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

by Matthew Turner

  "I am excited."

  "I see. Because excited people tend to smile."

  "Didn't you just see me smile?"

  Puffing out her cheeks, she dropped her arms to her side. "That pitiful thing? Come on."

  "Well, I'm sorry my smile no longer turns you on," I said, this time producing a genuine grin.

  "That's better," she said, kissing my cheek once more. "And stop worrying. Tomorrow's sunrise will be everything you imagine. I promise."

  Hugging her so she wouldn't see my forced smile, I felt heavy with guilt. I'd shared my Uluru worries with Danii, but it wasn't my unmet expectations weighing me down. It's because I knew I wouldn't watch the sunrise with her.

  The sky sparkles now, not the blue of midday, but the greyish tones of a Yorkshire winter morning. The bulge of rock is no longer brown, but orange, and the trees are joined by yellow and brown grass. For the first time I see other people, although it's impossible to determine who is who. The group in front of me could be the young family stationed next door to our tent, but it could also be Danii, Ethan, and Wil.

  The hairs on my arms stand on end, and goosebumps consume my skin. I'm cold, verging on frozen, but glad to be thinly layered.

  I didn't drift asleep all night, worried I'd miss my lonesome passage. As four-thirty struck, I snuck out into the freezing desert and walked through the pitch blackness, unable to see more than a few feet in front, even after my eyes adjusted to the lack of light. I knew so long as I walked away from the rock, and to the left of Ethan's route, I'd remain unseen.

  It's a large desert, and until a few moments ago, impossible to spot a lonesome figure in nature's bush. I assume Danii woke in a panic, and the three of them have been searching for me ever since. I should be with them now. Danii will say she's fine and everything is okay, but part of her will be devastated. Ethan will fume, both at me leaving on my own when we agreed not to, and because I thwarted his plan. Wil, I think, will understand.

  Part of me wants Danii here right now, just like part of me wants to tell her about the dream that wasn't a dream. It's the same part that wishes to be back home in York, savouring every moment with my parents. It's the selfless side of me, but it's no match for my selfish strength.

  I'm not sure why, but I need to be alone for this sunrise. Whatever I hope to find or feel won't be had surrounded by others. I've felt this all along, but as soon as we pulled into camp and I spotted Ayres Rock for the first time, I knew. I knew I would sneak off and disappoint those I love once more.

  The clouds are now on fire, a blazing red tinting each and every one. The blue is light and welcoming, and the rock is now red and luscious. Maroon streaks rise up my leg, the desert leaving its mark on my dry calves. The moment is near, and everything is red: the rock, the sky, the earth.

  More people appear before me, and I can make out the details of the group in front. It isn't the family who resides next to our tent, rather a group of lads with cans of beer in hand. They're silent, because how can you fill the air with words at a time like this. This is nature's gift to us, and anything we say or do would simply spoil it. Already I feel warmer, not from the sun, which is still some way from reaching me, but from the buzz of adrenaline dancing inside my chest.

  I hope Danii, Ethan, and Wil no longer search for me. I hope they're sitting and watching and taking everything in. Soon they can find me, but not now. Soon they can shout and shower me with disappointment, but not now.

  I don't want to look away, but for a few seconds I will, closing my eyes and heaving in the deepest breath I can. It's so icy it chills my lungs, but it's a pleasant pain. It's a refreshing and soothing one, like stretching your hamstring a little too far. Each time I close my eyes, I picture his face with ease. I haven't dreamt about him since that night in Brisbane, but his face is as clear now as it was then. The family in the tent next to us has a young boy, a son no older than three or four. As soon as I spotted him, I held a breath in my lungs until it throbbed.

  He's such a scamp, running around and driving his parents insane. He nearly has as much energy as Wil, crawling and rolling on the ground, running and jumping and flapping his arms. Last night he snuck over to our makeshift campfire and pretended to shoot Danii and me with his index fingers clasped together.

  "You got me," Danii groaned, falling from her chair and holding her chest.

  Giggling, the young lad ran back to his parents, shouting, "I got her. I got her, mummy. I shot her right in the head."

  Wil and Ethan laughed, but I didn't. I watched him run and stumble away and longed for him to come back. If I had a son, would he grow up to have as much energy as him? Would he have freckles around his eyes like him, or a skinny frame that drowns under his baggy clothes?

