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

by Matthew Turner

"Yeah."

  "I know."

  "It's changed, right? I'm not imagining it?"

  "No, I think we all sense it, but I guess for different reasons."

  "Wil's... Different," I say.

  "Yep."

  "He's quieter."

  "I've noticed."

  "Are you sure you're okay?"

  "He's taking it out on Danii, too." He looks at me now. "You should say something."

  I shake my head, considering the many times I've moved to her rescue in the past, only for her to utter, “I’ll handle it myself”. "She doesn't like me saying anything. Strong independent woman and all that... anyway, you know what he's like. Danii and he have never seen eye to eye."

  "It's with more venom now, don't you think?"

  I take another mouthful of cold, clean air. "I don't know. Maybe. I'm sure it'll be fine. I'm more worried by his silence. It's creepy."

  "Yeah..."

  "You, too," I say. "I'm worried about you, too."

  "That's a change for the books."

  "I'm serious. I know it's your job to hold my hand, but I'm here for you, too. If you need to talk."

  "I'm fine. No need to worry."

  "Ethan–"

  "It's this damn trip, okay!" he says, taking a deep breath and huddling further into his own embrace. "I didn't think it would be this hard. Back home, everything makes sense, but here... I don't have a grasp on anything."

  "I know, but you're doing okay. You're having a good time, right?"

  "Exactly," he practically spits out. "I've been having fun even though I've tried not to. I'm not here to have fun. I'm here to make sure you're okay."

  "That's crazy—"

  "No, it isn't. This isn't me," he says, holding out his palm and taking a long, slow breath; the hazy mist surrounding his hand. "I hold it together. Your mum, she was distraught. And I promised her. I promised you'd be okay, that I'd look after you and get you home. How can I keep that promise if I'm not in control of myself? I shouldn't be having fun or enjoying this. I shouldn't."

  He tries to continue, but is met by a muted breath. This isn't my cousin. It's a man with no answer. "I know this is out of your comfort zone, but maybe that's not a bad thing–"

  "I was living my dream," he continues, ignoring me. "The job and the house and the career, and it's all still there, waiting, but I'm not sure I can go back to it. What if I want more? What if... what if... what..."

  "Ethan—"

  "We shouldn't be having fun! None of us should be, but especially me. We're here because... because..."

  "I'm going to die?"

  He looks away, turning his entire body from mine. The longer-than-usual hairs on the back of his neck move in the breeze, his free-flowing strands dancing in the brisk mountain wind, no longer slicked back in an act of perfection.

  "Ethan, you're allowed to have fun. Christ, that's exactly what we need to do.”

  "How?" he snaps.

  "How? Because it's why we came away. It's bad enough seeing my mother's vacant and hapless expression every time I close my eyes. Can you imagine what it'd be like if I saw her every fucking day? Jesus, ever since that bloody fit!"

  "What do you expect? This is hard on all of us. I don't know what those two are going through—"

  "Have you spoken to them?"

  "No."

  "Not even Wil?"

  "No," he forces out. "We haven't spoken about it because we have no idea what to say. I don't know what they're going through, but I sense they're asking similar questions to me. They're asking why they're here and what they should and shouldn't say, and how they're supposed to act."

  "Do you regret coming?" I ask, not knowing why but suddenly needing to hear his answer.

  "Of course not."

  "Really, because it sounds like you do."

  "Don't. You're like a brother to me, and I don't regret this for a second. I can't imagine leaving you to deal with this on your own, to go through that alone..." He twists again, the woolly coat forming a boundary between the cold and me. "You were so tense. Holding you was like grasping a statue: so cold and rigid and fragile. I thought you might shatter any minute, and it wouldn't stop. It felt like hours, just crouching and holding you and hearing nothing but the muffled stutters from Danii. We're here because we love you, and that's why it's hard. That's why every time I have fun, I feel sick to my stomach."

