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

by Matthew Turner

  Shaking my head, I take his bottle—initially my own—and inhale a large sip. "I thought you were feeling better after Jakarta. You've been more like yourself recently. What's happened? You had one or two too many?"

  "Many things happened in Jakarta, good sir."

  "Wil, you know what I mean."

  Lowering his head, he exhales. "We go through the ups and the downs in life, don't we? That period was a down, and it's true, I admitted some pent-up truths I most likely should have done years ago. I listened to your words that night, Dante, so don't think I didn't. But when I look on that dance-floor and see the same girl pulling the same tricks... my bubbling contempt rises and fizzes and sends me nauseatingly close to the brink. She forces me to yearn for her. I want her legs and luscious thighs and tempting lips. She shows me a sliver of skin and I want more... need more. Then, I picture her later, stripped down and bare, not literally, but figuratively. She's just as broken as I am, and it makes me sick.

  "They're all the same: the long-legged girl who grinds on people and pushes up and down; the innocent one who stands to the side, coyly turning her head and slightly smiling as she senses her prey watching; the bubbly character who chats and laughs and seduces; the natural beauty; the tainted one; the one that looks like this movie star; the one that looks like the other; the hot one and the pretty one and the average one and the redheaded one and the blonde and brunette and milky-white, brown, black, tanned, not.

  "They tempt me and they tempt you. They want to but they don't. We run in circles and dance a silly dance, and where does it lead us? Where did it lead my parents? Where did it lead you and Danii? Where does it..." He stops himself and looks away. His skin is red and fists clenched. It reminds me of our conversation on the balcony, but this is different. He's out of control and unable to calm, scuttling and twitching his feet.

  "Mate," I say, placing my hand on his shoulder. "It's okay. Take a few breaths."

  We stand in silence even though we're surrounded by noise. To our left is a table of men and women older than us, and to the right is a group of guys younger, prettier, and more toned in every way.

  We remain silent, all except Wil's deep and heavy breaths. "It's okay, mate. It's okay," I say.

  Turning slowly, he faces me, his usual charming grin and ever-present blue peepers sparkling back. "Sorry for that, good chap. I seemed to let my drink get the better of me. We've been partying like Gatsby lately, and all of this music, and all of this dancing... well... yes, yes..."

  "Of course," I say, placing my other hand on his shoulder. "Are you okay? Do you want to go somewhere quiet and talk?"

  He shakes his head. "No, I'm fine."

  "Are you sure? I'm a little worried about you, Wil."

  "No need to worry, m'lad."

  "Wil—"

  "Let us drink, Dante. Will you drink with me?"

  "Oh, come on—"

  "Dante, please? Will you drink with me?" he asks with a pitiful whimper.

  "Sure." I sigh. "I will drink with you."

  I want to dig deeper but don't. I'm afraid what I might find. My godlike view towards him has waned throughout this trip, envy transforming into frustration and contempt. Now, all I have is pity, because he's so lost and broken. For twenty years I've known him, but not at all. He once held all the answers, but now holds none. And I worry about him, and want to help him, but I'm afraid. I'm not sure I can, and worse, I'm unsure if I want to.

  Snapped from my sombre slumber, Danii and Ethan approach, falling into one another and laughing.

  "Hey sweetie, where did you go?" she asks, stumbling into me and looping her arms over my neck.

  "Oh, I just needed some air," I reply, kissing her alcohol-tinged lips.

  "Good call," says Ethan. "You okay, Wil? You seem a little lost."

  Looking at his fingers, he tenses and straightens them. "Of course, of course. I'm grand. I'm fine."

  13th January—Brisbane:

  Recommended Listening:

  Accidental Babies—Damien Rice

  I'm stiff, unable to move and stuck to my sheets, streaming with sweat. I'm wet all over, my short panting breaths disturbing the quiet room. It's dark, but not so dark I can't see the window's gentle glow. It isn't there. It must have been a dream. But it was so real. A memory more than a dream, but it couldn't have been...

  Tapping my fingers, I urge my body to move, but I'm stiff. So rigid. So frantic: pulsing heart and throbbing chest. 'Move, damn it! Move.' I urge, gripping the sheets and tensing my shoulders.