  For a few seconds I felt sad, and considered going to bed, but I didn't. After a few minutes the sadness evaporated into something nice—not happiness, but certainly not sadness. I won't have a son, but maybe Danii will one day. Maybe that's who I dreamt of. Not my son, but Danii's. A little boy she calls her own, with her hair and her tinted skin and her big brown eyes. I hope she has lots of children who all look exactly like her.

  A rich red no longer fills the sky, rather a golden yellow as the tip of the sun creeps up from behind the ground. Beams of sunlight shoot out, fanning the horizon in a twinkling new day. I can't look away, locked on the big rock that has no right being here in the middle of a nothingness desert. This place isn't special, I know it isn't, but maybe...

  The clouds cast shadows on each other now, some tinted with amber warmth, others dark with a grey chill. Uluru too has shadows, some of the glorious rock glittering in the new light, whereas the rest of it remains in a darkened state. The day is waking, sending some animals to bed, and tempting others to rise and stretch.

  The quiet of darkness is scary and haunting, but the hush of a new morning is wonderful. This place isn't magical, but maybe I don't need magic. Maybe all I need is this, a morning like this, a sight like this.

  I've watched several sunrises of late, some from my bed as I try and defeat the tumour's torture, others from outside where I breathe in the morning. This isn't my first sunrise, and I've welcomed them in York and on holidays with beer in hand because the night never ended. I suspect it won't be the last sunrise, either, but none have ever been like this.

  What is magic, anyway? What represents a miracle? Isn't each sunrise a miraculous event in its own right? The fact we're here, spinning in circles around a giant ball of fire, living and breathing and watching the sun rise into the sky so it can kiss our necks and stroke our arms. This isn't my first sunrise, no, but they happen each day whether I care to watch or not. I'm in bed sleeping, curled up and eking out an extra hour. Why? Why haven't I watched and appreciated it every single day?

  I'm surrounded by people now: the group of lads in front, beer still in hand; a family of five to my left, the children wrapped up in a green and yellow blanket; a party of seven or so people to my left, dancing with each other and hugging; a couple barely ten feet in front of me, the girl's head rested on the guy's lap.

  That should be Danii and me, but I'm glad it isn't. I'm glad it's just me. I need this, because it isn't magic, but it is something. It might be the numbing cold that keeps the headache at bay, but maybe it's not. Maybe my muscles stretch and yawn for a reason, and maybe everything will be easier after this. Maybe not physically, but maybe I can find a peace that Sally never did. Maybe I can finally be brave.

  Closing my eyes again, I picture him. Not my son, but Danii's. Her little boy, her beautiful bundle, a lovely baby to cuddle and guide through life. My eyelids shake and shudder, and my nose tickles. So often on this journey I've kept the tears at bay and refused them. Not now.

  Peeking through a curtain of eyelashes, I gaze at Uluru once more, a stream of tears slowly dribbling down each cheek, growing longer and branching off into different directions: towards my ears and lips and nose and chin. I sob, quietly, muffling the sound through my clasped tee
th. This place isn't magical, but this moment is. I feel it. I feel the sunrise; all of it: its taste, its smell, its touch.

  20th February—Wellington:

  Recommended Listening:

  Intro—The XX

  If You Want Me—Marketa Irglova & Glen Hansard

  Gun Shy—Widowspeak

  No, I Don’t Remember—Anna Ternheim

  I awoke this morning in foul form. It wasn't the headache—although it was painful—rather, something else. A pit-of-my-stomach frustration unlike anything I've felt so far on this journey. There's been the good days and the bad days, and some are harder than others, but this morning... I simply fumed.

  Eager to leave the small hostel room and be on my own, I left without word or note. As soon as I stepped outside, an angry sky welcomed me, a sky as grim as my mood. "Just walk," I mumbled, pushing my hands into my pockets. And so I did, merely walked and walked and walked, but rather than lighten and unload my angst, I grew angrier by the step.

  "What's wrong with me?" I huffed, the darkening sky threatening rain.

  "Uluru was supposed to help," I reasoned, tackling a steep Wellington hillside.

