A Home for Burnt Boys (*Currently writing*)

Chapter One - Blue Lies

It was all because of Bagatelle No. 25 by Ludwig van Beethoven.

It used to be my favourite piano piece to play before my mother passed, but that was mostly because she loved when I played that piece. It was the last ever piece I played to my mother, the piece I played mere minutes before the fire. A pain courses through my chest. My heart hurts when I think about her. I was so different then; my life was so different then. But all good things must come to an end.

My head turns towards my father. He's currently on the phone; it must be work as usual. My father, Martin, is one of the only reasons that I'm ok with being shipped off to a place I don't know. He makes going away seem like something wonderful because being thousands of miles away from him would be terrific. We have always had a mutual hate but tolerant relationship, but since my mother passed away four years ago, our relationship has transformed into just a hate relationship.

It was his new wife's idea to send me away. She said that I wasn't a good role model for the new baby and that my depression was taking up too much of her and my father's time. I scoffed, rolling my eyes. Like she and my father have ever given me any of their time. I feel sorry for their new baby because it's going to have to be resilient to live with those two as parents.

I'm Alexander, but my mother used to call me Xan which is pronounced Zan. I'm almost eighteen, my birthday's five months away in February. I have been diagnosed with Clinical Depression and Bipolar Disorder.

My bipolar disorder makes me feel low, but it also makes me feel fantastic. Sometimes I feel like I'm on top of the world, but other times I feel like I'm a worthless piece of shit. And today is one of those times. I don't understand how taking me out of a familiar environment, where I feel comfortable, and putting me in a new country, with new people and new everything is going to help me get better. I don't need to get better; I need to be with my mother.

My father doesn't even care about me, so his excuse is total and utter bullshit. He wants to erase me and start a new happy life with his new wife and kid. I scoffed like I even wanted to be a part of his stupid fake family. I hope he never finds happiness.

A massive gothic looking building came into my view. It looked as though it had three floors and each floor had a few large windows and four balconies. The bottom floor of the building had a sizable door that hung dominantly. This wasn't what I was expecting.

The car halted, the driver turned to say something to my father, but I couldn't hear what it was because of Preludes, Op.28 by Frederic Chopin. I love to listen to piano pieces; they bring me to a place of peace and serenity. They help me uncloud my mind, and they remind me of Luna. But not in a crummy way that makes me gloomy but in a kind of nostalgic way.

My father pushes his car door open and steps out; the driver does the same. I remain in the car. What if they don't like me or I do something stupid, and they hate me for it? It's not even like I can escape and go somewhere I feel safe, I don't know anywhere in Amsterdam. It seems to be very beautiful and peaceful from what I've seen in the taxi, but appearances can be deceiving.

I want to go home, not the six hours ago home but the six years ago home when Luna was there and when my mental illnesses were not as apparent. I huff in frustration and lean my head in my hands. The first chance I get I'm going to leave and be with my mother.

My car door is opened quickly. I pretend not to notice, and a hand touches my shoulder. I jump up and shout, "Don't fucking touch me!" My breath hitches when I see it's not my father, but a beautiful man with caramel eyes and hair, kneeling beside the car.

His brows are furrowed, and his lips are pulled into a tight frown, my lips mimic him, his frown must be contagious. I feel a sudden need to remove the frown from his face, I take out my headphones and curse myself for attempting to be friendly. I'm not friendly; I'm the opposite.