TICK to the TOCK (A Coming-of-Age Story)

by Matthew Turner

  Crawling back into bed, I hugged the covers and watched her chest move up and down, up and down. I fell asleep eventually, but only to wake up and fight the same pitiful battle over and over again.

  Tightening my grip around her, I bring Danii closer and kiss her forehead. "You warm enough?" I ask.

  "Yeah, fine. Thanks."

  The chill from outside isn't as fierce in here, but the standard room offers little protection. The wind enters through numerous nooks and crannies, a constant draft chilling anything that falls too close to the floor. Up here on the bed, we're safe, especially wrapped in this thick woolly blanket, but every now and then, the wind picks up and attacks tender ears and nose.

  "Do you remember when we visited your family in Torquay?" Danii asks, out of nowhere, and breaking me from my daze.

  "Yeah."

  "It was nice. I enjoyed that little trip."

  I laugh, breaking the silent hold the room has over us. "What made you think of Torquay?"

  "I don't know, I'm just thinking. Remembering the past, I guess."

  I nod. "It's hard not to look back on everything, isn't it?"

  "Yeah, especially in a place like this. It makes you think." She joins her fingertip with mine. "Well, not this place. This place," she says, motioning both our hands in a circle, "is rather bleak, but you know what I mean."

  The draft picks up, tickling my nose with an icy surprise.

  "Do you know something," she says, twisting out of my grip and kneeling beside me. "I was going to come here before I met you."

  "Really?"

  "Yes. Amazing, I know, but there was life before Dante."

  "Lies," I say, gently biting my bottom lip and clutching her jumper.

  "It's true. I was going to come here before university. I hadn't thought about that until now. Feels like a long time ago."

  "Who were you coming with?"

  "Nobody, just myself."

  "No way. You couldn't travel on your own."

  Her narrowing squint shoots me down. "Excuse me, mister, but I'm a strong modern woman who needs no man to hold her hand."

  "Is that so?" I wink.

  "It sure is, although meeting you seemed to change things. You and your ways wore me down," she says with a cheeky grin, although I presume there's an element of truth to it, too.

  I return a smile, but her words don't sit nicely. "You never told me," I say.

  "Told you what?"

  "About travelling. Not even when we first met. Were you just going to come here?"

  "No, I planned to do the usual gap year adventure. A little similar to what we're doing now, I guess."

  "But you never told me," I say, my neck suddenly aching and eyes heavy.

  She shrugs her shoulders.

  "You should have. We could have travelled together."

  "Sorry," she says, rolling her eyes. "It was a long time ago. Things change."

  "Because you met me."

  "Hey, don't be like that. I've planned to do a lot over the years, but we can't do everything, can we? Sometimes a dream is destined to remain a dream."

  "No," I say, pushing myself up. "We have dreams for a reason. We should fulfil them. You should have fulfilled all of your dreams long ago." My head's light, but my eyes are oh so heavy.

  "What do you think we're doing now, mister?"

  "No. No. It's different. It's not the same," I say, pushing myself further upward so my spine is flush with the cold brick wall.

  "Yes it is, we're travelling aren't we? Anyway, who says you weren't part of my dream, too?"

  "You did. In Cologne."

  "Hey—"

  "It's true, without me you would have travelled the world and lived a completely different life."

  "Stop it," she says, nipping the underside of my arm.

  Flinching, I squirm and fall to my elbow. "Ahhh, what are you doing."

  "You deserved it," she says, pushing me in the chest. "Stop feeling sorry for yourself."

  "Okay, okay. Sorry. It's just... you never told me about travelling. When we first met, you were so strong and independent, and I don't know, over the years you seem to have become more like your mother."

  "Excuse me?" she says, glaring and preparing a fist.

  "I didn't mean it like that," I say, shielding myself. "I mean, you became more like the woman your mother wanted you to be. Settled and what not. You used to tell me how much you hated that, but as soon as you fell in love with me, it's exactly what happened."

  Gritting her teeth, she huffs. "I can't believe you're comparing me to my mother."

