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Every part of your body was still as you lied underneath the sleek covers, your eyes open and staring blankly at the murky darkness surrounding you.

It was late—the bright blue clock on the nightstand read 1:47AM—and you couldn't sleep. The image of Alastor's disappointed face was burned in your retinas, leaving you restless. You couldn't help but feel like you had wronged him by going in his office. And to make matters worse, he had barely accepted your apology.

You sighed, pulling the soft blanket up over your face. Alastor was the only person by your side. Everyone else important in your life was alive, and you were dead. He was your only friend, so you didn't want him to be mad at you.

Eventually, after much tossing and turning, your mind found ease and you fell asleep.

The air was icy, licking the skin on the back of your neck as it swirled gently around you. Your eyes fluttered open, and you were confused as you found yourself staring at the edge of the forest.

The multitude of trees sent an unpleasant pang of familiarity down your spine. It was the same forest you ran to before the hell-bent father finally achieved his goal of killing you. A cold sweat broke out over your forehead as your chest restricted with dread.

"Stop!" The same man's voice, hoarse with anger, shouted. "Stop right there and put your hands in the air where I can see them!"

You were faced with the same problem as last time—surrender, or run?

Surrendering hadn't worked very well for you previously. Surrendering had resulted in death. If you stayed there, letting him corner you against the thick wall of tree trunks, you would reach the same terrible fate.

The other option was to run. You could face your fear and find safety in the dark forest, away from the resentful man and his gun, thus preventing the lamentable events that were sure to come.

"I said put your hands in the air!" The man cried, his voice cracking with the strong emotions that resinated inside of him. "Now!"

You didn't want to run, not into the petrifying forest, but you didn't want to get shot, either, for obvious reasons.

You knew that if you didn't act now, he would shoot.

So you ran. You bolted into the thicket of trees, legs pumping harder than they ever had before. You could barely see through the darkness, so you let your instinct take you where it wanted. Inaudible shouting from the father could be heard from behind you, too close for you to feel safe, and few aimless gunshots were peppered in here and there.

You just ignored the sounds and kept going. Thin, sharp tree branches reached out and clawed at you, tearing at your shirt, getting tangled in your hair. You tried to swat them away, but the effort only resulted in a multitude of cuts on your arm. You felt each one of them as if they were real.

Were they real, or were you dreaming?

After some time, you found a clearing. The moon from above bathed the lush green grass in pale light, making the dew on its tips shimmer in the night. You didn't stop, just kept running through the field like your life depended on it—which it did.

But then your foot caught on something and you went stumbling towards the ground, landing face first in the dirt.

For a moment, you were stunned, lying on the ground still as a board. The dirt smelled of raw nature and damp wood, and if you weren't so terrified for your life you might have found it quite pleasant.

As you pushed yourself up, you realized that some other aroma was in the air.

Fake cinnamon and blood.

The world seemed to spin underneath you then, and before you knew what was happening, you were in Alastor's house, crouched on your hands and knees. The grass had morphed into the hardwood floor of his living room, and it was rough and scratchy beneath your palms.

The odor filled your nose—the strength of it made you nauseous. You stood up, your legs shaking underneath you as you dusted yourself off. At first glance, the living room it appeared normal, for all of the furniture was in place, completely untouched. But there was something off about it. The air was soaked in a cold, bone-chilling darkness that seemed to float around like a watchful presence.

"Alastor?" you called, searching for him. He was nowhere to be found, so you decided to check the kitchen.

As you walked into the kitchen, the smell of blood overpowered the cinnamon, burning your nostrils with the thick stench of copper. A tsunami of apprehension washed through you, making your muscles feel heavy. Your eyes burned as you tried to keep them open, as if you were staring into a cloud of smoke.

Everything in the kitchen was monochrome. You looked at the island in front of you, your head feeling faint and dizzy, not only from the odor in the air but also from the feeling of trepidation inside of you.

Then you did what you shouldn't have done, according to horror movies 101. You turned around.

What you saw made you jump with shock. Your breath stopped right in your airway and the heart beating in your chest thrummed so hard that it seemed like it was trying to break free of your ribcage.

