbor, obviously not convinced that I truly was fine.

"Yeah," I spoke to her softly, standing up on my weak legs, "do you want to go scooter for a while?" I asked to change the topic.

It seemed to have worked, because she didn't ask me again. "Sure!" Nicole replied happily, flicking her hair as she spun around to go grab her scooter from her garage.

I sighed and grabbed mine that was sitting against the stairs, leading up to my door step. My dirty blond locks flopped in front of my eyes, hiding any tears that threatened to fall. I would do anything to get out of here, anything at all to run away and be safe. The only place I trusted was my school, and I was there only 35 hours a week.

You'd think that I was merely being dramatic, but in actuality, I was getting accustomed to something that would later be diagnosed with the title depression. My grandfather died that year, believing I was afraid of him because his skin had turned a sickening yellow shade. He had passed with the disease known as pancreatic cancer, it was something so awful and painful, and for such a beautiful person to end that way, it hurt to think about. My mother fell incredibly saddened that year, losing her appetite and strength to do much at all. She all but cleaned the house and did the chores I occasionally forgot to do myself. The house became a silent place, only the sound of a TV screen, my radio, or stifled sobs could be heard.

I missed him. Once I knew what happened to him and how I was so fearful to see him when I was so young, I cried. I lost the ability to hide my pain that following year. My walls were crumbled, Nicole was always there for me, but she didn't help bring him back. She was just there, another person I was so damn afraid to lose.

My tenth birthday rolled around and the only celebration was the Super Bowl game on television. My mother tried to comfort me about my father's own selfishness, but it didn't change him. She didn't know why we despised each other so much, or, at least, she pretended as if she didn't. Miley and Loran progressively grew older, learning more ways to manipulate my father into thinking that their lies were accurate. This happened two years in a row, and still, all I had was music to pull me through. But eventually, the man who was supposed to be recognized as my loving and caring father, lashed out on me. And it was a day I would never forget.

Tears flowed from my eyes like white river rapids and I held my hands against them, urging them to stop. "Look at me when I talk to you!" the furious man shouted.

I choked on my sobs, pulling my hands from my eyes as I gazed up at him. He laughed hatefully and said, "You're pathetic! I'll stop once you stop crying!"

My eyes flared with fear and I took off down the hallway, trying to reach my room to lock him out of, but he grabbed my wrist before I could turn the handle. He slammed his other hand onto my door with rage. His face was red, his eyes showed no sign of mercy, and I felt so small and alone, even with everyone else in the house. I screamed at his face, "Let me go!" with tears staining my cheeks.

"Not until you stop crying!" he hissed in return, tightening his hold on my wrist.

"How am I sup-posed t-to st-op?" I wailed, trying my best to pull away from him.

"By being a man, you dumbass." He growled while snatching my other wrist with his free hand. And before I knew it, he was gripping my wrists so tightly that I couldn't move anywhere. He then dragged me to my sisters' room, and heavily tossed me onto their toy chest. My head slammed onto its side, leaving me temporarily dazed and my arms clearly bruised. Then my mother opened up her bedroom door, and shouted at him for a few moments, leaving their verbal battle in the hallway. Eventually, he stormed out, but I couldn't quite stop shaking with fear. It was a day I would never forgive him for, and something I would hold against him for the rest of my life.

The physical abuse that I hid for years stopped after that. Nicole and I went our separate ways in result of my family moving across town. Then I had to go a different middle school than the rest of the people I grew up with were going to. My sixth grade year I met new people, made new friends, it was pretty decent. But of course, when things are looking up, something always comes to crash it down.

During seventh grade I hit a major depression. My social studies teacher seemed to recognize my sudden lack of attention and pulling myself from any social activity. He pulled me aside from class one day, and told me to come talk to him. We talked, cried, and he shared his story about his continuing battle with depression. He gave me his email and we stayed in touch throughout every year after that.

In my eighth grade year, my best friend told me he was bisexual. I was shocked, because that meant I had someone in the same boat as me. We occasionally pranced around holding hands, laughing like typical female best friends did. We were assumed to be gay because of that, and for a while we just ignored it. But then during our first year of high school, the remarks became more hateful, and very few people came to our defense.

My best friend came out to his parents and told them about the bullying we had been receiving for the past two years. He transferred schools the following week. I didn't have the guts to come out to my parents, even though my mother and I were extremely close now. And with the scars my father had left on me, I did want to start a new batch of hatred from him. I just told them that I was being bullied and no one was supporting me, especially since my best friend had moved away. So technically, I wasn't lying to them at all. They refused to transfer me mid-term. They agreed I could start my sophomore year at a preppy boys' private boarding school. I couldn't ask for anything more.

I joined choir during my freshman year, and avoided jocks at all costs. I wasn't much of a sporty person myself, so music and grades was all I had to my name. I hated freshman choir, but I also loved it. It was a break from everything else, to let loose for one period a day. The choir teacher freaked me out, and her choice on music was horrifying. I was more of a pop-punk, punk, and rock type of guy; not much of a ballad, 50's-80's pop, and gospel singer. But in the end, I believed it was worth it.

Towards the end of my freshman year, I pulled out a guitar I got four years and started to teach myself how to play. By the end of the summer, learned how to play two Katy Perry songs, one song by All Time Low, another by Imagine Dragons, and finally one by P!nk. I was usually busy working, to make some pocket money and be able to pay my monthly phone bill.

Finally, it was time to move schools and board at a zero-tolerance bullying school, known by the title of Dalton Academy. I wanted to change everything about me that I could. I dyed my hair dark brown, I styled my bangs to hide half of my left blue eye. I didn't have to really worry about my clothing, because Dalton had a uniform; a dapper blazer, gray dress slacks, a white dress undershirt, a matching tie, and black dress shoes. It didn't take long to get used to the newer surroundings, and basically everyone was extremely accepting here. I brought my acoustic and electric guitar when I boarded, and had a routine of practicing every morning while I ate a bit of my breakfast slightly earlier than most people in the morning. I loved it here, and for the first time in my life, I felt like I was home.