TICK to the TOCK (A Coming-of-Age Story) (2 page)

"I don't want you thinking like that. There are more tests to be had, and there are treatments you can try, and—"

"How long?" I snapped.

Placing both hands down on his desk, he leaned closer, the stale smell of coffee lingering in the space between us. It's crazy what we remember in such moments. "Five... six months. Maybe more, maybe less. It's hard to say, but those headaches you've been having, well, they'll get worse. A lot worse. I want to prescribe some..."

I drifted off once more as I tried to process the longest few minutes of my life. It
was
a normal day, but it had become monumental in the most unforgivable manner. This doesn't happen to young, fit, healthy twenty-two year olds. We don't get cancer or tumours; such nightmares are reserved for those approaching the end. I'm an average guy, so why is such a rare, seemingly impossible situation happening to me?

Spinning in circles, my mind refused to concentrate on any one thing. I needed to ask questions and create a plan, but nothing would settle. I was manic and frantic and bubbling within, and even though I could see his mouth move and I knew sounds were escaping, sounds that were forming words, words that I should listen to and devour, I couldn't bring myself to calm.
 

Doc began to push papers in my direction; leaflets and folders and business cards galore. There was a weekend's worth of reading already, but I doubted this was the end of it. Closing my eyes and taking a deep breath, I focussed on his words.

"...right, I want you to read as much of this as you can and come back in two days. I know it's a lot to take in, so please, go away, digest it, talk to your parents, and I'll sort out more tests for you. I'll do everything I can, Dante." He leaned in once more, his hands shaking on the desktop. "I know I said it isn't good, but that doesn't mean there isn't hope. People beat this kind of thing all of the time. You're strong, Dante. You're strong. You can do this."

I didn't know what to say, but I knew our meeting had come to an end. "Do you honestly think that?" I asked, the pitiful mouthful the only thing I could muster.

"There's always hope," he replied, but I knew, somehow, he didn't believe it.

At some point, I left his office, buttoned my jacket and tied my scarf. The tricky air suggested warmth, but the cooling breeze is quick to take you prisoner. Walking, I took no notice of where I was going, or for how long, merely walking and thinking about Doc's words, about the weeks of headaches, about how I woke up excited and willing to write, but how I no longer can. I've always written to escape, but there's no escaping this.
 

My cold, almost numb legs suggest I've wandered for hours. However long I've swayed, the time hasn't been spent wisely. I should be planning what to do next, or reading the booklets weighing down my pocket, or return to Doc's office and ask him questions and demand answers. Only, I can't seem to think about any one issue, merely scattered thoughts and images: the distress soon to be on my mother's face, for instance, or Wil and Ethan as they try to understand this impossible pain. I keep picturing
her
, too, although I know I shouldn't.

I can't recall arriving at Dean's Park, but at some point I crossed through the old gates and sat on this aged bench; the huge Cathedral peering down on me. Its dirty cream walls reach high into the sky, the colossal building a daunting sight. The gothic-styled spires and large, arched windows are grander than usual. I've seen this building hundreds of times, yet it must be fifteen years since it last moved me in this manner. Over time, it's become just another building, but now it's more: beautiful, philosophical, a work of art in its own right.
 

A relentless iciness surrounds me as the breeze twists and turns through the trees and bundles its way forward from the large building in front. The bulky wooden seat eats into my flesh, the chipped wood allowing damp to seep into my thighs. All around me is vacant, the days of the hot summer throng of bodies gone, and with it, the solitude and whistling silence. Nature is resting, the squealing breeze my only company.
 

No, it isn't resting, it's dying. Nature surrounds me: the ancient trees in front, the overgrown bushes to my left, and a browning patch of grass to my right. It's dying, giving in to its inevitable end. The smell of rotting foliage lingers, and although the trees are aglow with green, it's no longer lush; rather, fading and dimming. Soon the aged branches will be bare, the ground beneath it a soggy grave to fallen fauna.

I don't know why I'm here. Maybe I should have gone to work, or called someone, or gone straight home and began researching this new fate. The truth is, I'm too afraid to. Right now it isn't real, a dream I'll soon wake up from. Once I read the leaflets and understand my trauma, I must accept what I have. There's always been a future and I've always planned to do... to see... to experience so much. I've always dreamed of someday, but soon there will be no days left.
 

Today
was
normal, but now it isn't. It
was
ordinary, but now it's extraordinary. I
was
average, but now I'm unique.

16
^th
September—York:

Recommended Listening:

Fire In The Water—Feist

Parliament Square—Stina Nordenstam

Hallelujah—Jeff Buckley

By the time I left the bench, the day was growing old. Although the days still last for some time—the lingering touch of summer yet to let go—dusk sets in sooner, darker, and overcomes you in mere minutes. The breeze soon picks up and the chill in the air bites deeper and, unlike earlier, I was conscious of those around me as people bounded past in a bid to escape the working nine-to-five.

Dodging shoulders and bags, I made my way through the streets, the occasional leaf cracking underfoot as I passed row after row of bicycles locked to poles and gates. The touristy Tea Rooms were busy and the overpriced gift shops were full. It seemed as though York had decided to get on with life, despite my own strife, a fact I can't help but find rude.

Having forever lived in York, been to the city university, and taken a job at the local paper, rather than spread my wings and show some kind of ambition, I take its splendour for granted. It's a majestic city with heritage surrounded by further heritage, a sight often lost in modern society with its tall glass, gleaming sky rises, aluminium doors, and sleek reception areas. Companies come from far and wide, but they must adhere to the historical conditions the city presents; modern excitement thrust into buildings older than certain civilisations, a peek into what life was like for yesteryear's generation.

