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

by Matthew Turner

  "Really?"

  "Yeah. Do you remember it?"

  "Of course."

  I frame her face in my hands, brushing her cheeks with my thumbs, unable to look away from her chocolate-drop eyes. "I remember sitting opposite you, listening all night but barely able to hear because all I wanted to do was push the table over and kiss you."

  She smiles. "If it makes you feel any better, I wanted you to do that, too."

  "Hmmmm, now you tell me." I move my body closer to hers.

  "Well, you didn't wait long afterwards, mister."

  I recall the moment I stopped dead in the street. "I'd waited long enough. Plus, it was a lovely night by the river. I thought it was romantic."

  "It was. One of the best. Everything changed after that."

  I nod and take a step back, bringing my hands away and stroking a renegade lock away from her cheek. "For the better, right?"

  "Right."

  Taking her hand again, I start to walk, our bare feet kicking up a cloud with each step. It's a little darker, the greens of the forest blending into the navy sky above. The setting of jungle and beach so close is a dream, two worlds coming together to form a charming stage. It's moments like these that make the longing for home worthwhile.

  "Do you remember Cassis," she asks, looking inland and beyond the trees.

  "I do." Only her sundress hides her full form. Those firm legs rising high under the thin fabric, and although I'm not certain, I sense there's nothing else beneath. Her shoulders suggest no bathing suit or bra, only the dress' thin strip of fabric. She's almost naked, wearing more clothes in bed most nights. If only the breeze were stronger.

  "Do you remember the day we spent on the beach?"

  "Yeah," I say, searching my memory for a time nearly two years ago. Thankfully, my long term memory hasn't been affected yet. Although certain everyday tasks pass me by. Silly things like misplaced money and having to think whether I have or haven't had a shower. Hardly end of the world misgivings, but still...

  "I wanted you bad that day," she says, breaking my thought.

  "Huh?"

  "I mean..." she says, circling her thumb along the edge of my palm, still looking towards the tree-line. "I was horny and wanted you," she continues, snapping her eyes on mine: full, dark, sumptuous.

  "Really?" I ask, taken aback but excited by the way she says horny—quieter than the other words, with a gentle roll of the o.

  "Yep."

  "You should have said something. We could have..."

  "It was a busy beach, Dante. But this one..." She allows her words to linger.

  "Why, Miss Adams, are you trying to seduce me?"

  "Is it working?"

  "It bloody well is," I say, excitement eating away at my upper thigh.

  She squeezes my hand and stops, falling to the sand and dragging me with her. We face the sea, the horizon a long line that reaches from one end of the island to the other; a dark blue resting below the boundary and a lighter hue above, wisps of white and a hint of apricot sneaking and streaking upward.

  "This is perfect," she says, resting her head on my shoulder, circling the crease between my chest and arm.

  "Cassis was a strange trip," I say, sighing at the far-away thought.

  "Yeah, we were struggling. At least, we started to."

  I nod. "I still loved you though."

  "Yeah..." She drifts off, her circling thumb halting. "I am sorry, Dante."

  "What for?"

  "For trying to change you. You blame yourself for what happened to us, but the truth is, I was equal in our demise. I loved you for who you were, yet for some reason I wanted to change you. I wanted to rush you into being the man I always knew you'd become."

  "Danii, don't."

  "It's true. I always placed everything on you, but that's not fair. It was never fair. I didn't allow us to enjoy where we were. I wanted us to fast forward to a place that fit my silly ideals. The silly principles my mother thrust upon me as a kid. I talk about being a modern woman, but how am I?" She sighs. "It was hard being your girlfriend, but it must have been hard to be my boyfriend, too. I'm sorry."

  Lifting her little finger to my mouth, I kiss it. "Yeah, maybe we were both a little useless. But I assure you, I was the architect. I wanted you to change me, but I was scared. I loved you the moment I saw you, and it terrified me. I didn't know how to handle it. All of a sudden I needed this girl, a girl I literally couldn't breathe without. My own silly ideals pulled on one arm, but my love for you pulled on the other. And so, I hoped each day I would wake up and be ready. Ready for you to change me. Ready to become the guy you saw deep down. Because I wanted to be that guy, too. I did. So, don't be sorry. You may have played a part, but our end was my doing."

