ANGSTMODE EXTRAORDINAIRE

Corbin dreaded dreams.
One can never control their course, whereas in waking life one can seemingly put negative thoughts and memories in a box and lock it. At night, when the mind is at its most open state, that box unlocks itself and all those things you shut away flood back to pester you again, to torment and tear at you.
He lay on his bed, eyes shut but mind awake. The feel of the fleece blanket against his back was comforting- soft, warm, and light. It wasn't like the feel of skin. How he detested that sensation- the rough ridges of fingers made him cringe, and the pulse beneath them disgusted him.
Before long the paradox caught hold of him, as the soft blanket eased him into sleep, turning his relaxing moments into a fitful night of unrest.
He was running again, aching all over. He was hiding in corners, only to be ratted out. He was punished- again, and again, until he screamed for mercy, and was silenced with a gag. Then the real horror came, as he was thrown onto the floor and his torturer gloated over him. He knew that the man was smiling- a fake smile. A sadistic smile for a sadistic deed.
The ground was a mirror, the sky a great light, and he could see his eyes- that dreaded pink tone, and bleeding tears- looking back at him. The world was a stadium, echoing every noise of the struggle tenfold. His fingernails screeched against the silvery metal, scarring it. His teeth tore at the gag, ripping at it with every new lick of pain and humiliation.
“Speak up!” the attacker ordered him, with a sharp slap. “I want to hear your sweet, sweet voice.”
“S-stop,” he tried to whimper through the gag. All he heard, though, was garbled desperation.
“Good boy. Tell me you love me now,” the man sneered.
"I- I love- I love you,"
He shut his eyes, and concentrated on a singular emotion of helplessness. The pain became dull, and throbbing, and he couldn't feel his body anymore. All he knew was weakness, and the inability to save himself. It was with this that he woke, moaning.
"Corbin? Oh God, Corbin, not again-" the blurry figure of his mother reached out to him. His pupils grew wide with horror as the fingers contacted his cheek. He shrank back into the bed.
"Don't touch me- please, don't-" he cried, he screamed softly.
"Honey, I'm not going to hurt you.” He only stared back up with the same helplessness. His bare, pale eyes were glazed over, alien and distant. She understood then that there was no pushing further. Corbin had retreated into himself, and it would be a while before she could even help him out of bed.
She hung her head low, wondering. One of these days, she was sure, one minute too far into a dream, and Corbin would relapse into the state she found him in: a silent, empty shell of a human being. Or perhaps, perhaps he would finally break into anger and resentment. She shuddered, as neither thought was pleasant. She urgently forced herself to think of how far he had come. He had come to feel loved, by at least somebody, even if she couldn’t call it love in front of him.