  "I shouldn't feel like this," I sighed, a sprinkle of rain finally falling. "I should be at peace by now." And the second I said peace, the sky opened and unleashed a pounding rainfall.

  Uluru wasn't magical, but it was special. For days, the tumour seemed to retreat, the headaches less intense, my memory intact, and seizures nowhere to be seen. My muscles eased and the aches and pains dripped down my shoulders. I no longer felt broken and pieced together by strips of tape. For a few days, I was somewhat whole.

  But it isn't magical. It's just another place on the map, but despite this I feared leaving. For whatever reason I was better there, and I knew as soon I left the aches and pains would return. Maybe I should have told Danii and insist we stay longer. But how could I when it was me who tainted our stay. Everyone looked forward to that sunrise, and it was supposed to be the four of us. Danii was supposed to experience it with me. I stole the moment, and with it, Uluru.

  She insisted she was okay and understood, but she doesn't. It's over and we've moved on, but I hurt her... again. I hurt Ethan too, his giddiness gone by the time I returned to our tent. None of us have spoken much about it since. It's over. We've moved on. Although, I'm not sure I have. Below the surface, I doubt they have either.

  Maybe it's guilt that angers me. Maybe I miss Uluru. Maybe I shouldn't have left. All I know is the headaches are back, the aches and pains weigh down my shoulders and neck, and my memory is once again fragile and broken.

  Continuing its pounding, the rain drained me of warmth. I walked up a hill and down another, and before long, found myself at the near-empty harbour.

  "Where are we going tonight?" said a voice from under an umbrella, walking quickly towards me. "No way, we can't go there again," continued the smarmy tone, just a few feet away.

  Hands in pockets and wet to the core, I continued to stride, no plans to move out of this careless stranger's way. 'Why should I move?' I thought. 'He can!'

  "Hey, watch where you're going!" he said, his umbrella clattering into my head and spilling to the ground. "You hear me, buddy?" he continued.

  "Are you kidding me?" I yelled. "How about you get your head out of that umbrella and watch where you're going... buddy."

  "Whatever, asshole," he said, brushing down his suit jacket.

  Clenching my fists, the angry surge ate me alive. I squared my shoulders and prepared to battle and fight and hold my ground, but then, from nowhere, the rain stopped in an instant. The grey clouds weren't as grim, and a few slivers of sunlight crept through an opening here and an opening there. "Yeah, whatever," I said, walking off and shaking my head, fists still taut.

  People change during an illness like mine. Their body turns on them and transforms them into a stranger. It happened to the man in the waiting room, whose wife changed until she no longer felt like his wife. Was it sudden? Did she see it coming? Did he? Or did she wake up one morning and feel different?

  Turning the corner and spotting the hostel, I quicken my step—left foot squelching, right foot squishing.

  I can't imagine changing, but how can I control it? I don't wish to lose my memory, either, but I barely remember the flight to Wellington, the entire day reminiscent of a hazy and drunken night: Ethan, Wil, and me at the bar toasting with a tumbler of whiskey each; Danii on my knee in the departure lounge as The Beatles jingled in the background, although I can't recall the song; a movie on the plane starring Zach Braff, but the name of it... or the plot... or who his character was... I have no idea. I'm sure these are memories, but they could be dreams. It's so hard to differentiate between the two.

  Climbing the hostel steps, I push open the heavy door and am met by a wall of cold, air-conditioned air as it attacks my sodden skin. I rush to the elevator and stab the button, eager to rise high and home.

  Entering our simple room of two bunk beds and a cheap set of drawers, Ethan and Danii are mid conversation by the window. They're both warm and dry: Ethan in a cozy-looking sweater with Pink Floyd written in large text across the chest; Danii in a baggy yellow t-shirt that I think once belonged to me. I'm miserable and wet and tingle all over, whereas they're not, and the angry surge rises once more.

  "Hey, sweetie. Where have you been? We were beginning to worry," Danii asks, hopping off the window's edge.

  "Walking. I just needed a walk, that's all."

  "Jesus, you're soaked. Come here," she says, striding over and offering me a towel. "I didn't even realise it was raining."

  "Yeah."

  "Well, don't worry. You'll be dry soon," she continues, hugging me and kissing my cheek, but for once her touch isn't enough. "Ethan was telling me about the time you were chased by a farmer," she says, turning to Ethan and laughing. "You've never told me that story."

