A Premonition of Better Things

It was not his intention for Jacob to leave his home behind this soon after his father had perished not long after he had shared another pleasantly benign and laconic dinner together, sitting across from the unclean heapings of hotly heated beef chunky in a canopy of canned vegetable aisles whipped downstream cheese-in-aesrolized can starch could not be used for a traditional trade in feigned tenderness shared between a single father figuring out who is even his son's best chances ahead but the dad did not want him back into a fitful game with his hands clawing at a loss of appetite overcome any preceding affecting motivation underlying that evening’s conversions, hit-and-run, staggeringly those who wait, approaching that seniority have a field day on hallowed hole in the earthenware no longer aquiver from the unclean waters pulled from cloudiness toroidal, and Jakob was finished by how years of his are none of the concern wherein ambivalent, 000g vainly alongside the veritable oold man who took away his mother's freedom by his own sweat which could not tolerate a volatile woman's behavior for he was a distant, vexing husband who would rather not touch her again(this son was just about all he could endure because of a staunchly faded responsibility he felt was his fault to begin with, having did nothing but embarrassing and hostile acts with the woman that was Jacob's mother and it was all because he was curiously unwed and still alive as a virgin, although if only under the circumstances that he was afraid she had been lost to a torpor of the fairer sex) ; a man of his frustrated breeding, he was unable to prevent his son from finding solace during those years following his mother's inpatient admission; nonetheless, the two-fold, unblinking countenances of the boy and his father eating a tepid lump of preservative-oil flatly foamy filmed on the island of indigestion tuckered out from stateside heifer who was butchered in a building that looked like a larger scale model of of tray the meat arrived for the father to purchase amid recent shortcoming retirement planning which was also tedious to all involved and so the father did not fight his dismissal; the men passed away plates of this overcooked meat & defrosted vegetables had another layering of brownish gravy so larded in buttermilk it looked like flem next to the steamed asparagus. The utensils were very ideal when the boy was unable to make an immediate reply or glance toward his father, and above the fireplace there was a framed canvas of a breezy steeple, forests and stoneline gentle with a desolation of brief afternoon sunspots daubed at the cumulus where stood the peripheral faintness of what amounted to anaemic pastoral, something Wagner could conceive from his own ingenious fritterings of complexly romantic communication with a barren, storybook vastness that emulated some depth of spritely mana no man could summon with his truest feelings unless he went the way of the benighted soldier bivouacked past his dented prostration of his glory and valour all it might have sank into the miasma of a bogwater sarcophagi opaque but poignantly stagnant, akin to the dull but dolorous scowl his father’s eyes cast reproachfully and not without a few resentments toward the man his son was becoming before his glassy sight may wade across his jocular mood that evening ;the painting a little close to a natural world devoid of the chaos belonging to the animals one imagined were hunted down until it was sufficient that the mounted heads, deerskin protruding outward at both sides of the painting and stiffening the air that early evening eating his last supper with his father self-effacing himself, only to hide a deeper sense of loathing and corrosion he beheld his son's existence in: a pregnancy of silence elicited the melody vacant, plaintive landscape.

-I used to think that you would never stop surpassing my expectations, the father sourly regales Jacob, his sparkling rows of flossed and fake teeth useless to conceal the raw and tender flavour he had acquired with his words; –for better sometimes, but not without a considerable bias toward poorer outcomes.

Jacob's father smirks once at his creation's direction, and the overhead helices of the tungsten fixture stretch his meaning near the tacit grimace, his cheeks outlandish with the ends of his wisdom removed from his lower jowls, the warmth burnishing a strangulating anger unheard in this household, instead malingering where the father's ironical pessimism was used as a mask for the impotence that made even better his imprecations as he aged willfully into a system of hurt looming, yet powerfully absent and gainsay, eating his insults inside his innards as he digests his home cooked slabs of protein and vitamins dampening on a ceramic decorative saucer.

-I know what you want from me in the end. Jakob, you can hate me for sending away that… revolting woman who you still cling to with the attachment never lost, but she was your mother. I was afraid the day where I realised there was nothing for me to do for you as a father except to furnish a few things you can get as a privilege in waiting this long, ah well, or so it might even feel to either of us once my eyes goes out… Hopefully you will search for yourself instead of that trouble in your head about your mother. I will never let her win. . .and through the strangulating conviction, his father coughed bitterly as his wrist trembled past the cheekbone, the father’s timer was near a place where he had no return to someone who will never let the words of his father dissuade himself further. However, foreshortening his heart, stubborn, more words are a vomit his lungs does not make easy.

-This damnable cabin I have worked myself nearly hairless just to give you a shelter secure enough from the world's worst people & places out there beyond isn't enough to satisfy you, not at all!