  "I'm not," I say, trying to hold back a smile. Failure will most certainly result in another nip or punch, but her face is adorable right now: screwed up, tense, flushed with anger, but still housing the same eyes, the same mouth, the same laugh lines. "I'm just comparing you to her dream daughter, that's all"

  "Are you aware how close to death you are right now?"

  "Yes. A few months, apparently." I finally fail, my smile breaking through.

  "You're such an ass," she says, nipping my neck.

  "Your mum isn't that bad."

  "I'm nothing like her, okay? And besides, we're allowed numerous dreams, you know? You might not have been part of the plan, but it isn't to say you weren't part of the dream."

  "Okay, okay. I'm sorry."

  "I never regretted our time together. Never," she says. "Although I regret being with you now, a little."

  Laughing, I pull her in and roll her onto her back. "Okay, I'm sorry. No more hitting, please."

  She breaks, smiling and laughing and rubbing her nose into my cheek.

  "Damn, I can't believe you beat up a dying man. So uncalled for."

  "Shut up. I barely touched you."

  "I'm fragile. You need to play nice."

  "Then don't be an ass."

  "I'm not." Stroking some loose hair behind her ear, I sink into the firm mattress. "I'm sorry. I'm not sure why that frustrated me so much."

  "It's okay."

  "No, it's not. I guess, I'm a little fragile towards dreams and what could have beens these days. And after everything I put you through, I don't know..."

  "Don't, Dante. Don't. I've never, not once, regretted us. You have to let go of the past, sweetie. We both do."

  Kissing my cheek, she falls to my chest, the force both lovely and painful. Each day my muscles ache further. Maybe it's the cold, although I sense it's not.

  With a sudden rush, the door flies open, wood crashing into wood as it strains too far. "Dante, you kind soldier. Let's go out and be boyish," Wil says, stumbling through the opening with a beaker of some sort in hand. "Are you not aware Tibet is on the other side of these walls? Why, oh why, do you remain in here?"

  "You're drunk," I mumble, already exhausted by his presence.

  "No, no, no, no, no, well, maybe a tad. I have no idea what this concoction is, but it has a mighty fine kick to it."

  "Maybe you should take it easy, okay? You're drinking a little too much for my liking."

  "Pish-posh, Dante, m'lad. I'm drinking exactly the right amount," he says, stumbling towards mine and Danii's bed. "Ah, what is this," he continues, picking up Danii's book. "You are aware Jane Austen was a prostitute, aren't you?" Dropping it from waist high, the book thuds against the floor. "Then again, I suppose she's a role model for some."

  "Don't be vulgar," Danii says, offering a glare similar to the one she gave me only moments ago. "You think you're a big man drinking all of the time? It's pathetic, Wil. And I think we're all growing a little tired of you."

  "I, dear Daniella, am not the impostor here," he says, smirking and swaying from side-to-side.

  "Stop it, Wil," I shout, rolling over and practically falling out of bed. "Stop speaking to her like that. She's right, you're driving everyone mad."

  Placing his hands in his pockets, and searching his feet, he shuffles from one foot to the other. "Ah Dante, m'lad. All in good fun. All in good—"

  "Shut up, Wil. I
've had enough of you. I've had enough of you speaking to her like that. What gives you the right—"

  "Hey," Danii says, grabbing my arm and pulling me backwards. "It's fine. You know what he's like." Her fingers tighten, digging into my skin a little, but I feel no pain because I'm alive with adrenaline, Wil's smarmy face my only concern. "Hey," she repeats. "Come on."

  Straightening out his back, he pops out his chest, lifting his chin and narrowing his lips. "Dante, my oldest of friends. I meant no harm. You know how the both of us are."

  "I know how you are," I say.

  "Stop it," Danii says, stepping in front of me and blocking my view. Trying to look past, I fail, focussing on her mouth and faded dimples and hair and nose. "Leave it, mister. It's fine."

  "He shouldn't speak to you like that."

  "It's fine." Her deep calm breaths are contagious. Almost immediately the adrenaline submits and melts from my taut shoulders and firm chest and squeezed fists. As it does, my entire upper body fatigues, drawing me down and down and down, my knees wobbling, my feet shifting, Danii holding me as I ease onto the bed below.

