Just A Bad Dream

The sound Owen made, a strangled, guttural cry, was music to Sophia's ears. He was on the floor now, curled into a ball, shaking like a leaf. A thin film of spittle coated his chin, and his eyes, wide and unfocused, darted around the room as if battling unseen foes.

Finally.

This was it. This was the moment she had been waiting for, had meticulously, painstakingly orchestrated for years. The corpse, as she often thought of him, was finally breaking and it was a magnificent sight. A slow, cruel smile stretched her lips, a stark contrast to the concern she usually feigned for Michael's benefit. This raw, unfiltered moment of Owen's unraveling was hers alone, a secret triumph savored in the heart of her pristine home.

She watched him heave, his thin shoulders trembling violently, a pathetic, almost comical sight. It was far more satisfying than any physical blow she could deliver. Bruises healed, eventually faded, leaving behind only the dull ache of memory. But this? This was a deep, fundamental fracturing of his mind, a descent into a hell of his own making and she, Sophia, had held the match to the kindling.

"What's wrong, Owen?" she purred, her voice dripping with mock concern, a saccharine sweetness that made the words even more venomous. "Are you seeing things again? Having one of your little episodes?" She stepped closer, her shadow falling over his shaking form. "My, my, aren't we a drama queen?"

She leaned down, her face inches from his, the scent of her expensive perfume, usually so pleasant, now a suffocating shroud. "It's all in your head, darling," she whispered, her voice a chilling caress. "Just like everything else. You're just a delusional punk, aren't you?"

Then, a mischievous thought sparked in her mind, a wicked delight. "Lucy!" she called out, her voice bright and cheerful. "Lucy, darling, come see your brother!"

A few moments later, Lucy skipped into the dining room, her eyes wide with innocent curiosity. "What is it, Mummy?" she chirped, her earlier sweetness still clinging to her.

Sophia knelt, putting on her best maternal facade. "Look at Owen, sweet pea," she said, pointing to his convulsing form. "He's just being silly, isn't he? Making up stories in his head."

Lucy tilted her head, her brow furrowing slightly, but then Sophia leaned in and whispered something in her ear. Something about Owen being "naughty" and "imagining things because he wants attention." Lucy, ever the loyal and impressionable child, absorbed her mother's words like a sponge.

The innocent curiosity in Lucy's eyes quickly morphed into something else – a sneer that mirrored Sophia's own, a flash of something sharp and cold that seemed utterly out of place on her cherubic face. It was as if a tiny, venomous seed had been planted and instantly bloomed. Lucy stepped closer to Owen, her small hands on her hips and her voice, usually so light, took on a mocking, sing-song quality. "Stupid Owen! Making things up! Mummy says you're just a silly, silly boy!"

Sophia watched, a triumphant glint in her eyes. Yes, this was perfect. No physical scars, nothing for Michael to question. Just the slow, insidious erosion of his mind, accelerated by the very people who were supposed to be his family. She'd realized early on that visible bruises would only bring scrutiny, questions, perhaps even intervention. But a broken mind? That was a quiet, personal hell, one that left no trace on the surface, only devastation within. It was far more exquisite to watch him crumble, to nurture his madness, to push him to the very brink of self-destruction. An accidental fall, a convenient slip… the possibilities were endless when one's grip on reality was so tenuous.

Owen, meanwhile, was lost in his own private torment. The voices were back, louder now, a cacophony of screams, mocking laughter, and insidious whispers. They clawed at him, pulling him down, down, into a cold, churning abyss. This wasn't just a dream anymore. The abyss wasn't something he was being dragged towards; it felt like it was rising to meet him, its icy tendrils already coiling around his limbs.

"Worthless!" a chorus shrieked. "Freak! Abomination!" another echoed, closer, too close. "You deserve this! You deserve to suffer!"

He felt their touch, cold and slimy, though he knew logically there was nothing there. His head pounded, a relentless drumbeat against his skull, each throb amplifying the voices, making them clearer, more distinct. He could almost make out faces in the swirling shadows that danced at the edges of his vision – distorted, grotesque visages that twisted into malevolent grins. The room spun, the polished floor buckling and warping beneath him.

He heard Sophia's voice, a distant, mocking hum, and then Lucy's, her childish tone warped into a sinister echo. They weren't his mother and sister anymore. Their faces were stretched, their eyes black pits, their mouths cavernous voids that screamed pure malice. They were demons, every one of them. The world had transformed into a living nightmare.

Run.

The command, sharp and urgent, cut through the chaotic din in his mind. Not a voice, not a whisper, but a primal urge, an instinct for survival that suddenly overwhelmed the fear. He had to escape. He had to get away from the demons, from the abyss, from the suffocating presence that was Sophia.

With a sudden, desperate surge of adrenaline, Owen scrambled to his feet. He was unsteady, his legs rubbery, but the urgency to escape was paramount. He lurched forward, bumping into the dining table, sending a vase of flowers teetering precariously before it righted itself. He didn't care.

He ran. He didn't know where, just away. The front door was a blur, the cool morning air a shocking slap against his heated skin. The familiar street, usually so mundane, now seemed alien, menacing. The houses leaned at impossible angles, their windows like vacant eyes. The trees writhed, their branches reaching out like skeletal fingers. The people on the sidewalk – harmless neighbors walking their dogs, a mother pushing a stroller – looked like distorted, shadowy figures, their faces grotesque and undefinable, their gazes filled with an unholy glee. They were all demons. Every single one of them.

Just run.

His breath came in ragged gasps, his chest burning, but he pushed harder, his bare feet slapping against the pavement. He dodged an imagined attack from a lamppost, swerved to avoid a malicious crack in the sidewalk that seemed to open into a bottomless chasm. The voices, though fainter now, still hammered at the edges of his sanity, mocking him, questioning his very existence.

He thought of Mia. Mia, with her kind eyes and gentle smile. Mia, the only one who had ever truly seen him, truly listened. Her house was only a few blocks away. Sanctuary. A fragile hope, a desperate anchor in the swirling chaos.

He pumped his legs, his lungs screaming for air, his muscles screaming in protest. He rounded the corner, the familiar shape of Mia's house coming into view. Hope surged, a fleeting, precious thing. He stumbled up the path, his hand raised to knock, but before his knuckles could connect, he froze.

He heard them. Footsteps. Fast. Hard. Right behind him.

His head snapped around, but there was nothing. Just the empty street, the distorted houses, the taunting silence. Yet the sound was undeniable, heavy, purposeful, closing in. He could feel them, the unseen pursuers, their cold breath on his neck. They were coming for him. The abyss wasn't just rising; it was chasing him.

Just run. The instinct screamed louder.

He didn't wait. He didn't try the door again. He just turned and bolted, putting one foot in front of the other, faster, faster, pushing his protesting body to its absolute limit. His mental state was a hurricane of fear, paranoia, and fractured reality. He was being hunted, he knew it, he felt it in every fiber of his being. He ran without direction, without purpose, propelled only by the primal terror that gnawed at his sanity. Just run. Keep running. The only escape.