  "I know, I'm sorry," I say, replaying the moment in my head: Danii huddling close, rubbing my chest and trying to speak but failing through held-back tears. It ranks with my mother's grief, and it's one I don't wish to see again. "I find myself forgetting, you know? We're just walking down the street, touring a new land and taking in the sights. I slip into a subconscious coma of normality, but then a song plays or I'll look into her eyes, and everything rushes back, and I feel sick and my heart beats and beats and beats, and I'm worried I'll fall over in the street there and then." I clench my fist and push it into my thigh until it hurts. "I know I should embrace every day like it's the last, but it's so hard to. It's so hard when there's anger, and fear, and knowing there's nothing I can do to stop it."

  He's still turned away from me, a plume of misty breath rising above him.

  "Yesterday afternoon," I say, "when we were sitting in that little coffee place, I was happy. I was calm and normal, and happy. And then that guy came in playing Tegan & Sara on his phone. Remember?"

  "Yeah."

  "So you remember it was on the first playlist she gave me. A simpler time. A time before everything became complicated. A time when I had my entire life ahead of me. I smiled at the memory, but then it disappeared. My lips grew heavy and dropped. My ribs shook and I hurt all over. The conscious beat my subconscious, and I go through this throughout the day, although I shouldn't complain because at least I get to forget and smile for a few hours each afternoon—after the torture and before the restless night of tossing and turning."

  Shuffling towards me, he searches my feet, or maybe his own. "I'm sorry, Dante. I know you don't need my nonsense right now.”

  "Mate, it isn't—"

  "Yeah, it is, but I'm afraid it's always going to be there. Wil's feeling it, and I am, and Danii is, and we're all trying to figure this shit out but we can't, because what's there to figure out?" He lifts his head a little, keeping it level with my chest. "We're scared and battling demons none of us should have to face."

  I hold the chilled air in my cheeks, the skin numbing, brief spikes of pain burying deep into my teeth. As I breathe out, the aftertaste of burnt aromas remain, the entire town torching an array of fragrances: smoky wood, cooked meats, vibrant herbs and flowers, and a whole host of other smells I've never encountered. With the chilled air and smoky linger, it reminds me of nights on the 5th November, celebrating Guy Fawkes Night with gooey toffee apples, bitter maple treats, and the sound of crackling fireworks exploding to life.

  "I appreciate you being here," I say. "I don't want to think about what it'd be like alone and lonely. I was selfish trying to do this on my own, and you were right, my parents were right, everyone was right. But we need to find a way through, because this," I say, clenching my fist again, "...is killing me."

  He nods and runs his hand over his mouth. "Have you spoken to Danii about it?"

  "Not really, no. There are certain subjects we avoid, but in the last few days, the list has grown. Like, we'll be walking and talking about something, but then one of us hesitates, a forceful pause that we're both aware of but shrug off and we quickly change course. It's strange, but you don't realise how often you discuss the future until you realise you don't have one."

  "Yeah, it must be hard."

  He looks at me now, devouring me like he always has and I hope always will. I used to hate it, but not anymore. He's waiting, pushing, prodding for more. "I hate how it's taken this for me to understand what she means to me. At night, as I'm restless and lifeless and scared, all I focus on is how we're one day closer to goodbye. All the fighting, all of the pu
shing and battling... I regret it all."

  "Have you told her this?"

  "In a way. The best part of each day is when we sneak off and walk and talk and do nothing at all: holding her hand; kissing her; stroking my fingers through her hair; watching her curl it around her own; the feel of her tongue on my cheek and neck; the way she scratches my head as I fall asleep; and how she fits perfectly into the nook on my arm and lays there, so still and peaceful, marking tiny circles on my chest..." I lose my train of thought and cough. "Anyway, little is said but words aren't needed," I say, rubbing my hands against my thighs, the instant warmth a comfort. "And I worry all of the time about whether we're doing the right thing. I know it would be futile, I do, but part of me wonders about going home and fighting until the bitter end, because maybe, what if maybe, I win." I sigh. "But that means leaving this," I say, tilting my forehead towards the palace. "I spent so long talking a good game but doing nothing about it. I can't stand anymore regrets, and going home now would only add to that list. Then again, maybe staying does, too."

  "You have nothing to regret, Dante."