  Blinking fast, she wipes her forearm across her face. "We really were rubbish, weren't we?"

  "Yeah," I laugh.

  "But stop beating yourself up over it, please. You're a great guy, Dante. For some reason you don't see it. You focus on what you've never done, rather than what you have."

  "Yeah, sure. Like what?"

  "Like being a friend to someone who doesn't deserve it. For being more than a cousin. For being brave enough to dream, but not selfish enough to run. For receiving the worst news possible, and not falling apart. For being someone who's made me smile on countless occasions, and given me a vault of memories to forever treasure. I love you, Dante. I love you for the man you are. I should have treasured it all along."

  Nature's volume increases, the sound of the waves transforming from a crash into a collection of thrashes; the hum of insects turning from a gentle tickle to a heavy shudder; the distant barks of dogs getting louder and louder, like they're right behind us... stalking us.

  "Well, we can treasure each other now. That's the main thing."

  Wiping her face again, she smiles. "Yeah. And I'm sorry for what I said in Paris. About us being terrible for each other. We're not. We never were. All we've ever done is love one another. We just had a rather strange way of showing it."

  I laugh again. "Come here," I say, dragging her to my chest.

  Scattering kisses all over my neck and mouth and cheek and more, she's on top of me, and I'm all over her: my arms embracing her body, legs elevating her, mouth biting and nails clawing. She exhales and pushes down, grasping my shirt and pulls, heaves, rips it up and over my head.

  She tastes my shoulder and I, her neck. My tongue tingles with salt, but her usual aroma remains and I couldn't imagine tasting anything else right now. Cupping my hands beneath her dress, I lift and pull it over her head, lifting her at the same time so she momentarily floats and defies the rules we usually abide by.

  As I open my eyes, I glimpse the horizon once more, the sea now black and sky velvet. The trees are still there, but they're no longer trees, merely black silhouettes against a slightly lighter backdrop. The sand isn't yellow but golden, and the sound of crashing waves on terra firma is no more. All I hear are moans and panting; some from me, others from she.

  15th December—Jakarta:

  Recommended Listening:

  We Don’t Eat—James Vincent McMorrow

  If The Creek Don’t Rise—Dylan LeBlanc

  Nantes—Beirut

  Wax & Wire—Loch Lomond

  Rabbit Hole—The Tempar Trap

  The headaches no longer remain in the morning but attack sporadically throughout the day. In the afternoon or evening, it's fine, as I keep myself busy with chatter and music and food and drink, but at night, like now, quiet and unmoving in bed, it eats away at my temples and sends long, lingering strikes down my forehead and neck; frozen, paralysed, useless.

  I'm growing used to it. I can't recall the last time I didn't feel heavy. It was a few days ago, just before we reached Jakarta, when I fell into a deep enough sleep to dream—the first time in a while—where my unconscious fantasies were not of girls or cars, but of walking through a park in York during the summer, a cool breeze blowing through my hair and soothing my
neck, my entire head light and free: no weighing feeling or heavy ache. I was upright and clean, cleansed and light; so light I was floating, not walking, clinging to gravity so I wouldn't drift away and dance and prance with the leaves.

  The headaches may be familiar, but the seizures not so much. The second occurred during our Kuala Lumpur layover, the desolate airport thankfully quiet. As I stood beneath the departure board, my knees buckled, life once again blurring at the edges like the final scene of a movie before blackness takes over. "It's okay sweetie, I'm here." I couldn't see her, but Danii's words brought me back into the conscious world. Tiny chills fluttered over my body, like a thousand simultaneous hushed breaths blowing.

  "You'll be fine, sweetie. You'll be fine," she continued, her words muffled, reminding me of swimming under water as the sounds above the surface travel through the waves.

  She finally appeared in my line of sight, trying to smile and holding back the tears. Ethan kneeled beside her, his steely eyes providing a tranquil presence. I couldn't see Wil at first, but then he stepped forward, once again stood in the background.

  As Ethan sat me up and fed me sips of water, we moved on. Within an hour, we laughed and played down the situation.