  Rolling over and away from Danii, I stand, staggering from the bed and nearly losing balance. My vision's a blur, all hazy around the edges as I fight the dizzy urge to collapse on the floor. The room is silent, all except my heartbeat as it shudders through my ears. "Where are you," I whisper, barely a whisper at all.

  Moving my left foot, a lightning strike of pain runs through my forehead, the act of consciousness enough to awake the tumour. I grit my teeth.

  Moving my right foot, a wave of nausea unsettles my stomach, my lower abdomen practically on fire. I puff out my cheeks.

  Left foot, then right, then left again, each step a tiring assault. "Where are you," I whisper again.

  Leaning on the unpainted window's pane, I sigh and grit my teeth once more, not through pain, rather, anger. "Why?" I ask, looking out of the window and into the Brisbane night. "Why? Why would you give me that?"

  He isn't here. The crib isn't here. The blue blanket and the small teddy bear with a tiny purple hat isn't here. It must have been a dream, but it didn't feel like a dream. Never have I tasted and smelt and touched a dream. Never have I awoken panting, sweating, and spiralling out of control.

  Danii was there, in the room with me. I couldn't see her, but I heard her gentle breaths behind me. Standing before a simple white crib, I peeked inside, the moon's gentle glow illuminating the woollen blanket, and the brown bear, and him: his button nose; impossibly large and black pupils; tiny but plump lips; and chubby and supple cheeks.

  Looking at the empty floor, I reach for where his bed should be. An echo from outside passes through the window's glass, the Brisbane street shining in an amber glow. Placing my forehead on the cool glass, I close my eyes and picture him. "Why," I sigh. "Why would you do this?"

  Gazing up, his stare locked on mine. He didn't cry or make a sound. Our breaths were in synch, neither of us blinking the entire time. Kneeling down, I reached in and touched his curled up fist with a single finger. So small, so smooth, and as soon as I did, his hand opened and wrapped around my fingertip. His touch was real. Those tiny little digits, they were real.

  Removing my forehead from the glass, I turn and face Danii, her sprawled out figure at peace with the night. I should wake her and hug her and tell her about our son. How I held him and rocked him and kissed him on the cheek.

  It was dream, but how could it be?

  I motioned to pick him up, and as I did his eyes grew wide, accompanied by a smile. Cupping my hands under his back, I lifted and drew him close to me, supporting his neck with my left arm and tapping his bum with my right.

  Rocking from one foot to the other, I cuddled him and kissed his cheek and his ear and his neck. "I love you, kiddo," I whispered, but it wasn't the first time I'd uttered such words. It was natural and normal, as though I'd done it a thousand times before. Holding him felt natural and familiar, too. He nestled perfectly in my arms, not awkward or uncomfortable like holding him for the first time would be.

  Shifting under the sheets, Danii rolls over and snuggles into a new position. I step towards her, the thumping headache vibrating through my skull. "How can I tell you," I whisper.

  To do so would be cruel. At first she would smile and cry tears of pleasant joy, but soon they'd turn to sorrow as the realisation settled into place. He isn't real. He will never be real. I'd invent and destroy our son in an instant, all the while demonstrating how she will never be a mother to a child we share.

  I stumble backwards and l
ean on the window, my knees struggling to hold my weight. "Why give me this," I whisper again, rubbing my forehead and clenching my eyes until the skin around them shakes. Each time I block out reality, he's there waiting for me.

  He didn't make a sound in my arms, searching the moonlit room with his infant eyes. I watched him the entire time, unable to look away from his flawless skin and dark brown hair. Kissing his cheek, I breathed him in, my senses alive with the smell and taste of milk and lotion. He stopped exploring the room and honed in on me, once again unblinking: devouring my mouth and stubble and nose and chin. "I love you, kiddo," I whispered again.

  It was a dream, it must have been a dream, but it's unlike any dream I've ever known.

  I can't tell her. I can't describe him without destroying a part of who she is. One she'll never get back. I want to tell her. I want to wake her right now and relive the memory before it vanishes. Share with her how soft his tiny feet were. How he flinched each time my fingertip ran across his sole, but how he met it with a smile. A gummy, chubby, perfect little smile.