  "I have too much, I'm afraid." I rub my hands again. "Do you know the stages of death?"

  "You mean denial and anger, and all that?"

  "Yeah. Acceptance is the last stage, apparently. I look forward to that stage. We go through all the pain and anguish, so eventually we experience a moment of clarity. A time we can forgive others... ourselves. A time we let go of our regrets," I say, looking out over the palace, picturing the gigantic mountains behind. "Yeah, I look forward to that stage."

  He straightens up and rolls his shoulders, moving his neck from side to side and brushing down his jacket. "I'm glad you have her back," he says.

  "Me too, and that's why you need to enjoy this trip. Because if you don't, one day you'll look back and regret. You'll lose your version of Danii, all because you stubbornly stuck to your ways and tried to live up to the version you thought you needed to be, rather than allow yourself to be the only person you can be."

  "This trip isn't about me."

  "The hell it is! It's about all of us. I know it's hard, and I know it'll get harder, but please, Ethan, please, live your life. Don't cling on to some stubborn ideals, because you'll realise one day, somewhere in the distant future, how silly and wrong you were. You deserve to enjoy and grow from this journey, because deep down, below all the angst and misery, it's incredible. This, right now, is incredible."

  He nods, barely, but enough. "Yeah. It is rather amazing. A bit too cold for my liking, though," he says, pulling his heavy jacket high to his nose. "To think, a few days ago we were by the ocean in shorts and t-shirts."

  "Yeah."

  Silence takes over, the two of us sitting mere inches apart. I'm drained and cold and hungry and tired, and never have I felt so small as I do beneath this gargantuan structure that's bigger than its brick and mortar suggests.

  30th November—Lhasa:

  Recommended Listening:

  The Stable Song—Gregory Alan Isakov

  Let It Be Me—Ray LaMontagne

  Landfill—Daughter

  Lhasa still haunts me, a strange nagging sensation that won't budge or leave me in peace. It knows I'm not worthy of such tranquil belongings, and I want to leave, yet I know when I do, I'll wish to be back.

  I'm reminded by family holidays from when I was younger, loving the first few days, but quickly growing tired and desiring to be back home. Such as our summer trip to Tenerife, a fortnight getaway, rather than the usual week long vacation.

  "Daaaaad," I whined, folding my arms and refusing to leave the pool. "Why can't we go now?"

  "Because we still have three days," he said.

  "But we've been here forever."

  "We haven't been here forever."

  "Yes we have, and I hate it. I'm bored and hate it. I want to go home. Now!" I said, folding my arms tighter.

  My father crouched, his face stern. Preparing myself for a telling off, I pushed away from the side of the pool. "You say that now," he said, calm. "But you'll want to come back, trust me."

  "No I won't. I hate it. I hate it hate it hate it."

  Eventually, I left the pool, and after three long and trudging days, we embarked to the airport, each of my steps a skip instead of a stride.

  "We're going home," I said. "Yes yes yes yes yes yes yes."

  My mother and father didn't shout, instead they hooked an arm around one another and smiled.

  Imagining bike rides with Ethan, and tree climbing with Wil, I ran around the departure lounge, skidding on knees and creating fictitious worlds where I was the King, and the passing-by passengers were trolls and ghosts and evil ghouls.

  "What's happening?" I asked, as a line of people began moving towards the huge sliding doors.

  "It's time to get on the plane, sweetie" said my mother.

  "Oh..." I paused, the feeling of excitement not nearly as strong. "Will it be warm at home?"

  "Maybe."

  "As warm as here?"

  "No."

  "Warm enough for shorts and t-shirts?"

  "I'm not sure."

  Walking onto the plane, I left my fictitious worlds behind and settled into my uncomfortable seat, shifting from one side to the other, but unable to relax during the entire flight.

  "It's cold," I said, as soon as I stepped outside of Manchester Airport.

  "I know," said my father.

  "Daaaaad," I said, not so much a whine, but curious to the core. "Can we go back so I can swim in the pool, please?" I asked, my father laughing and ruffling my hair.