Alastor was standing absolutely still in front of you, his arms held in the usual formal position behind his back. A fresh, runny puddle of blood surrounded his feet, but he didn't seem to care, for his eyes were wide and coal-black, crying silent tears of the same dark colored goo, and his smile matched that of a clown's.

He looked like he'd been pulled straight out of a horror movie, and it took all you had not to scream like a little girl.

"I told you, I'd make you regret it," Alastor said in a voice that wasn't his before holding up a knife in his hand that you hadn't noticed before and sliding it deep into his chest.

Into his own chest. He had just stabbed himself.

The panic that shot through your body felt like raw electricity, as if you had just touched a metal fork to the inside of a power outlet. It was so, so real. "Alastor!" you cried, running forward to help him. You forgot all about the spreading puddle of blood and the sickening smell and the dark shit seeping from his eyes, instead focusing on his body and your body and the electricity.

"Fuck fuck fuck," you mumbled, trying to get the knife out, but before you could, Alastor's body melted into the ground, and then the house melted, and your vision went black.

You woke up with a feeling like being suffocated.

The thick blankets on your bed were covering you head to toe. The thick wall of cotton that surrounded you allowed no fresh air to get past. You tried to escape from the death trap, but only ended up falling off the bed, stuck in a delusional frenzy.

"Ahhh! Help me help me help me!"

You could hear the bedroom door swing open, right as you managed to free yourself from the constricting grasp of the covers. You crawled across the floor, away from the evil blankets, then sat down on your butt and wrapped your arms around your stomach and cried.

"Hey," Alastor's voice came from the doorway. It was so gentle, so much kinder than the man's voice from your nightmare. You could still hear him—you still saw the way he spoke to you through Alastor, the way he had said, 'I told you I'd make you regret it' before forcing Alastor to stab himself in the chest. "Are you okay?"

You just sobbed.

You heard his footsteps as he came closer before stopping next to you. The situation became like a deja-vu as he sat beside you, wrapping his arm around your shaking shoulders in an effort to soothe you.

"What happened?" he asked, keeping his tone affectionate.

"I-I had a dream, and you-it-you had a knife, and you stabbed yourself, a-a-and—" A wave of choking sobs cut you off. Alastor rubbed his hand up and down your back, then rose it up to the nape of your neck, gingerly pulling you closer.

You desperately wanted to be hugged, and to make sure that he knew it, you took your arms and looped them around his body. You could feel the firmness of his back muscles through his thin tee shirt as you held him tight, pulling him as close to you as possible.

"It's okay, my love. It wasn't real. I'm here."

And for a while, the two of you just sat like that, sitting on the hard floor, arms wrapped around each other. At one point, you realized that you weren't wearing any pants, but it didn't matter to you. Your head rested in the nook between his neck and his chest and just the feeling of his body made you feel better.

You held him as if he would turn into that evil thing from your dream and stab himself in the chest if you let him go. "I'm sorry," you mumbed into his chest, knowing that your tears were staining his shirt. "For going to your office, and for being a total bitch, and—"

"Shush, Cupcake," Alastor said. You could feel his voice coming from deep within his chest, like a low, scratchy rumble. "I forgive you."

You hiccuped. "I don't want you to leave me like everyone else in my life."

Alastor fell quiet for a moment, as if he was taking a second just to realize how broken you were. "(Y/N), look at me."

You hesitated, but eventually gave in, pulling away slightly to look into his eyes. They were deep and red, but they bared no resemblance to blood, nor to the black goop they had been in your dream.

"There is nothing you could ever do that would make me leave you."

"But what if there is?"

"There isn't."

"But... I..."

"(Y/N)."

His soft palm found your cheek and rested there, as if it was the most normal thing he could have done. His face was painted with sympathy, his eyes glittering sadly, his smile soft and slightly crooked. He spoke up again, his voice lowered (his face was so close to yours that he had no reason to talk loudly), "I will never leave you."

"You can't promise that."

"Yes I can. I'm promising you right now."

"Promises don't mean anything," you mumbled, looking at your thumbs and pulling away from his hand, even though you craved his touch. He stopped you, reaching out and holding your face with both hands.

"This one does."

He sealed the deal with a passionate kiss.

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