  "Please don't take this away from me," I whisper, pushing my hands through my hair, still damp with sweat. "Please. Not this memory. It'll be mine. Just mine. I won't share it with anyone, I promise, but please, leave it be," I continue, the corner of my eyes tingling. I don't know who I'm speaking to. Is this a prayer? Is this begging to something or someone I don't believe in?

  Standing back up, I stumble to the bed and fall into my pillow; the sheets still moist, cover still ruffled, and Danii still peaceful and at ease. I take a deep breath, then another, and another, keeping it as steady and quiet as I can. His cheeks and those eyes still consume me, and for this I'm glad. I want to roll over and shake Danii awake and tell her everything and how he's perfect and beautiful and how it wasn't a dream but something more. Yet at the same time, I don't. I want to keep him a secret. A locked away treasure that only I know.

  "It felt so real," I say, and then the tingles in my eyes no longer tingle, a slippery tear dripping down my right cheek. "I'll never be a father."

  We're placed on this planet to do one thing, and it isn't to gather possessions or travel the world or make a difference a thousand times over. It's to one day create the miracle of a new life, to a son or daughter of eerie resemblance. It's to share wisdom with them, and tell stories, and love and nurture and guide them into adulthood where the cycle continues.

  I won't be a father. I won't share my wisdom. He isn't real, but...

  Falling backwards, I lay eagle-spread across the bed, my hair brushing Danii's back. I always assumed one day I'd have a son or daughter to treasure. It's never been part of the plan for now, rather a future tomorrow deep into the distance. But I won't, and although I suppose I've known this ever since that dreaded September morning, only now do I grasp it.

  I can't move. So stiff. So rigid, but no longer frantic. My heart doesn't beat out of control, and although my head throbs and my stomach churns, I don't care. I'm empty and drained and very, very tired, although I won't sleep. I doubt I'll drift at all. The window's glow will grow, soon filling the room with early morning light.

  I can't ever imagine moving again. All I see is him. My son who will never be. The dream that never was.

  26th January—Whitsundays:

  Recommended Listening:

  Dance ‘Till The Morning Light—Slow Club

  Friends Make Garbage—Low Roar

  One Day You’ll Dance For Me, New York city—Thomas Dybdahl

  I'm unsure of the requirements for full-blown insomnia, but I fear I more than meet the criteria. Each day brings less sleep, not through pain or worry, but unwillingness to succumb. It's hard to say why my subconscious refuses to rest, but it seems pointless to do so when my clock continues to tick and tock.

  The struggle for sleep isn't new, but since landing in Australia, it's intensified. I don't lay restless or tossing or turning. I'm merely awake. Night is the same as day as far as I'm concerned, and although I'll drift off at some point, I have no desire to. Not now whilst this gently rocking boat sits below a star-filled and cloud-streaked sky.

  I'm surrounded by resting bodies as they hunch atop tables, on the edge of uncomfortable seats, and among the damp floor with life jackets and empty bottles of beer. It's too dark to determine one person from the other. I know Danii is in there somewhere, and at some point I'll snuggle up to her and kiss her neck, but until the moon shows itself, I'll remain oblivious and alone in the shadows.

  The breeze is gentle and slight, and the only sound is of the lapping waves against the side of the boat, and the creaking of wood settling into a new position. People spend money on soundtracks of this, to help them sleep and snooze and drift. I have it for free, but I refuse to submit. Yet, my insomnia and ever fatiguing body seems to be in battle. Where my muscles hum and bones ache, my mind hops from one memory to another, and thinks and contemplates and thinks some more.

  Sleep is, apparently, a great preserver of life, and a tumour's grand nemesis. But the tranquil abyss of the Whitsunday Islands is here... right now... and only now.

  Experiencing the Whitsunday's was Danii's idea, as a friend of hers spoke of its amazing aura, and as soon as she showed me pictures, I was in love. Joining a three-day/two-night boat trip around the islands, we packed our supplies of too much alcohol and too little food, and hopped on to the thirty-foot sailboat with an eclectic bunch of travellers: the young with the young-at-heart, the wannabe couples with the married veterans, the rowdy with the quiet, and the up-all-nights with the bed-by-tens.