  "Wil," I say, cupping my trembling hands. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have... I'm not sure what came over me... I'm... sorry, okay?"

  "No need to apologise, Dante, m'lad," he says, peering over Danii's shoulder. "And Danii—"

  "It's fine, Wil." Cutting him off. "Maybe just give us a few minutes, okay?"

  "Of course. Of course." He searches the area around him, coughing and mumbling under his breath, before staggering towards the door and embarking into the frosty outside.

  "You okay," I ask, massaging my shaken fingers.

  "I'm fine. Are you?"

  "Yeah."

  "What was that all about?" she asks, sitting next to me. "You know you don't have to stand up for me.”

  "I know, I know. You don't need my help."

  "Hey," she affirms, stroking my chin and enthusing me to look at her. "I need you. But you know what the two of us are like. You never have to get in the middle of us like that."

  I nod, the tiny movement a tiresome act.

  "What happened?" she asks, now stroking my neck. "I've never seen you like that before. I thought you might hit him."

  "I wanted to. And I don't know, I just lost it. He shouldn't speak to you like that. He needs to stop drinking and acting like an idiot. I just..." I sigh. "I don't know. It was weird. I didn't feel in control of myself."

  Moving her hands down, she strokes and rubs my shoulders and chest in long slow swoops. "It's fine. It's just all those meds, that's all."

  "Maybe it's more than that.”

  "It isn't."

  "It might be." Biting my upper lip, I look up and above her. "I don't want to change, Danii."

  "You won't," she shushes. "You're still you. You'll always be you."

  I nod, it once again tiring.

  "You'll be okay. It's this place, we just need to move on. As soon as Ethan gets back, we'll sort out a trip to somewhere warm and pretty."

  "Yeah, that sounds nice. I think Tibet's taken enough already."

  Resting her forehead on mine, she allows silence to hang, our breathing in sync and oh so close to one another. My air mixes with hers, and for a few seconds we share the same elements of life.

  "I'm sorry I've never stopped him from speaking to you like that," I whisper. "I know you don't need my help, but I should have stuck up for you each and every time. I'm sorry."

  "Don't be," she replies, her forehead still on mine. "And stop saying I don't need you. I do. Just not when it comes to the mysterious Wilbur Day."

  I laugh. "Okay."

  "Anyway, let's forget about it. It's over."

  "Yeah."

  "Let's focus on dinner. Where would you like to go tonight?" she asks.

  "How about the little place we passed yesterday?"

  Her turn to laugh. "You serious?"

  "Yeah, why?"

  Lifting her forehead, she narrows her gaze. "We went there last night, silly."

  I laugh and pat her arm, but her look holds firm: slightly raised eyebrows and pursed lips. Last night's wayward memories creep forward bit-by-bit. "Oh yeah." I say, forcing a smile and picturing the old table the four of us surrounded. "Sorry."

  I try to move away, but she keeps hold of me. "It's okay. You're okay."

  I attempt another smile, but the adrenaline's back, only this time tainted with fear instead of anger. "Yeah. I know."

  6th December—Koh Rong:

  Recommended Listening:

  True Colours—Ane Brun

  All This Time—Maria Mena

  Wherever You Will Go—Charlene Soraia

  Collide—Howie Day

  The sand underfoot is delightful, brushing between each and every nook. The dry, powder-like grains soothe my skin, not too hot but a lovely warmth radiating up my ankles, dusting my hairs and turning the lower parts of my calf a pale, chalky beige.

  It's still light but dimming, the day anticipating its end. This romantic ambience is perfect, however, my fingers locked with Danii's, her slender and pristine tips caressing my palm. The air's deadly hush, neither of us saying a word as only the gentle crash of waves linger, mixed with the whistle of the breeze and the background hum of insects. We're in the middle of paradise: just the two of us, no one else left in the world, the end of existence and the beginning of us.

  If Tibet was contrasting to Oia, Koh Rong is something entirely different to the high altitude chill. Gone is snow and the smell of burning, instead replaced by the warm and sensual scent of Cambodia. The sun bakes the land during the afternoon, and now, as it begins its descent, a warm humid tingle remains.

