TRISTEN
It had been loud.
The knock on the door that had torn his life apart.
It had been very, very loud.
He does not remember what six year old him had been wearing that day.
He does not remember what had been in the cold blue bowl that was to be the first real meal he would be having since she had disappeared the night before.
But Tristen remembers the knock.
He remembers the oil-less squeak of the door as it had swung open to reveal his father in it’s yawning mouth,
And he remembers the way her body, limp and unmoving and laid lifeless in his father’s arms.
It had been the Year of the culling and his mother would never open her eyes again.
Tristen does not remember crying.
Not in that moment and definitely not in front of his father.
But he remembers that knock on the do
