A/N: No physical abuse shown, but a bloody scene. Probably not worth noting, but just in case.
This was how his life would be for the rest of his days, Alex thought, months later, sitting in his room. he rarely left. his father wouldn't let him.
Whenever he went to work, he locked Alex and his mother in their bedrooms like unruly teenagers. They were left there hours, sometimes more. Once, he went out drinking and passed out in the pub. He forgot about them and left them for two days.
There was no food or water during those times, those long hours every day. When he was let out, Alex would get big bowls of water and hide them under his bed so he wouldn't die.
They had come close before.
When he was out of his room, which was really very rarely, he read. He wasn't getting lessons any more, there was no time for that. Most people his age were at school already, getting tutored, and playing on the beach.
Not Alex.
He was locked away to play games with himself.
He had a few toys from when he was younger, but not much else. Luckily, had a huge imagination.
He picked up a chunk of wood from the floor. It became a carriage before his eyes - bright and beautiful, not a scratch on it. He held it up against a badly carved horse. His dad had made it for him when he was a baby. The plain wood changed before him into a sleek, deep brown coat. It's mane was the softest thing you had ever seen.
He began playing a game with all his toy soldiers (sticks he found in the garden a long time ago), forming two troops, making the two sides wage war on each other. the carriage and horse took the wounded to and from the hospital, fixing them up as it went by tying pieces of string around them like bandages...
Alex played this game for hours and hours. It was the most interesting that happened in his life.
Or so he thought.
You see, Alex really believed that he lived in his room, only leaving to read new books and gather new sticks for soldiers. But that was far from the truth.
A year ago, Alex's mind split, unable to cope with the pain his father inflicted on him. But now Alex had no memory of the attack. That was the information that was hidden from him by the new section.
The section had its own name, its own personality, its own memories. And none of them were positive.
The personality came out whenever he was in danger; or believed himself to be. He was a terrified four year old; screaming, crying, no different from that night. He didn't age, didn't change, and when he wasn't needed, he shrank away into his own mind and let Alex back out.
Alex created him so he wouldn't have to remember. So now he doesn't.
He has no idea what goes on when his father gets home from work; how he comes in always drunk, always in a rage. He came in and beat his wife, slapped his son, neglected them, locked them away again for later.
Alex was beaten less than his mother, not that he remembered any of it anyway. james sometimes let Rachel out of her bedroom, to cook him meals and clean up her own blood from the night before. To ensure she stayed inside, he threatened her, told her exactly what he would do when he caught her again, told her that if she left, he would kill Alexander.
In return for staying, Rachel only asked for her son to be spared the violence he demonstrated on her.
She was mostly successful. But sometimes, when Rachel passed out too quickly and James still hd energy left, there was nothing stopping him from dragging his son out to look at his mother's lifeless body and beating him. "You deserve this, son!" He screamed. That was why the personality assumed it was named Son.
It was Son who took the beatings. Under high stress, fear or pain, he would come and cower, protecting Alex from his own father.
This went on for months - a loop of being locked away, beaten and starved, then locked up again. Son stayed out until the pain that lingered was mostly gone. Alex just thought he had a really bad bed and a stiff back brom sitting on the floor all day. There were no mirrors, so he couldn't see the scars that remained on his back, even years later.
One day, his father came into his room, demanding not for him to come with him and 'grab the belt on your way past', but to come and clean the house.
He dusted the shelved, stocked the fire, picked up the objects lying on the floor and swept up broken glass that had been broken during his father's last drunken rage. A little while later, he was called into his mother's room to clean up after her most recent battering.
"Coming, father!" He called, picking up the sponge he was using to wipe the floors with, prepared to clean another room. It was better than sitting in his room all day.
What he was not prepared for was the sight that met him when he opened the door.
Blood everywhere. The carpet, the walls, the bed... The stench was everywhere, it seemed to seep into Alex's brain, making him feel faint. There was a foot sticking out from behind the bed, and he knew just who's unconscious form it was.
"If you cry, I will make sure there's something to cry about," James growled, gesturing for him to start cleaning.
Alex stood, frozen, fighting for calm. He could feel Son just at the front of his mind, so, so close. But he couldn't give in to the fear. He had to make his father proud. But how could he clean up his own mother's blood?
Torn between crying, screaming and running, he did what he had learned to do many months before.
He split off a chunk of his mind again.
It would be the part of him to deal with any situation where he would rather run. It became his obedience.
The personality came forward, locking away the memories.
"Come on, get cleaning like the little housewife I know you are," James said.
The personality decided then and there that it must be a girl, and chose the name June for herself.
"Now!"
She knelt by the door, picked up her sponge and started scrubbing.