10. Tristan's father

It was morning. Kristina's eyes stung, and she couldn't care less - they weren't hers in the first place. When she was little, she believed that once morning came with its light, no worry or dire thought could remain on her mind. However, it could, it did. 

She grabbed the big stuffed cat lying next to her. 

"Is this real? I'm not just dreaming, am I?" She asked the plushy. "This is not a dream? Tell me it isn't! Tell me I'm not mad!" she whisper-screamed and squished the cat. Of course, this plushy didn't respond. She threw the plushy across the room.

It should've been a dream, mere delirium prolonging her last moments before death. It should've been her brain slowly giving up and coming up with this ridiculous reality where she possesses Tristan's body. But was it only that? 

Tristan reached to grab his throat. Kristina despised his deep voice - it wasn't hers. It wasn't hers. This voice she once adored made her head ring.

The room slowly filled with quiet, muffled sobs. Kristina couldn't remember when she learned to cry quietly. 

Tristan closed his eyes for a moment, tears tracing down his cheeks. However, he opened them as if lightning struck him - Kristina looking through them. The door swung open, and a brute who almost broke down the door? That was Tristan's father.

The man reeked of cheap vodka - its familiar stench hung low in the air. He huffed like a crazed dog as he sloppily walked to Tristan. 

"Dad," Anne appeared behind him, "he is sick!" Anne grabbed her father in an attempt to drag him away. 

"And what about it?!" her father spat back as he shoved Anne on the cold floor. Anne groaned, mumbling something incoherent. Before Kristina could process what was happening, sharp pain rose in her stomach - Tristan's dad punched him. Tristan closed his eyes in defeat. 

"Is this how you greet your father?" his father hissed, "Pretending to be sick, this isn't how I raised you!" He swung his arm back to hit his son again like a punching bag. Tristan turned his head away, eyes closed shut. This empty shell of man grabbed Tristan's hand, the sheer force of his grip crushing Tristan's wrist.

Tristan's body didn't react much to this - was his body used to this? Was he used to this? This realization scared Kristina to her core.

However, she grew detached and numb as more punches landed on Tristan's body. After all, Kristina was now merely a soul, consciousness occupying Tristan's body - nothing more, nothing less. The tears dried up, leaving light traces. 

The hand determined to taint Tristan's body stopped, getting a hold of his chin, forcing him to look up. "You look just like your mother." Tristan opened his eyes forcefully. If pupils could quiver, this was the very instance they would.

As his father unleashed this rage, Tristan left his eyes closed.

A different scene unfolded before Kristina, something from the past.

"Henry, I didn't kill her!" Kristina wept, her eyes begging to be trusted. "I swear, I didn't!"

Henry gritted his teeth, holding back. "Why would I kill my own-" A firm slap landed on her cheek before she could finish. 

"So why didn't you call an ambulance?!" Henry's voice shook. He was on the verge of breaking down. "What if she was still alive? Even if you didn't kill her, your actions did! You killed her!" Henry's voice was sharp, harshly sharp as an old blade - unable to be sharpened anymore.

After a year-long investigation, accusations, and endless hours spent in the interrogation room - Kristina was proven innocent. The search for Millen's murderer was temporarily put down - due to a lack of evidence. And perhaps this angered Henry the most. In his eyes, Kristina was the sole murderer of his wife.

In the corner of her eye, Kristina saw Alec. He watched them from afar, leaning against a wall. Kristina opened her mouth, her gaze traveling back to Henry. She couldn't force out even a peep as she noticed the palpable disgust playing with Henry's features. Her gaze flicked back to Alec to catch his light smirk.

Tristan's eyelashes fluttered open forcefully, glued by his dried-up tears. He sat on the floor, back leaning against the moldy wall. Anne quietly tended to his wounds, even though there wasn't much she could do. The only unharmed place was Tristan's face, along with every part that couldn't be hidden by clothing. Tristan slowly looked around. "He is gone," Anne mumbled. Their father was gone again. 

Kristina felt the pain, no matter how foreign it felt, experiencing it through Tristan's body.

Anne didn't say a word after that, and Kristina? Kristina wanted to ask. She wanted to know what Tristan kept hidden. However, she feared the possibility of Anne noticing that her brother was no longer himself.

Kristina realized how little she knew about her friend. She now knew what hid behind his smile, his carelessness.

'So this is why he spend so much time at our house.' - Only this simple thought remained.