  I worry I'll miss Tibet in the same manner, needing to leave whilst here, but wishing to be back as soon as I'm gone. It's wonderful, but clouds me with doubt. I want to enjoy and treasure such a wonderful and mysterious place, but I can't.

  Curling up on the uncomfortable and plain bed, I wrap Danii in my arms and inhale an aroma completely her own. It's soothing, not enough to rid this strange feeling, but pleasant nevertheless. We haven't spoken as much in the last few days, and I sense she feels the same about this place as I do. We're all feeling it, except Wil, who's embarking on some kind of alcoholic mission. He's exhausting. He always is, of course, but more now than I've ever known before. Maybe he's the same as he's always been. Maybe it's me who’s changed.

  Streaking my fingers through her hair, I caress a section of light locks between thumb and palm, the work of sunny Oia, no doubt. Danii's unlike anyone, changing and drifting with the seasons. Her skin effortlessly darkens from the sun's touch, and her hair is a tapestry of recent history. There was a time I used to study her flowing waves, and there was a time I could point out the work of particular holidays or sunny spells in York. My fascination with her hair began the first time I saw her, although the fascination didn't stop there.

  I often watch her at night, as it's the only time I get to truly observe her. My late night observations began the night we first shared a bed. So many hours spent watching her sleep, but one stands out above most: a time towards the end as she slipped from my grasp.

  It was windy outside, the windows shaking after each bustling attack. Running my thumb over her stomach, I cemented every inch of her body in my mind: defeating each ridge of rib, circling around her breast, gliding it down her side and to the top of her firm thigh, along the inner side of her leg, over her knee, down her calf, and to the smooth skin on the bottom of her foot. I kissed her neck. I kissed her shoulders. Moving to her lips, I stopped. Instead, I watched.

  Rolling over, I got out of bed and sat at the end of it. I reached into my backpack and took out a notepad and pen, and, for the first time in far too long, wrote about her. I wrote a letter to her. A letter I feared she would never read.

  'It's not a case of wanting to be with you, Danii. I need you like I need air. But I'm losing you, and I'm not sure I'm brave enough to prevent it from happening. I could stop it, I know I could. I could wake you right now and tell you everything, and you'd hold me an
d tell me it's okay, because you're brave. You're the bravest person I know, and you'd remain by my side. But I'm not brave enough. I'm sorry, I wish I were, but I'm not.

  There's nothing more terrifying than realising you need—are literally reliant upon another human being. I needed you the moment I first heard your voice, and I've never understood why. I don't understand what makes you different, and I'm scared.

  Earlier tonight, you asked me to move in with you, and I said no. I didn't hesitate or think about it or offer a maybe. Instinct took over, and I said no before I fully comprehended the question. You didn't cry or shout, but I saw your pain, or maybe I didn't see it, maybe I felt it, because a part of me felt the same pain. A shared pain.

  The part of me that loves you hates the weaker side of me; the side terrified to commit and let you in. The stronger side. The side I battle with, but am defeated by, each day.

  For this, and for so much more, I'm sorry. I actually considered asking you to move in months ago. But I never did. I'm not sure why. I wanted to, but I couldn't. If I woke you right now, and asked you to travel the world with me or move to a foreign land, I sense—no, I don't sense it at all. I know. I know you would say yes, because you're braver than me. You deserve more, and far better.

  I'm sorry, Danii, and above all, I'm sorry about this letter—how you'll never read it. How I write it for my eyes only.

  I love you, Danii, and I want you to know that all of the times you tried to change me, and help me grow, and help me see a brighter light, and each and every time I fought you and pushed you away, that deep down, somewhere deep, deep down, my heart whispered yes.

  Too much love and regret,

  Dante

  Tearing the piece of paper carefully from the notepad, I folded it in half. I watched her rest peacefully under the covers, and folded the piece of paper once again. Walking around to her side of the bed, I kissed her hand and folded the paper one final time. I should have placed it in her palm, but I didn't. Instead, I put it in my pocket.

  "It's for the best," I whispered, trying to convince myself. "You deserve better than me."