Aiden was born into a healthy family, or so as he thought at the time. As a small child he barely knew right from wrong and he didn't get out as much as the other kids did, not only because his parents would keep him inside but because he was terrified of people not accepting him. A small child shouldn't have any of those fears, yet he did. When he was four years old and summer rolled over, he would be out of preschool for awhile and watch the other kids with their parents walking down the street hand in hand, giggling, having fun, occasionally he would see a family eating ice cream together. He wanted this attention from his parents, but every time he would look back from the window and into the kitchen towards where they were, they would both have their back turned to him and their heads pressed together. He had no clue what they were doing, but he knew they didn't have time for him. A four year old shouldn't feel like his parents didn't have time for him, but Aiden was feeling a lot of things. Too many emotions for a small child.
At the age of seven he began to become more social, he had a few select friends that he would talk to every once in a while but otherwise he was a kid who liked to stay inside. An introvert at age seven. His parents still didn't care and whenever he brought it up and actually used his words for once, he would be greeted with the harshest of words, a slap, a whip from his fathers belt, and a glare from his mother. Occasionally he would have a bruise or two from the constant hits and his eyes would be red when he went to school, and at his second grade Christmas music program he froze up when he saw his father in the audience, glaring, watching with judgmental eyes that he couldn't handle, he ended up fainting, falling off the top of the fourth stair of the rise he was standing on, and hitting his head off of the floor in the middle of it. It hurt a lot but somehow didn't seem to have any side effects, but a few weeks later he began to make doodles on his papers that a second grader shouldn't be making. One of them was a self portrait, two black eyes and a bleeding forehead and tears down his cheeks, a mixture of crayon and markers making the picture even more so strange than it already was.
When he was ten years old, he got a bike. His parents didn't get it for him, he stole it from someone he didn't know. He didn't get caught for it and he's been riding down the street with it for four months just to get away from his home. Usually he would take a ride after getting physically or sexually abused by his father, or after getting put down by his mother. He would be riding down the street with tears in his eyes and his rear end off the seat as he gave it all he had to go as fast as he can. It made him feel independent. He was good at it, he thought that was the only thing he was good at, even, because he didn't believe he was good at anything else. All of the friends he had made had began to turn on him, made fun of him, they were scared of him, even. As he aged, his drawings got worse and more realistic, he would stay in the art room after school for hours before going home. After his eleventh birthday in February, his parents left him at a supermarket. He wouldn't leave until he found them but he realized that they had left without him. He didn't ask for help, he seemed to be invisible, not only because he got bumped into a lot during the time but because he was locked in for two days and no one even noticed.
When he was sixteen years old, there was an accident. His father hit him in the head with a bottle of whiskey and his mother laughed at him. Laughed at him. This was the point in his life where he couldn't take it anymore. He was a junior in high school with barely any friends, no job, a family that hated his guts and no siblings, only his cell phone and gaming systems to keep him company. One night he ended up going into his fathers closet and finding a case, picking the lock to open it, and pulling out what was inside.
A .357 Magnum Python, fully loaded and ready to kill.
He pointed it at his father as he slept, studied his breathing patterns before he began yelling at him, screaming about how much he hated him and how much he hated the abuse he's been put through for all of his life. Eventually his mother woke up as well and tried to stop him, but he hit her in the head with the side of the gun and ended up knocking her out, then climbing on top of his father, holding him down by the throat, and pressing the gun against his forehead, murmuring a few last words to his father, "I'll see you in hell when I die."
When the police department came, he claimed it was self defense. His mother took his side as well because she knew what her son was capable of, and at the age of eighteen, he had more than one complete personality and a full blown disorder. Dissociative identity disorder. He named every side of him to avoid confusion for himself and others, his remaining friends and future ones.
Aiden was himself. Normal. Loving, giggly, bubbly. He loved puppies but was terribly afraid of the dark, he was always needy for the attention he wasn't given all his life. He wanted the acceptance he always craved. Christopher, on the other hand, was much more mature. He was independent, he didn't need anyone else but himself and refused any help from anyone else. Casper was jittery. He was always moving, squirming, bouncing his leg and tapping his finger against something. He was paranoid and scared, always on the verge of tears and needing constant reassurance because in this state of mind absolutely anything scares him. Alixander, however, was the worst one of them all. The most irritable, the one to hurt you without hesitation if you cross him wrong or make him feel how his parents made him feel.
ADDITIONAL/GENERAL INFORMATION: Name: Aiden Xapham Styles. (Refers to himself as "we" when his personalities start acting up.) Age: Twenty years old. Height: Five foot eight. Sexuality: Homoflexible. Likes: The rain, winter, holidays, sleeping, hugs. Dislikes: Thunderstorms, being left alone, rude people.
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