He then goes on and on without his food disappearing and to his father's earshot, the sound a gnawing click sprung against the movement of his tongue feels intensile and jagged throughout the night’s ordeal readymade, then afraid for a bleakly soulful momemt to do with this and how much long after he has left it within his arms, torment he ingests without having another’s goodbyes; Jakob would later be crushed by how somehow there are men who wake up and find out that those who come have to be in charge of that knowledge of leaving off what torn bits their bruxhism cannot contain so much-needed banter, thereby rendering his father coughed with terror transparent gather stains throughout that evening Jakob ate and sat through his father’s final hours alive on this earth just for him to leave him alone at this remote house once the old man's arboreal, vaguely combative tone of voice is incessant and as though he was stuck throughout the preparations for drought afar from homelife under a heavenly hereafter, and it tools of the father's replenishing repentance in the personal world all these years apart and byfar ennobling a pardon for the living as they do not show any better even having done to his progeny than a prolongment of awful things brought toward a patriarch topside ahead with each mound of dirt a tombal grace not fineable in such an exorbitant materialisation of rot and putrefaction agape in that aspect of nature faceted; he is the corpse bloated upstream once the excremental barge explored the world over for a body of waterless distraught by the milk thickening in what little control he designs for his child to see fit as leaving behind. -You're so much like her. Your mother, I mean.. . That ugly, unholy glint of aimless veracity you two have about the unflinching scouring each thing or person you can grasp within that lunatic world beneath your eyesight, wherever she takes inspiration from in corrupting the mentality of my son's derangement. . . I know you still only dream about her. . . The noises you produce during my nightly attempts at shutting off this failure of a fatherhood I have been successfully given, punishment for a moral shortcoming when I was your age.

An impression of animosity reflected in profile across the varnished lacquer and silver cutlery both men faced, fingering at the food at a pace somehow animated both as animalistic and latent. The sideways naked bite captures the young man's distinctive enigma in between his careful surface of apathy enmeshed into an uneven, blemished face on Jacob, testing the boundaries of a visitor from the unclean overlap in the family.

Jacob chews his gruel, unchanging in his furtive downcast swipes at his meal, and not a flinch is visible across his forehead that would betray if there was any consternation building behind his two big, prominently shallow-lidded orbs that were his eyes. The black ate up a vale in his irises, letting the colour bend thinly as a supplementary affixion to the incompassible, probing vulnerability Jacob possessed for a young man. He was accustomed to the solitude of homelife, glacial and reclined with his hands characteristically always positioned to hang with preparatory ease across the scuffed stitchwork of his tattered jean pant legging, coldly listening for traces of his mother’s unpredictable and beautifully embellished concealment within Jacob’s prurient reptile love for his missing mother’s rebellious touch on his thwarted manhood, adolescence foisted on a sigh lamenting what could arguably been bad timing for his parents to have come together to produce him, a docile and insular child who kept his flaxen pall and sallow maxillofacial structure wrought on his flat, sloping face as though he was in intense inner longing to breakthrough what filmy inertia his present adolescence proved to both men, father and son, the ideas of the adult he had in mind for becoming was only beginning to acquire shape, as his undreamt future ahead of his father’s funeral ceremony to a few stolid-faced observers including Jacob and a former high school romance who perhaps was touched eerily harder than Jacob’s grief could muster during the hours when the downpour drove the observers into the garage’s shelter, the sound of the falling rain percolating with a loudness like poached eggs scratched thin and salted all round until born embryoglio. .

Jacob, aloof but imperturbable at that final meal with his father, brought up a dream that his father was not expecting. – There was a dream I never told you about. . . Would you care if I divulged it to you? It is not like the other dreams. . . drifting, he warbles as he puts forth the glass of milk from his thin, aslant lips. The father, left hand clasped tentatively at the buttonhole of his right-handed long-sleeved leisurewear, looks at his humiliation in the bedroom spring into those formative increments culminating in the fruition of his vanity as a mirror agape with the surface shown reflecting an opposite without the comfort of his own mishandlings of his member to softly assuage him that his son only is struck with the growing pains specific to aggressively cloistered men such as Jacob’s father: everything was proportionately little to none importance except to ridicule what will outlive you. He then listens, intently and not without a pate athrob by a sense of patronage grossly manhandled into feigned absorption into his son’s nebulous promise of something his head visited his sleep with something newer conjuring in his mind, evidently by each passing day as if Jacob’s oneiric interiority cryptically produced an altogether less recognizable Jacob whenever awakened to another prolongment of his homelife under the supervision of his father.

-In the dream, Jacob continued prosaically, –There is someone shining a sphere of radiant light, emanating from the place where the person’s wrist would have a hand attached to it. The skin on the person’s body was an emulsified cementation of glittering chromium interlaced with large, exposed veins of synaptic tendrils which bored from the socket in his amputated wrist-hole, until it terminates in a cyclone of jagged flesh ichorous with the discharge this source of light produced within the stark emptiness of my dream tableaux. The mouth of this malformed person was fitted behind an inlet wrought from a cold, topheavy metal box infused into a zigzag of plasmatic gunk a viscid congealment soothed over the smashed-in walls of infected nerve covering what once was a ribcage by first look, then on second examination, was a shaft of heaving tongue so enormous that the light was a diminished granule, once the tonguemeat rolled from the grotesque visitor’s midsection, and began telling me in a slowed-down shrill that my father was not long for this world.

He would die, elliptically, almost two and a half days following our story’s odd little bonding coda.