TICK to the TOCK (A Coming-of-Age Story) (17 page)

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.

15
^th
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.

"Well, old Kingsley, m'lad, I could not sleep so I figured I'd venture out into the Jakarta night, drown my sorrows with Mr. Beam, and drink in the fumes that, if you breathe deeply, adds an unequalled buzz to the tipple."

"So you're drunk again?"

"Yes, good sir. Pretty much."

"Right. Well, how about you come and join me on this side of the balcony? You make me nervous sitting like that."

"Like this," he says, lurching forward and holding onto the railing with one hand. My headache is gone and my heart is beating, racing, driving forward and pushing and pulsing.
 

"Wil, what the hell!" I say, diving forward and grabbing hold of his elbow.

"Dante, please. You'll wake the children." He nudges himself back onto the ledge, his bottle of whiskey still in hand. I keep hold of his elbow and have no plans of letting go. He carries on like everything is normal, but my heart continues to race.

"Wil, what are you doing? Are you okay?"

"Of course, of course. I'm fine." He doesn't look at me, but I catch his cobalt eyes glistening in the fake night light. His messy mop is out of control; indeed, it's been the same for all of us, but with Wil, it's more noticeable.