I should have moved away at some point, for if I did, I'd have learned to miss this place. I remember walking by the castle as a mischievous young lad with mouth gaping and gaze unblinking. The Cathedral, which I was just in front of, used to be the setting to so many stories and potential adventures as my imagination ran wild. Even walking through the city streets on shopping trips with my mother was an exciting time. It was here my love of writing and reading began, crafting fictitious worlds and losing myself in the realities of literature's genius.
 

At some point, my laziness and indecision took over, but today this city is like it once was: beautiful. It's a shame how devastation is often required to appreciate that which surrounds us.

As I neared my home away from home and edged closer to the river, the smell of dank, stale water grew strong. A large rainfall a few days ago created a swell in the river, the air alive with odours that verge on sewage. Soon, the city will flood and pubs and bars that are enjoyed now will be out of action until the waters subside. Like I say, modern mantras must adhere to the rules set by a historic city that refuses to conform.

This brings me to now as I procrastinate outside the blue, wooden door of the pub I've spent far too much time in. I can see the two gentlemen I've come to meet at the other side of the bar, the two people I assign the title
best friend
. I don't wish to be here, and my feet seem determined to walk in the other direction, away from the pub and to somewhere alone and far away. It's futile, though, as my phone will continue to buzz and vibrate as it has done for the past hour, the relentless nature of Wilbur Day refusing to back down.

I've known Wil most my life, the two of us always in the same class at school. The person opposite him is his anti-self, my cousin, Ethan Knight, the son of my mother's sister.

The two of them couldn't be more different: Wil an energetic, eccentric sociopath; Ethan a rational, compulsive old male in a twenty-three-year-old body. Where Wil lives life on a whim, Ethan lives it in the knowledge of consistency. One wears the same navy suit each day—complete with white shirt and plain-coloured tie—whereas the other showcases a flamboyant set of old, worn chinos; tattered, beaten moccasins; and tight, fitted shirts—although they must always be plain in nature, as any pattern is only worn by a tasteless fool, so he says.

I'm stuck in the middle, not quite one, not quite the other. If it weren't for me, they wouldn't be friends, but as it is, we are, and we have been for nearly twenty years. I tell these two gentlemen everything. They knew of my first kiss within minutes, were downstairs as I experienced my
first time
, and have listened to me share insecurities and worries and dreams of what might be. Although I want to be on my own, I don't, and although I can't imagine telling anybody about what I've learned today, I feel I must. If I can't tell these two, who can I tell?

The chill digs deeper as the breeze flows from the river nearby. The pub is busy but not hectic, and if I don't make a decision soon, I'll surely be seen by one of them, most likely Wil, who's perched on the edge of his seat and waving his hands in front of Ethan—describing a story we've both no doubt heard countless times before.
 

With a deep breath, I push on the old door and enter to the smell of fish and chips. It's a delicious aroma, but the thought of placing anything in my stomach is repulsive.
 

"Dante, m'lad, how are you?" says Wil as I approach the table, reaching across and taking me in a half-embrace, half-handshake-type movement. "Sit down, sit down—wait, no drink—well, we can't have that now, can we? Sit down, sit down. I'll gather some beverages so we can start this night in style."

He's gone before I have a chance to say anything, and, on turning my attention to Ethan, I notice he's analysing me with deep thought. "Hey. You okay?" I say, his silent leering still focussed on me.
 

After a few awkward seconds of nothing, he arches his neck. "Of course, what about you? You seem... worried."

I'm not sure if I should say anything yet, or indeed how, but I doubt I can keep it hidden from Ethan. Wil is another matter—he doesn't sense anything other than himself—but Ethan has always been able to discern my inner turmoil.

He's only a year older than me, but his maturity suggests otherwise. His rational brain keeps him focussed, allowing him to be near perfect at school and work, despite the fact he isn't what you would call naturally intelligent; and his compulsive diligence makes him a structured, consistent fellow to rely on at all times.

My parents and I used to stay at Ethan's house every Christmas, and it was here where I discovered just how peculiar he is. I knew of his quirks, but it isn't until you see how he lives in the privacy of his own home that things click into place. As I sat watching Christmas films, he ironed his clothes ready for the next day. This wasn't a grownup, but a fifteen-year-old boy, and on completion, he hung, folded, and positioned his attire in the same place as the day before, ready for the morning to arrive and require his service.
 

We'd finish the night talking about music and what the future might hold: I would imagine travelling and becoming rich and famous, he would talk about getting his degree, being an accountant, and having a house and family. Again, this was a fifteen-year-old boy, and his obsessive structure has only intensified over the years.

He shaves every morning, even though his near-invisible blond whiskers take a week to come through, and he gets his hair cut on the same date each and every month, asking for the same short back-and-sides as he has done since he was six-years-old, carefully adding a distinct parting and gelling tightly towards his right ear.
 

He's less a cousin and more a father, and it's because of this he devours my thoughts right now, prodding and probing for answers below the surface.

"So, are you going to tell me what's wrong?" he asks again.

"I'm fine, so you can stop doing that." I should tell him now and get it over with, but at the moment, there's nothing to tell, and since I have no idea how I feel, how can I expect to explain it to others?

"You're not fine," he says, sipping his beer.

"Yes I am."

"No, you're not. You know I'll get it out of you. Did something happen at Doc's?"

"There's nothing wrong—"

"Yes! There is. Just tell me and get it over with," he says, as Wil arrives back at the table with hands full of glassware.

"Ah gentlemen, let us drink to life—and what's this about something being wrong? Why, Dante, all is well, isn't it, for if it isn't, we should fix it—and with that, let us drink tequila and settle our thoughts."

"Why did you buy tequila?" asks Ethan.