It sounded with more bass and less highs on its very chin, but it was clearly ignored for the reason that it might just because of Micael's amalgamation of emotions: fear, excitement, relevance, and of course his death on the other side of the spectrum. He then shrugged his shoulders a little, looked away from the ships, birds and the horizon of which he could see from the window in his room, turned back gracefully and went on to the room outside where his mother was preparing grilled cheese with caramelized apples and brie which was a god damn classic for them but like something caught past heaven.
He took his seat on the table, and sooner his father had opened the door coming from the outside decks, rubbed his feet on the very amt and he went on inside, and finally closing the door and locking it.
"What's our lunch for today?" He asked with quite the smile on his face, and he wore off his jacket and placed it on the rack beside the rusty door hinges as well as his hat, more like he was dressing the rack up into something like him. He then proceeded to the table, which was being ran unto by his wife and Micael, who had already found his seat around the table. Thy could smell the buttery taste of the grilled cheese and by looking at it provided them sufficient information that it was crispy on the inside, and well-preserved like a normal bread on the inside, and his father sat. Micael's mother was still in the kitchen, assembling some more food and making them a fresh lemonade, of which she had practiced when she was still young, younger than today's Micael.
"How was your visit down Mister Harry's" asked Micael while reaching for a glass for himself and his father, and pouring some water unto it from the pitcher. His father had gotten into a reply fast as a speed of a dog, but he was cowered right beneath his very eyes of which no one but Micael could had only be able to see and read. "It is… quite usual, son. Nothing much, just a talk and by the way, Amy is looking for you!" his father had uttered while his lips were separating like rivers. It was not apparent for Micael, though his father looked like he was thorough, and then he replied with his lips wide open and his thoughts mostly closed for something to be concurred of, and he did.
"Something irrelevant, I must say, right, father?" and he smiled with his cheeks risen and some of his teeth shown and frozen like stones, and he drank water from the glass, and his father had nothing to say, neither. He quickly got up unto himself and just smirk by the littlest of amount and then got himself water, too. After a mere five seconds, Micael's mother had finally shouted, asking for their dearest helps for a pitcher of lemonade and some more sandwiches.
"A little help is thousands, honey!" she shouted with the quite voice which sounded like asking for help, like someone whom was just simply asking a simple favor unto a stranger of which one was not aware than someone was. Both Micael and his father had heard the voice coming from the kitchen, they quickly stood up and scurried towards the kitchen door, of which Micael's mother were waiting while her hands were filled with plates filled with grilled cheese, and she pointed her very lips onto the pitcher of lemonade and the dip, of which Micael had quickly grabbed with his hands as the pitcher was a little heavy for his mother to even carry with one hand while his father grabbed one of the plates on his mother's hand and they both continued into the table, and they both left him inside the kitchen room, alone.
He did not scurry towards the kitchen room, though he knew that he was not clumsy at all, one would want to be sure than sorry in the latter of his decisions. He looked at the small window above the sink of their kitchen, of which his mom had sued to stare the very bland horizon every time she would prepare food for the Pratt family. It was at the opposite of the horizon of which British shores could be seen, and the only that he could see onto the window was birds, wide open waters, and ships, both cruise and cargos, that were leaving the very British shores of something that they were all looking forward into.
It took months but those months sounded like something very small and irrelevant, and he suddenly remembered of spring-heeled Jack, a purple-to-red eyed demon upon his sleeves and the dancing child who looked like was forced to follow him deeply into his nightmare-like voice, and the quite distortion one could make in his body in order to belittle himself more. He thought of it once more while hearing his parents preparing the utensils and plates for them to use, and near away from them were their son who had stunned himself by the fact the months of time had never felt that irrelevant for him, at least in his apparent world, and he felt like he had finally understood the very principle of tachyon and relativity beyond his grasps and cognition that was never capable of comprehending even the simplest of subliminal and sentence-like phrases.
Let there be light; Home of my justice; Chalice of my blood, and most horribly and something indeterminate of all: I have never killed you, my child. I have only kept you breathing, which again sent him aquiver, but gladly the pitcher had never been ridden his hand fully, and his shoulders had shrugged when he saw some sailors waving towards the window of which he was looking at from the inside. He could not hear their shouting and talk-abouts, but he had focused his senses, though his eyes were like shitty incapable of anything half a knot far away.
...