  We share these memories with these people, offering stories and posing for pictures. This morning, a soft spoken old lady named Mary showed me a stack of Polaroids taken last night.

  "Look at this one," she said, pointing towards an image of her husband and me, leaning in towards one another and deep in conversation. "Derek tells me you have excellent taste in music."

  Taking the photograph, I rubbed it in my fingers. "This was taken last night?"

  "Of course. Don't tell me you were too drunk to remember?" she said, giggling ever so slightly.

  I continued to rub the glossy surface, hoping it might return the memory. "No, no, I remember," I said, although I couldn't recall speaking with Derek at all. "Lovely photos, Mary. I'll speak to you soon," I continued, dashing to Danii and hugging her; another memory lost to the ether.

  "Imagine all the pictures you appear in over a lifetime," I said to Ethan a couple of hours later, as he stared out to sea. "I don't mean your own, either. Rather, other people's. Just think of all the random folk you pose with, and the shots that catch you in the background. Think of all those who appear in your own pictures. Intimate memories shared with complete and utter strangers."

  "Yeah..." he said, his attention on the blue horizon.

  "Like yesterday," I continued. "Did I share the moment I saw the beach with you or Danii or Wil? No, I spent it with bloody Hans!" Shaking my head, I recalled the previous day as I walked up the gentle incline, my entire body dripping with sweat.

  Along the way up the small and narrow path, I lost Danii, instead strolling side-by-side with Hans, a German who spoke exclusively about his car. Nodding and half-listening, I rounded the final corner, met by the sweet aroma of fauna and sea.

  I've seen beaches of every kind: the rocky shoals of the Mediterranean, the dark yellow of the Gold Coast, and the tropical paradise of the Pacific, but nothing prepared me for the green slopes that reached all the way down to the clear blue sea.

  "Wow, It's like snow," I said under my breath, gaping at the slim strip of crisp white running parallel with land and water. "Wow," I repeated, turning around and searching for Danii.

  "Rather beautiful, is it not?" said Hans.

  "It is. I didn't think sand could look like this."

  "As bright as the sun's light," he said. "Shall we?" he continued, raising his camera.

  Such a memorable moment, so intimate it should have been shared with loved ones.
Instead, I shared it with Hans, a stranger I know so little about.

  Eventually, I regrouped with Danii, Ethan, and Wil, rejoicing in the splendour of the beach and the clarity of the ocean. Day soon turned to night, and although I didn't drink much, I awoke this morning with a hangover, which, as a general rule, doesn't bode well with my forgetful ways.

  Asking the captain what was for breakfast on three separate occasions, he finally snapped. "You think you're a funny bastard, don't you?" he said, his harsh Australian accent grating each word. "Yeah, I meet funny guys like you all the time. Do one!"

  Confused, I turned to Ethan and Wil, who, rather than offering a helping hand, laughed uncontrollably. "Nice, guys. Nice! Thanks for your help," I said.

  "Anytime, Dante, m'lad," said Wil, spluttering through each syllable.

  As day two transformed into night two, the excess liquor flowed and kept everyone in good spirits. Except for Danii and Wil, that is.

  "I keep trying to give you the benefit of the doubt," Danii said, squared up to Wil and balancing on her tip-toes. "But you're just a tiny little boy who will never ever change."

  "Oh, what a surprise, the famous Miss Adams speaks of change. It's what you do best, isn't it, dear? Changing folk. Pestering the people you supposedly love. Sticking your pointy little nose in the business of everyone."

  As I tried to butt in, Danii swiped my arm away.

  "At least people care about my opinion. Who cares about you, Wil? Who will ever care about you?"

  Straightening his back, he smirked. "Maybe you're right, Daniella. Maybe you're right. But at least I care to stick around. At least I care enough to fight the good fight."

  "And what's that supposed to mean?" she spat.

  "You left, girlie. You left him and broke him. All because he didn't conform to your little ways. Despicable. Horrible. Manipulative little girl. And you have the nerve to be here now—"

  "Okay, that's enough," I demanded, throwing my arm between the two of them. "Stop it. The both of you."