  "One day you'll make us miss a flight," said Ethan, shaking his head.

  "I know," I replied. "I really can't be trusted."

  "Always the attention seeker," Danii said. "If you want a hug, all you have to do is ask."

  Not easy, but easier, and this, I suppose, is all I can hope for. I'm sure Danii died a little inside, and Ethan is no doubt riddled with worry. Wil is quieter, clearly shaken by the shakes. Part of me wants to talk to him and reassure him that everything is okay. But another, doesn't.

  Easier, sure. But easy? No.

  Worse than the seizures, and worse than the headaches, is by far my unpredictable memory. The doctors didn't tell me how to prepare for this because they didn't know what to expect themselves. Thankfully, my old memories remain—for now—but each day, a new piece of the puzzle flutters away into the sky like a bird joining her family on a long-awaited flight. I wasn't sure they were happening at first: losing my trail of thought and forgetting simple tasks. Although they're all too apparent now, as Danii says something, and the next moment I'm in another room, head in the fridge, for instance, or holding my backpack but no idea why. You wouldn't think you'd miss a few seconds, but you do.

  Yesterday, I snapped back after a few seconds from wherever it is I go to find a tube of toothpaste in hand, its white chalky goop snaking around itself all the way down to the sink. "Danii," I called. "Was I... I... just speaking to you?"

  Her smile evaporated, and nodding, she took the tube out of my hand. "It's okay, sweetie. It was only a few seconds."

  A matter of seconds define so much in our lives, but entire blocks are stolen from mine each day. Each time it happens, I shed a tear: a farewell to a moment lost in the ether. Not easy, but easier. I must be grateful for this.

  The busy cities help though, if for no other reason than the distractions they offer. Cambodia was bliss, but the hush grew haunting.

  "I know this probably sounds strange," said Ethan, one evening. "But I think we need to go somewhere a little... busier."

  I snapped to Wil, expecting a sly remark. It never came; he seemed to pay no attention.

  And so, we've remained immersed within cities since, the hustle and bustle bringing us closer together. Allowing us to forget. Still, my nights remain the same, and no matter where we are—tranquil or hectic—restlessness runs amuck.

  I'm exhausted right now, but I can't look away from Danii's peaceful face. I reminisce a lot during these long nights, but she occupies most of the wanderings. The chilly afternoon in Dean's Park, for instance, the two of us alone as the icy air bit at my gloveless fingers.

  "You know, don't you?" she said, sitting on the bench next to me, wrapped in her massive woolly coat.

  I looked at her, despite her looking at the ground, imagining what it would feel like if I finally broke free and shared all of my inner angst. "Know what?" I said, although she was right. I did know.

  "Liar."

  I said nothing, the hissing winter breeze twisting around us.

  "I can't do this anymore. I'm tired of the arguments and the same old issues. We've not been us for a long time.”

  "Just say what you say, Danii," I sighed, hating myself.

  She nodded, long and slow, breathing a lingering and lasting breath. "Fine." Looking up, she faced me for the first time since sitting down on the bench. "We're over, Dante. We've been over for a while."

  I said nothing. Neither of us did. I didn't cry, nor did she.

  "Are you going to say anything?" she finally said.

  I shook my head, although I did want to say something. I wanted to say a lot of somethings... all of the somethings I'd kept hidden away from her.

  "Really?" she asked, her sharp tone unnerving. "Three years, and you have nothing to say?"

  I remained silent, looking at my shoes and detesting myself.

  She could, and should, have left, but she didn't. Sitting with her knees angled towards me, she rubbed her gloved palms over her thighs, and waited; offering me a chance to speak up and prevent us from ending in such a horrible way. A manner that could never be taken back.

  "Okay," she said, each croaky syllable struggling forward. "Okay."

  'Say something,' I willed myself. 'Don't let it end like this. Don't let it end at all!'

  But it was too late, the weight from the bench shifting as Danii stood up and brushed down her coat.

  "Goodbye, Dante," she said, as I glanced up in time to see her face disappear behind a fog of visible sigh.

  'Say something say something say something.'

  Shaking her head, and blowing, she turned away and walked down the path: Dean's Park desolate and cold and the very definition of grim.

