Chapter 5 The dream III

The morning light, a pale gold seeping through the curtains, woke Alastor. He sat up, a wave of dizziness washing over him, then the sounds of hushed voices and the delicate clinking of china registered. It was his birthday. A strange, unfamiliar feeling bloomed in his chest – a mixture of apprehension and a hesitant, fragile hope. He'd never celebrated a birthday before or even celebrate with anyone at all. The concept itself felt alien, a luxury he'd never afforded himself in the harsh reality of the alleyways after all his trying to survive in that hursh environment.

The hum, usually a persistent undercurrent, was stronger today, almost festive, a saccharine overlay on its usual menacing tone. It vibrated with a deceptive sweetness, a cruel parody of genuine joy. His dream mother's voice called from downstairs, a melody of false affection, "Alastor, dear, are you awake? Come down; we have a surprise for you!" " Am on my way mom" Alastor replied while getting dressed

He slowly got dressed, the unfamiliar textures of clean clothes against his skin sending a wave of disorientation through him. The simple act of choosing clothes, of preparing for a celebration, felt almost surreal. As he descended the stairs, the aroma of baking bread and something sweet – cake – filled his nostrils, battling with the ever-present, cloying sweetness of the dream itself.

He found them in the kitchen, his dream parents, their faces alight with what he knew to be an artificial affection but affection never the less. Their smiles were too wide, too perfect, the joy radiating from them too bright, too intense. It wasn't genuine happiness; it was an elaborate performance, a carefully crafted trap designed to lull him into complacency. The meticulously set table, the gleaming china, the carefully arranged flowers and the neatly placed table and even the decorations every detail screamed of a manufactured perfection that bordered on grotesque.

A magnificent cake stood as the centerpiece, a towering creation of spun sugar, frosting, and delicate decorations. Candles, eighteen of them, burned brightly, casting a flickering, deceptive glow on the scene,each of this candles only reminded him of the years he spent alone, with out anyone . His dream mother rushed toward him, her embrace warm and almost suffocating. His dream father clapped him on the back, his smile almost painfully bright. This manufactured warmth was stifling, the perfect facade hiding something cold and dangerous. It was a suffocating comfort designed to erode his sense of self and make him fall for this illusion. the dream knew a perfect way to trap the people in it.

They launched into the familiar birthday ritual, singing a song Alastor vaguely recognized from overheard snippets in the distant past. He mumbled the words along with them, a strange sense of both pleasure and revulsion washing over him. The moment, this perfect, impossible moment, was simultaneously beautiful and terrifying. He allowed himself to sink into it, to savor the illusion of love and acceptance that he'd so desperately craved, recognizing this as the final test, the ultimate manipulation set out to trap him.

" okay Alastor my boy, it's time for you to cut the cake dear" she said wiping a tear from her eyes.

Then, his dream mother presented him with the knife, its polished steel gleaming under the candlelight. The knife was for cutting the cake, but the moment the cold metal touched his fingers, the truth, cold and sharp, pierced through the illusion. The hum intensified, a discordant note breaking the sweetness, and he knew what had to be done. The knife wasn't a tool for a simple task; it was a weapon, a weapon had to use not to cut the cake but to cute through this illusion, this lie.

His heart pounded, a frantic drum against the steady beat of the hum, a visceral struggle against the overwhelming tide of manufactured affection. He looked into his dream mother's eyes, saw the carefully constructed facade crumble for a second, revealing a flicker of something ancient and cold in the depths, before he acted. The knife flashed, the sweetness of the scene dissolving into a harsh reality of blood and terror. A choked sob ripped through him, a sound swallowed by his own screams, of what he had to do and it was a bitter pill to swallow even for him.

with every stab of the knife through his parents broke something in him and the worst of it all his parents couldn't stop him. Alastor knew he wouldn't be the same after this, the once happy life he lived was destroyed not by someone else but was destroyed but him, by his own two hands and his was helpless to do anything about it.

The ensuing chaos was a brutal, visceral dance between the desperate clinging to the illusion and the furious, liberating act of shattering it. Each death, each moment of violence, was a desperate struggle against the seductive pull of the dream, against the lie that he could find peace and belonging within its confines. His tears streamed freely now, mingling with the blood that stained the once pristine tablecloth, as he wrestled with the conflicting emotions – the sorrow of destroying the only semblance of family he'd ever known, and the triumphant relief of finally breaking free. Finally, in a shattering, anguished cry, he screamed out all the years of pain and neglect, his voice hoarse, raw with the fury of a broken soul "Way... way..why am left to pick up the broken pieces of my life, it all unfair" he shouted. He had finally broken through, he had finally answered the call he always wanted and had faced it trail, though at what cost? at losing his own sanity, of what little that was left of him crumbled with each pieces torn apart and with no one to pick it up and fix it he was all alone. Then, with a final, desperate gasp, he collapsed, his dream finally shattering completely around him, he was finally free from the cage of the dream but the price he paid was it worth it,he would later ask himself.