The dark house reeked of piss and alcohol. Tristan traced his fingers over every wound in the scarred, staircase wall. Memories of his sisters screams and tears, his fathers curses, hungry hands, biting fists, muffled cries through choke holds, blood and god knows what else that stained the walls flashed behind his eyes as he made his way up. This was a house of violence and as long as he and his sister had lived there no ones screams could be heard over his fathers. Tristan calmly walked up the stairs, preparing to finally scream the loudest of all without taking a single breath.