  Sitting upright, I watched, hating myself and desiring to scream, but remaining silent; simply watching her drift away. After ten feet or so, she stopped in her tracks, lifting her head a little and looking towards the sky. I pictured her turning around and walking back, screaming at me to say something... demanding me to let her in... refusing to leave until I shared my reasons why: why I was letting us end... why I wouldn't speak... why I fought her and pushed her away.

  In another life, maybe, but not in this one. Shaking her head, she continued to walk, slowly, and eventually, disappearing into the winter fog. I remained seated, but I didn't cry. I knew I was wrong, but I refused responsibility, finally leaving and joining Wil, the pair of us drowning ourselves in beer and whiskey.

  "You're better off, Dante m'lad," he said, slurring his words. "She didn't understand you."

  "I know, I know," I replied, my head spinning in an alcoholic haze. "She pushed too hard. Why couldn't she accept me, for me?"

  "She's a fool."

  "If she didn't try changing me, well, we'd never argue at all..."

  "A witch, I say."

  "I didn't try to change her..."

  "Yes, yes, much better off."

  "I am, aren't I?"

  "Yes!"

  "Really?"

  Grabbing my arm, he pointed at my heart. "Dante, m'lad, you did nothing wrong. Did you beat her?"

  "No."

  "Did you cheat on her?"

  "No!"

  "Were you staying true to yourself?"

  I hesitated. "Yeah..."

  "Well then," he said. "You're better off without that harlot."

  Nodding and drinking until the night descended into a vague memory, I kidded myself into believing it was her fault. That I did no wrong. That I remained true to myself. For weeks... months... years... I lived a lie the entire time.

  "I'm sorry," I whisper in her ear, twisting away and focussing on the fuzzy red glow housing the numbers three... two... nine... the middle of the night, literally. "I'm sorry, Danii. You deserved better."

  Thankfully, not all these restless
wanderings are grim. Many are of happy times, true reminisces of the pair of us laughing and playing and loving one another. I watch her for hours, and smile. She sleeps so peacefully and heavily, and I hope beyond hope she dreams of good times. Of happy time. Of us times.

  Taking a deep breath, I reach for the pills on the table beside me, pushing a couple of Corticosteriods and Anticonvulsants and a few other chalky pills, I think, into my mouth and forcing them down—bitter and pasty, as always. The headache is too intense, the memory of Dean's Park too much. Sliding out of the sheets, and carefully lifting her arm, I stagger to my feet and towards the sliding balcony doors.

  On the other side of the dark brown blinds is a world refusing to sleep. You wouldn't know it, as the constant hum of the air conditioning drowns everything out, but creeping through the blinds and opening the sliding door, I'm met by a wall of hot, moist air and a surge of sound from a variety of forms, the tedious hum finally undone. The middle of the night, but still the tropics refuse to surrender. I'm shirtless with only my shorts covering skin, but still I desire less in the ever-so-slight breeze residing here on the seventh floor.

  The city is alive. Only a few days earlier, Danii and I owned an entire beach as we rolled and grasped, but now I'm a speck in an ever-growing pile of dust: music blaring, car horns sounding, and whoops and shouts and screams dotting the audible abyss.

  I miss the smell of seclusion. We've been spoiled by crisp mountain air, sea-soaked scents, and the linger of nature in every breath. All this city offers is fumes and a bitter aftertaste. To live here is like taking up smoking, but again, it's like any other city. Once you have an affair with places like Tibet and Cambodia and... and... well, anyway, it's hard to accept anything but.

  "Can't sleep?" I shudder and freeze, paralysed for a couple of seconds as I try to comprehend the moment. I'm alone, but apparently not, and on arching my neck to my left, I see him in the shadows, only his right ankle in the light.

  "Wil, what the hell, mate. You scared me to death."

  "Ah, yes, sorry, good man. I was watching you watch the world. Very peaceful."

  I move closer to him and adjust to the lack of light, noticing that he, too, is wearing no shirt, but where I have shorts, he has the same white chinos he had on this afternoon. "What are you doing out here?" I say with a hushed tone, realising his legs are hanging over the side of the balcony.