In Memory of...

[Tristan]

[Note: I've never been to France, so most of this will be based on writer's prerogative. I also have no idea about orphanages in Lyon, so, again, writer's prerogative.]



Orphelinat de Lyon
Lyon, France
January 6, 1994

It started out as a normal, if very cold, January morning for six year old Tristan Renoir. The anniversary of his parents’ death had past the previous month and he’d tried to remain holed up in the orphanage’s basement, but Mademoiselle Fournier would not allow him to do so.

“You must be social, Tristan. What will the other boys think?”

“Children are meant to play outdoors, Tristan.”

“You’re getting too old for games such as this, Tristan.”

He spat irritably as he attempted to worm his way into the old shed, figuring this would be as good a hiding spot as any from the older boys who loved to torment him. He was too pale, too quiet. He cried in his sleep, he had terrible nightmares, he was better with the scant electronics they had. They found any reason, especially Anton. Anton was, of course, the biggest and arguably the most intellectually deficient of the ruling group of boys and therefore their leader. Tristan was their favourite target.

“Trissy, what’re you doin’ in there? Little boys shouldn’t play by themselves.”

Not even given a chance to run for it, two boys grabbed Tristan’s arms and began dragging him through the snow towards the flagpole. He struggled, thrashing his body around and yelling for help. That only seemed to egg the others on, their raucous laughter echoing in the chilly air.

“Don’t you wanna be up high? Where poor old mom and dad were when you made ‘em die?”

He began thrashing all the more at that, nearly twisting his arms out of the sockets in an effort to get away. They had done this to him before, only reinforcing his fear of heights to the point where stairs had become a challenge. With effort, he managed to wrench one arm free and punch the boy holding the other. It did glancing damage, enough to startle the other boys and give Tristan enough room to get free.

His shoulder ripped out of place, but he didn’t scream out, instead he blanked his face, shoving everything into the back of his mind as he ran, thin shoes slipping on ice and snow as he made a break for the gate of the yard.

Thin legs more used to crouching and crawling began to cramp, but he kept running, determined to leave this place once and for all. Tristan didn’t look back as he shoved the gate further open with a bony shoulder and took off down the street, slipping into a crawlspace when he decided he’d gone far enough.

Heart hammering, he waited, and decided that he wouldn’t ever give anyone the satisfaction of seeing what they did to him. Never again would he be the boy he’d left behind in that yard. Mademoiselle Fournier be damned.

Tristan gathered up part of his sleeve and bit down on it, ramming his shoulder into the side of the space to pop it back into place. He muffled his yelp of pain, scuffling further back to make sure that if someone had heard him, he wouldn’t be seen.

And some things…some things didn’t need to be.