far from reality [ONGOING]

Warm sunsets, cold breeze, and birds sing.

The sunshine warmed their small dining room from the wide window beside them, casting a tinge of yellow hue onto their wooden floor. A bird landed, flitting on their open window. It tilted its head and chirped before flying away. The old curtain flowed and danced with the cold morning breeze.

Brahms, with complete uniform, at the dinner table, sat infront of his unresponsive father. His father's mouth hung open in an awkward position, his blue eyes staring blankly into space. Seated in his old wheelchair, his father remained paralyzed from a stroke, forever immobile.

Utensils clattered nearby as his mother bustled around in the kitchen, preparing their breakfast. Brahms hoped this morning wouldn't be his last. He recalled how his mother had once purposefully laced his food with rat poison. If he had eaten that day, and had felt hunger, he might not be here now.

"Voilà!" his mother sang, setting three plates on the table steaming with freshly cooked food. "Pasta for a a good day!" she added cheerfully. Brahms glanced at the tempting, steaming pasta before him. It looked delicious, but he resisted the urge to take a bite, knowing better than to give in to his temptations.

His mother is always a good cook, even great at it, but only when she has good mornings, only when she's in a good mood, only when she's his mother.

Maybe... Maybe this is his mother?

Lump forming in his throat, Brahms relaxed his jaw to stop himself from crying. As if some god had heard his prayer, he heard his mother cooing before him, adjusting the chair to settle beside him.

"Why is my baby crying?" Soft voice comforted as if she had not beaten his ass up at three a.m. Brahms's eyes brimmed with tears in an instant, crocodile tears falling like an endless fountain.

His mother lifted her hand to wipe his tears away, and Brahms flinched harder than he anticipated. A voice in his mind cackled full of mockery.

"Hmm?"

"Y-Your pasta... looks delicious. I miss your pa-pasta," he lied through gritted teeth, head lowered and eyes squeezed tight. He waited for a violent reaction, which he normally gets. Or perhaps a hard slap landing on his cheek, a hand with the full strength of an adult and a motive to kill.

But instead, he received a soft, comforting hug. The hug was like a warm blanket on a winter night in front of a bonfire, a home he always dreamed of but was always awakened from by the nightmare he referred to as his mother.

"I miss you too, my baby. Let's eat now, okay?"

She rolled a forkful of pasta before feeding it to him. Relief tears escaped endlessly at the creamy taste, possibly drowning him. The taste reminded him that the person feeding him was truly his mother, not the unknown monster with glaring eyes and heavy hands.

His chest convulsed from sobs as he tried to make a single word out of the painful lump stuck in his throat.

"E-Eat..." he mumbled with his mouth full, "you should t-too, mom," he repeated when she tilted her head in confusion, her soft brown eyes hazel from the ray of the sun, pupils dilated as she looked at her son.

________________________

As a child, one might typically expect Brahms's dreams filled with innocence, like meeting Santa Claus, owning a toy car, or even something as innocent as a kiss from a crush.

However, Brahms's dreams cause a sense of confusion and pity, as they simply revolve around experiencing a family bond, even if just for a day or an hour. Then after that he could go back to his misery, wearing a smile on his youthful face.