"Blaine?"

Mrs Anderson fought back a sigh as her eight year old son blissfully ignored her cooing, only continuing to run his fingertips across the ivory keys of a grand piano sat in their living room, filling the vacant space with loud, abrasive music.

She'd had her concerns about Blaine's mental state since the mere age of one. He'd failed to begin anything other than sharp, sickening cries and chilling stares with honey eyes. Despite the constant attempts of prying his attention with brightly coloured toys and treats, Blaine refused to spare his parents a glance when they called him.

When Blaine began infant school, his mother and father hoped he'd crack open his shell and blossom into the son they'd always wanted – a bright, academically and personality wise, young boy with a dazzling smile and a way with the ladies. However, as days flew by, Mr Anderson had spent more time away from the office taking calls from frantic, concerned teachers reporting Blaine's odd behaviour.

The first of the calls had been shortly into Blaine's second day. All the children had been called to play. Small boys ran circles around the playground with their arms spread wide, lips smacking together as they soared through the sky as though fighter pilots in a war zone. Young girls skipped with cheerful smiles on their faces, their hands slapping quickly as they sang nursery rhymes and laughed. All accept for Blaine.

His teacher's had tried to force him into the playground with the other children, only to have him grunt and whine, pushing his weight against the carpet. Eventually, they gave up, watching with interest as he crawled toward the slew of toys scattered about the floor.

Carefully, his frail hands and brought all the toys together, setting them in lines and patterns. As he fixated the lines and tucked the toys into place, his teacher's had shared worried glances. Once completed, Blaine simply sat beside the toys, face void of any emotion and eyes glued to his scuffed shoes.

After endless days spent stressing and panicking, Blaine's teachers discussed the possibility of the young boy struggling with a learning difficulty. At once, his parent's had denied it – although they so desperately desired to understand why their son seemed so different.

At age five, after months of struggles, fits of rage and endless tests, doctors had diagnosed Blaine with autism. Along with the news came new problems – new boundaries and difficulties. Cooper, Blaine's brother, had enjoyed teasing him, only proceeding to work up his little brother into a state of uncontrollable anger.

Mrs Anderson was so desperate to just reach out, tangle her slim hands within Blaine's messy curls and just show him the love she had for him. But she knew if she tried to do so, it'd take too long to calm him down considering he ought to be heading for bed soon.

As Blaine grew older, his condition seemed to worsen. His parents could barely even graze him without a flinch or a howl emitting from the small boy. His schools days were unbearable. Just an endless line of special case workers sat by his side, trying anything and everything to grab Blaine's attention long enough to teach him something.

On Blaine's sixteenth birthday, the lonely boy sat silent against the large couch, hands dancing through one another. His parents stood anxiously before him, Cooper had abandoned them for a friend's party – explaining that it'd be more fun than sitting around mourning about Blaine as though they'd lost him to a tragic accident years ago.

"Blaine," his mother whispered, crouching down beside him, biting her lip as he flinched. "Blaine, dear. We love you very much!"

"We do love you, son," Mr Anderson sighed, placing a hand on his wife's shoulder. "And we're doing this because we love you. It's clear you're not going to make any progress at that jack shit school of yours. Special case workers, my ass! We've done a lot of research and we think we've found you the perfect place-"

"It really is wonderful, Blaine," his mother fussed. "You'll love it there! You'll make lots of new friends and you'll be in a safe place where people know how to take care of you, okay? And they have lots of musical instruments and you can play the piano! We'll visit every weekend, we promise. It's, well, we're not sending you away because we don't want you here, Blaine. We're doing this for you. The doctors there say they can find a new medication that'll help calm you down and, and maybe we can make some progress with getting you to talk, right? I-it's worth a shot, Blaine."

Mr and Mrs Anderson weren't really sure why they were explaining the whole situation to their son – it wasn't although he understood. Perhaps it just gave them a sense of peace. Carefully, they placed several leaflets against the coffee table before leaving the room to cut Blaine's birthday cake.

The young boy sat motionless, pained eyes glaring at the booklets his parents had just left behind.

Mountville Institution.