Chapter 9: Lopkinnf's Nightmares - Of His Mother and Father
Lopkinnf woke abruptly, sweat running down his pale face, his heartbeat racing as if a storm had invaded his soul. The images were still fresh in his mind, distorted and terrifying. He had learned to control his emotions, to hide his fears, but that night, the nightmares had attacked him in a way he had never imagined.
It was always the same scene. The setting was a dark, empty house, with damp walls and the smell of despair permeating the air. In the center of the room, his mother and father. Both were imposing figures, but in the dreams, they were like distorted shadows of themselves. His mother, a woman of severe beauty, with eyes that seemed to pierce the soul, looked at him disapprovingly. She always accused him of being insufficient, of not being worthy of the lineage he carried. And his father, with his cold and calculating expression, simply remained silent, as if the mere fact of existing was already a condemnation.
Lopkinnf had always known that his childhood was not normal. He grew up in an environment immersed in expectations, where perfection was not only desired, but demanded. Every step he took, every breath he took, was an attempt to escape their relentless clutches. But the nightmares never let him escape. He could feel his father's pressure in every movement, his mother's gaze in every failure. The words that echoed in his mind were like sharp blades, cutting through his insecurities and shaping his will.
"You will never be enough," his mother's voice echoed in his mind, deep and desolate. "You are weak, a failure. You will always be a reflection of what you cannot control." These words, which he tried to ignore in his waking life, now haunted him with an even more unbearable weight.
But the nightmare did not stop there. Deep in the dark house, a figure loomed, a presence that Lopkinnf could never see clearly but always felt. It was the essence of what his parents had become: a distorted reflection of the perfection they had demanded so much. The nightmare was a psychological torture that plagued him every night, a reminder that he was not in control, that there was still something in his mind that bound him to the ones he feared most.
In that moment, as the sweat froze on his skin, Lopkinnf knew he had to confront it. He could no longer be a slave to his own fears, his own limitations. His parents, who had shaped his life and his torments, were now just shadows in the past. But those shadows, like the nightmares, continued to haunt him.
He got up from the bed, his mind buzzing with thoughts and plans. It was time to free himself from everything that imprisoned him—from the fear of not being good enough, from the weight of expectation, from the voices that still haunted him. To be the man he knew he could be, Lopkinnf would need to destroy everything his mother and father represented. They would be the first obstacles he would overcome on his way up.
But the nightmares would not disappear easily. They were there, present in every dark corner of his soul, waiting to feed on his weakness. Lopkinnf looked in the mirror, his reflection that of a ruthless man, determined, but still marked by the invisible scars of a childhood deformed by demands and abandonment. He could no longer be the lost son. He would no longer be a shadow, an extension of the expectations that had shaped him.
The nightmares of his mother and father continued, but Lopkinnf knew that by waking up to reality, he could finally face his own shadows and, who knows, one day, even master them.