  "Yeah," I mumble. "Good times."

  Drying my hair, and pulling on a new pair of pants and a thick shirt, I lean on the wall and watch Danii and Ethan continue their chatter. Usually Danii's laugh is enough to break the worst of my moods, her smile a delight I cannot fight. But it doesn't work its magic now, her giggle or her lips or her soothing tones. The tingle remains. My bitterness continues to prod and probe.

  "Gentleman," Wil says, bursting through the door in a multitude of red: dark red shirt, faded pink chinos, and maroon loafers with a hole at the front. "I have the greatest idea of all the great ideas. Why, this idea will cement this journey, be the peak of our lives, and make or break our minds."

  Sighing, I sit on the bottom bunk and place my head in my hands.

  "I seriously doubt it," says Ethan.

  "Oh, Ethan, m'boy, this isn't any old idea, but the idea. This idea will change us forever. Why, this idea–"

  "Just get on with it." Danii says, sitting next to me and planting her hand on my thigh.

  "Ah, yes, of course, no doubt you want to hear it so you can shoot it down. Your strongest skill, of course. Well, that and failing to change the people you apparently love."

  She tightens her grip around my leg. "Get on with it, Wilbur."

  "Hmmm, okay, gentlemen, I was walking and talking, as I do, when I saw a certain advertisement for a certain adventure on the South Island. It involves flying high and falling fast."

  Ethan laughs, sitting on the cheap set of wooden draws. "You mean skydiving?"

  "I sure do, Ethan, m'boy."

  "Wil, you're afraid of heights. Do you understand what skydiving entails?"

  Marching on the spot, Wil releases his wild and uncontrollable grin. "This is a journey of confrontation, m'boy. What better way to tackle one's fear than to jump from as high as a man can go?"

  "I don't know," Ethan says. "I don't think you've thought—"

  "It's a stupid idea," Danii interrupts, still holding my leg.

  "Ah yes, of course it is. What a shock, the one who wasn't invited has an issue with my great idea. I don't recall
asking your opinion, old missy. If I did, I would have said gentlemen and wench, but I did not, so shall not require your input."

  "Screw you, Wil. Just because I'm the only one who says no to your nonsense.”

  "It's the only word you know when it comes to me, you stupid little girl.”

  "Watch how you speak to me. I'm not one of your sluts."

  "That you are not. Much worse–"

  "Ahhhh, shut up!" I scream, as three shocked faces snap to mine.

  I'm a lion roaring, a volcano erupting, a vacuum exploding in all directions. It's this morning's frustration, the weeks of pointless arguing, the months of fear and worry, and a lifetime of saying nothing. This is a fuck you to Uluru, for tempting me with relief, but not taking it away; it's a fuck you to Tibet and its guilt ridden ways; a fuck you to the beaches and winding roads and empty deserts and calming seas, because what have you given me? I'm still dying. I still hurt. I remain confused and hopeless, and each day another aspect of who I am is stolen. Another memory. Another chunk of familiarity. Another wish, and another day.

  Three shocked faces remain, but they're the same faces I've always known. Why don't they grow old like mine? Why don't they change and deteriorate by the day? Why do they keep a certain glow, whilst I turn pale and yellow and bruised? What have I done to deserve all of this? What have they done not to?

  "Shut up, the both of you," I shout, standing up and pushing past Wil. "I'm sick of it. I'm sick and tired of the arguments and snide comments. Wil," I say, squaring up to him like I should have done to the stranger from earlier. "How dare you speak to her like that. All you've ever done is insult the girl I love. Why? What sort of cruel, horrible person does that? You say you're my friend, but all you've ever done is fill me with doubt. Seducing and manipulating me into being more like you, but all you are is a sorry and pitiful excuse for a human being." Taking another step towards him, I prod his chest with a tensed finger.

  "And Danii," I say, barging past Wil and looking down to where she sits. "What's going on with you? At the time I need you the most, all you do is argue with him? I fucking need you, for god's sake. Does this help me? Does it make you feel better stooping down to his level, the level you've always told me you wouldn't give the time of day? I mean, all you have to do is wait a few more weeks and you can cause all the drama you like and never see Wil again, or me for that—"