  I keep thinking about Tibet, but I don't want to. Despite my eagerness to leave, I awoke on our final day with a lighter than usual headache. Picturing York, and the bench that sits before the giant cathedral, I imagined the dying fauna and the smell of the fragrant air and the touch of the chilled breeze.

  "I must write," I whispered, springing out of bed and dashing into the simple bathroom.

  Splashing icy water over my face, I buzzed with the temptation of pencil on paper. I haven't written a word on this journey, and I often consider the night before my doomed journey to Doc's office: my old notebooks and how they spoke to me, urging me to write and relive a once upon a life.

  "Yes. Yes," I said, picturing the words within an inner monologue. "Yes. Yes!"

  Tibet inspired me, it's historic and deeper meaning finally making sense. Walking through the streets, I rushed towards the palace, eager to sit below it and write and write and write. The words flowed forward, the narrative so clear, each step quicker and larger and more impatient.

  Arriving, I sat on the same bench Ethan and I had a few days earlier, pulling out my notebook and preparing my pencil. With a deep breath, I froze. "Who am I kidding."

  The blank page rested peacefully on my lap, my finger hovering above it. "Why the hell would I write about this," I said. "Just another reminder of what I lost. Writing is what I had. Not what I have."

  Tossing the pencil to the ground, I glared at it. Hated it. I hated the page and the words fading in my mind. I detested the temptation, and the memory of a passion I once loved, but had somehow become a chore. I walked back to the room and returned before anyone had risen. Crawling into bed, I closed my eyes and tried to forget. But I can't. I can't choose the moments that stay and those which leave.

  Tibet acted as a crossroads, and although the four of us approached it together, I fear we've taken different paths. Wil continues to drink, and our conversations are somewhat stilted. I said sorry for my outburst. He apologised for being who he is. We shook hands and hugged, but it's not the same.

  Ethan seems to grow more detached by the day, his lonesome walks longer and ever more frequent. Danii, too, is vacant. Yesterday I walked in on her in the bathroom. "Just washing my face," she said. But she wasn't. She cried. I heard the sobs through the door. "I'll be out in a minute," she continued, dism
issing me and guiding me away from her pain.

  Tibet altered us. The seizure changed this adventure. My mood and anger and fear consumes me. But maybe it's for the best. Maybe we needed to approach a crossroads together, only for us to take separate paths. This isn't only about me. We each have our demons. We each face a battle.

  But despite all of this, the sunny sun of Koh Rong helps. Danii and I are walking and talking again. Ethan leaves less, and speaks more. Even Wil dismisses whiskey before noon.

  As the gentle evening sun caresses my neck, I squeeze my fingers around Danii's, stealing a glance at her sun-kissed cheeks. We've only been in the tropics a few days but already, she's transformed into an exotic princess—her Egyptian grandparents sharing genes a Yorkshire guy like myself can't comprehend. Where I spend hours in the rays, turning pink and eventually red, she browns in a matter of minutes and gets darker, lovelier, and more intriguing as the day draws on. I'll always remember our first getaway to Cairo—going to bed with Danii but waking up next to her exotic clone.

  "Can you believe how peaceful this is?" I say, draping my arm over her shoulders. I move towards her neck and take in the aroma of coconut sunscreen, peach moisturiser, and her natural odour sneaking through.

  Raising her chin, she locks her gaze on mine, smiling and blinking simultaneously, peering down and biting her bottom lip. She's irresistible, an angel, a treasure I need to partake of. Cupping her left cheek, I kiss her; our tongues warm, wet, vibrant.

  "It reminds me of Rhodes. Do you remember? That one sunset that lasted forever?" she says, running her delicate index finger down my dirty white shirt, picking at each button along the way.

  "Yeah, that was a good time. It was easy back then."

  "Yeah, we'd only been going out for a year. I was still discovering how impossible you were," she says in a playful tone.

  "Ditto. It was before you turned into a crazy control freak."

  She punches me, but again, it's playful, her smile creating striating lines up her cheeks.

  "Still, it feels the same when I kiss you," I say, stopping in the sand and bringing her close. "Ever since I first kissed these lips," I continue, stroking my little finger along the upper and swooping down to the lower.