Wake up, Aleck. It was never meant to be broken -Prypyat the Seventh
The very same words, the very same letter and the very same penmanship from the letter which had briefly haunted him in his dreams, and suddenly he heard a shout from the other side of his door which was closed like it was before it got opened that led to the mountainous ranges, but was not locked. He then turned his back towards the table and looked at the door with the most worried eyes and crumbled forehead and one of his hand's fingers sprawled like fatigues springs on a kid toy. Was that another dream of a sort? He thought inside of his mind, and it ran for the very time while he was looking at the door, waiting for the voice to get louder and louder and louder, much louder than one's whimpering whisper, and he continued thinking. It was like a dream, and Micael thought that it again was, but instead of a whispering cracked twangy voice, it was something very familiar and had tamed him from the very start of his journey down his road, and it was the mother, telling him to be ready.
He then looked at the very window with a snappy turn towards his bed, and soon he realized that it was no dream at all. He saw that they had aboard the shore, of which some people were waiting outside, especially their omnibuses which were waiting for them. He had never thought that the thorough time of his sleeping had bought the ship enough time to board from the open seas in to British soils. He was not really into believing into of which he thought that could had happened and that the new horizons of which he saw as a very fin e line from afar had already become a land of which the ship had been thinking and being mesmerizing for months since the start of their voyage, and there were a lot of people and animals outside.
There were birds, dogs, cats of which the majority were Persians, the sailors, the captain, and some of the passengers who were alighting the ship to suit themselves with very much of the comfort they could get before proceeding to yet another journey, and he was awakened forcibly by the very fact that it was, of which he was shocked very, not just a mere dream but the underlying reality of his cognition, and he found himself scurrying towards the bed.
"Honey? Are you awake? I might be better check on your room. You have been asleep for hours after eating," his mother shouted once again, this time it was louder than the last, and Micael ran towards his bed while grunting for every step his wound hit the very floor of his room. He moved so quick that he had thrown his dingy blanket above his bed and fixed it, with the brown-adorned side of it facing downwards, and he grabbed himself some new clothes and a rag to wipe down the dirt crumbles which had accumulated on his floor while he was walking. He quickly wore his shirt off, down to his shorts and undergarment in just a mere eight seconds of length, and got them thrown into his laundry bin beside the side of his room. He used the rag he got from under his bed to wipe his very butt-naked body covered with dirt vigorously and was as tantamount as a very ball game of some sort of sport which speed had become the essence of its very playstyle, and eventually, he barely wiped the dirt from himself off and to the floor's room they fell with bliss.
He rummaged his clothes once more and got himself a nice pair of clothes. He wore an undergarment fast, ignoring the very pain coming from his wound on his sole with a grunt and his teeth closely within each other, like hydraulic jacks pushing into one another to win nothing more than pressure beyond their very faces, wore brown shorts and a cream-colored shirt. He then threw the rag that he used into his laundry bin and grabbed himself a small broom of which he had made out of paper and strings, and he swept the dirt which had fallen from his very body under his bed with such speed while hearing her mother shouting once again.
"Don't make me open your door, darling. We are now finally at the United Kingdom," she talked aloud while a series of thudding was heard which was coming towards Micael's door, and he swept faster and faster. The dirt was being swept and they looked like flying into somewhere they never knew they had gotten himself into, and all they under Micael's bed, of which the improvised broom had been thrown by him with the force also, securing one light thump from the wooden floor, and the thudding had stopped which was followed by the clicking of a door knob, and the door went open gracefully. Beyond mother's eyes were Micael who was standing while holding a piece of paper with his hand and sweat running down his cheek, and she uttered with a calm voice:
"Oh, you're awake. You should better be cleaning yourself, honey for you look like someone straight out of a swamp, and you smell one, too!" of which he just smiled back and never really uttered a thing. He hid his hands which was holding the very paper from the man in white, allegedly, and replied back to his mother with the fakest of voice he could had ever uttered at the very moment.
"I will find myself in the shower later, bathing like hell, mother. You must be very busy, I presume," while his forehead had started to un-crumble its very self into a much more normal-thinking guy like Micael, and his mother turned her back towards his room and spoke with the lightest of voice back to him: "I am busy taking our clothing into good packages, and you shall find yourself eating after bathing, honey, for sooner our chauffeurs and helpers will be coming around here in our room and be helping us into transporting these odds-and-ends we have brought. And by the by, should you have time to practice, you will be blessing our goddamn new home with a broken piñata head with a blunt, how that does sound?"
"Sounds cool. We must be going for what's better, right?" said Micael while grabbing his towel behind the door with one of his foot just touching the floor with its very heels, and then smiled back to his mother, thought she would not be able to see as one doesn't had any eyes upon one's back way back then, and she continued to pack their things up, and Micael was more than glad that his mother had just thought of the leftover dirt smudge on his skin as just his dirty doings while sleeping, knowing the very fact that his dream had just started to come to the apparent world as something much more apparent than the open gates, and he started remembering Jack, the child, and the mysterious place of which he had never been known of, and so he pondered once more.
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