14. Tristan's mother

What if the only resolution your brain sees is for you to become mad, berserk?

They cannot chain her down; no one ever could. No one could chain down her seemingly limitless imagination. However, this wasn't something to brag about. Maybe she knew why the adult mind lost its childlike fantasy all along - it was for the best. 

She looked at her children - they'd grown so much. 'When was the last time I saw them?'

"They're good to me," she saw the worried expression of her husband disappear.

'I don't take my meds, forgive me for that - they make everything so quiet, excruciatingly quiet. Do they talk to me? Oh, yes, they do, all the time.' - she answered the rest in her head, too afraid to speak her mind.

She smiled at her daughter, who released her from a hug. Then she locked eyes with Tristan, her only son. She couldn't help but sense a subtle change. What changed, you may ask? 

She closed her eyes, trying to find a resemblance of peace. But instead of silence, a cacophony of voices greet her - each fighting for her attention. Even the usually calm, alluring voice started shouting.

/Something is different!/ /This is not your son!/ 

'He isn't?' 

She couldn't let her mind get swallowed by doubt again. Not again.

/Of course not!/ /His eyes-/ /No it's his stance!/ /NO, it's his-/

"How have you been, my dear children?" she asked, attempting to ignore them - the voices in her head. She should've taken her meds.

When this simple question left her lips, her eyes locked on Tristan. She felt terrible for suspecting her son of not being himself, though confirming he is indeed her child would put her mind at ease. 

"As always, Mom," Anne answered with a beaming smile.

/Anne is fine./ /But why won't that brat speak?!/ /OH, NO-/ 

/He is hiding something!/ - The voices said in an eerie harmony.

Tristan stayed silent. His silence merely fueled a suspicion he was unaware of. 'Is he shy?'

He was silent because it was true. He had no clue how to act around his mother, and why was that? Oh, dear, the truth was far more tangled and complex than someone could ever imagine. Therefore, no voices in the head, no stray thought would naturally stumble close to the truth. The truth was that Tristan's body was now, I dare say, possessed by Kristina's soul. Tristan was now merely a shell controlled by Kristina. 

Anne's beaming smile never faded as she led her mother to the kitchen.

The sight of the broken glass made her stop, hand clutched at her pretty dress, wrinkling the fabric.

/Were they fighting?/ /Something doesn't seem right./ /Gosh, you rarely come here, and yet-/

She never noticed the hints of abuse in the house she left her kids in. Or maybe she did notice but somehow denied it, convincing herself that this could be nothing more than madness slowly eating away at her sanity - this was as far as her concern went.

"Oh, you silly. When did you manage to break a glass," she said lightheartedly, grabbing a broom and sweeping away the shards. Tristan stood at the entrance to the kitchen, leaning against a wall.

His father approached her from behind, hugging his wife loosely while taking away a broom. "Honey, don't sweep. The children were careless. Don't mind the mess - I'll clean it up."

'So it was like this.' - Kristina thought as she looked at the shattered glass. Tristan's dad was like a mad dog barking until his owner came home - his wife. However, this doesn't justify his actions in the slightest! The way he treats his children-

They had a lovely lunch, no one spoke about the nasty things, no one mentioned how they truly felt - they had a lovely lunch. They had a lovely lunch in a house filled with pain masked by fake smiles and a fleeting illusion of normalcy.

Anne left the dining room, her hand clutching a piece of paper, a note - 'I'll be back.' Her mother did come back, but for how long? How long can she enjoy this peace? How long until her mother leaves again? 

Tristan was left alone with his mother. 

She looked at him. Something wasn't right. She crossed her legs restlessly.

/Of course./ /That's what I was talking about./ /Right, right./ 

/Look at him - this can't be your son!/ - she listened as if this sentence alone confirmed her suspicion.

Tristan turned around, and suddenly - the room seemed dim. It was as if the sun quenched for a moment precisely to create an ugly shadow of Tristan. To create a shadow in which a mind hopelessly searching for meaning is perceived as evil.

/This is not your son!/ /Run! Run!/ /He's a devil!/

She bit her lip, stood up, and strolled to the bathroom. She closed the door. The cold water against her skin allowed her to clear her head partially. She looked at her reflection in the mirror, swallowing a singular pill. 'It's going to be awfully quiet today.' 

The voices went silent.