Silence | Book 2

2-11: Tiptoe

"Tristan! Wake up!" A hard hit against the side of his bed violently woke him from his sleep. With a shock he opened his eyes and sat up, leaning on one elbow only to see his mother.

"Huh?" He asked drowsily, not having had nearly enough sleep after the hellish night he'd endured at church.

"Get the fock out of bed, stop being lazy. Sloth is a sin and the Lord will see you." She responded angrily, but he was simply too tired to process the anger. Especially when he didn't know why.

"I'll get up mum." He mumbled, as he gave her a sleep-heavy nod.

"Don't make me,-" In her frustration with him, she raised one of her hands as a threat. The sight immediately caused his adrenaline to spike; he pulled the blanket up and lifted his own arm to catch the blow. But she never hit him, and instead he was left to look up at her in rather confused fear.

"I'm up. I'll get dressed, just give me five?" He pleaded softly, knowing that if only he sounded meek and subservient enough she wouldn't get angrier.

"Be quick." She scowled, as she stepped away and walked out of the attic.

Despite how tired he was, he knew that if he fell asleep now he'd be waking up to hell.

Mere minutes later, he was up and dressed in his old hoodie and a T-shirt. Yawning he stumbled into the kitchen, searching for his mother. Instead all he found was an unkempt mess, which was left from a dinner the evening before he hadn't even been present for. Rather frustrated he let out a groan and ran a hand through his hair – only to be reminded by some scratchy stubble that he hadn't shaved.

Driven solely by annoyance, he grabbed all the dishes and set to doing them. He knew well enough that if he didn't look busy with something, his mother would be angry. So he tried his very best to scrub the plates and pots, feeling more and more worn down by the minute. By then all the fragile self-worth he had built up had been eroded by his surroundings. His mother's constant disapproval, the filthy house that reeked of smoke, and the obsessive worship of an unkind God removed any hope of being refined – at the end of the day, he was a part of this.

While lost in thoughts, he scrubbed his way through the mess of pans. The idea of believing still haunted him, especially the years and years he had been told he would burn in hell. But the more he thought about it, the more things started to connect: why God hated him, why God had forgiveness for the worst but couldn't overlook his smallest missteps, why his mother was so fervently obsessed with her religion. It was her excuse; her own cruel desires raised up as divine, that he would have to worship.

The realisation angered him, knowing that for so long he had been kept under control by nothing but elevated ego. Even though he hadn't believed in God for quite a while, he now knew what her god was. What it really was that threatened him to burn in hellfire and that hated every misstep he made; his own mother. Somehow that hurt worse, even though he accepted that she disliked him, it still ached in his heart.

In a state of soreness, he harshly scrubbed the plates, sending soap and water everywhere but he didn't care. He was filthy, he was unloved – it didn't matter. All he wanted was to get it over with.

"Triss?" The soft, slightly drowsy voice made him glance at the doorway, only to see Anya give him a confused and tired look.

"Good morning." Even though he tried to sound happy, he nearly hissed the words between his clenched jaw. Realising that he wasn't in the right mood, he continued to scrub at a frustrating bit of caked on dirt.