It was never meant to be broken, Aleck.
And it ran again. This time around his body but he knew what was running. Another piece of virtuosic, irrelevant masterpiece of either his mind or Jack's for he knew they were connected in a way he could not even utter or decipher in the very first place, so he ignored. Four steps after, his forehead started to crumble again, like chewy pastries and his eyes became watery. He continued walking but it felt like walking four steps more was simply running a mile for each step. He felt tired.
His thoughts were tired, too. Tired enough that he could not even realize that the voice, too, was just another comeuppance he was getting from the child's palavers. Micael never knew and it would never be known inside his head. His space had started to stop moving, and what was left alone in motion was his mouth, and the waves spewing out from it sooner. "Whoever you are hiding behind my cabinet, you—" the waves had sounded but there was something much louder than the sprouting decibels coming out from his mouth.
It was loud enough that its whereabouts was apparent inside his mind. He started running like a pristine being, mind-wise, and he sought the source of voice of which he hoped was real and really tangible by the thoughts of his ears, and so he did. One moment passed by, and his thought had gone into something much clearer than the last and louder to be heard. It was behind the very door behind his dressed back, and so he stopped.
He halted like a rock for a moment and heard the voice once more which seemed echoing around the four walls of his room and his ears, and he decoded it with what had remained on his entire mileage of walking and draining himself from a voice he knew it could not be there by any means unless his friend had decided to visit him again, but he never did.
He never wanted to be part of his life, at least for the time being, and the voice coming from outside of his room had become audible so much that his lips could pattern the words with separations and shapes while his ears were getting the very message simultaneously like it had been said before. "Honey? We better get going! Who are you talking to? A friend?" He was sure it was his mother's and it was her.
He felt relieved and answered back though his lungs were never half filled even with the densest of air he could breathe in: "I am not. I am j-just trying to hold my thing u-up, mother. Talk to you in a sec after I got my clothes. T-thank you for doing those for me, by the by."
He tried to talk while having the very normal of his voice, of which he filled and sounded like something out of a jail. His mother never got herself a reply, as the thudding and the murmurs of their helpers were heard beyond the door of Micael's room, and he never bothered with the littlest of his imagination and aired a silent sigh from his lungs to his lips, and opened the closet door with his hand. His eyes were surprised as it looked as they were completely dry and immovable, and so his hand grabbed his vest and the coat and went to walk back afront of the mirror of which he would tie himself.
He had practiced the very art of tying one's necktie for he knew that he could use it for the greatest moment's call, however young he might be. He was worried, but he went for a simple Pratt knot, of which he was satisfied when he was looking unto it from the mirror and he moved on. He grabbed his gray-to-black vest and slit it right into his arms and the shoulder of the vest had started resting above Micael's and he buttoned the vest which had managed to envelope his stomach without it churning with the very least of efforts, and he moved his hands down like strings and looked at the very mirror and he had forgotten the pants of his. He laughed towards himself and grabbed the pants lying above his bed (of which he knew was dingy, at least upon the side beneath it and he was lucky enough that his mother had no time to even have a glance; he was happy indeed) and slit the holes at the bottom unto his limbs one after the other. He, of course, found difficulty on wearing the other pant with his well foot as the other would need to balance himself up above the wooden floor.
It hurt but he knew he had to do it, otherwise he would be walking down the streets with his butt shaped into his very underpants. Eventually, he got himself straight back up and the waist of his pants had finally reached his, and he continued. He tucked his dress shirt and the undershirt under his pants and belted his waist close. It was tight but not tight enough to give Micael a pain in the ass. He looked once more in the mirror and he found himself pretty sexy and presentable on the brits, hoping that he could one god damn beautiful brit lass along the way and maybe bring her at their home, too, and have a very good time of which he would never wish to threaten him around the upcoming days. He looked happy.
His eyes were straight happy and his mouth sounded happy. He grabbed his coat and wore them gently as he would not them to look as ugly as his face. He slit his arms and the coat's shoulders had rested upon his shoulders for its' had been resting upon a wooden hanger for months inside Micael's closet, and he grabbed himself his polished boots and wore them with the greatest of caution as his wound might bleed out excessively and him walking like a handicapped one was never an attract-ive thing.
He simply grabbed the boots and loosened its laces and inserted his foot inside, one by one. He grunted a little while the wounded one had to get in, but he did nonethel-ess. He tightened the laces back into their initial tensions while he was sitting on the edge of his covered bed.
He seemed to be very excited with this smile and whistling for he knew he would be walking again on asphalted streets. He was very excited, which was the reason he started scurrying around. His boots had gotten secure, and so he stood up once more and fixed his wearing from the dress shirt to the vest and to his lengthy gray trench coat, and fixed himself once more. He buttoned his trench coat (it was double breasted, and so one must know) and looked at the mirror countless of times. He was turning around his very body like a benevolent ballet. He tried to step his wounded foot with his boots and it felt a little bit painful, at least. He then moved forward on fixing his hair with a comb and a sort of pomade he got from his father as a gift on his very recent birthday. He twisted its cap open, with a sound sounding like his mother, he thought.
...