TICK to the TOCK (A Coming-of-Age Story) (31 page)

"What about you?" I ask, eager to edge the subject away from the one thing I've thought nothing about for days. "You're going home. Back to real life. What the hell does Wilbur Day do now?"

"Oh, I don't know. I'll more than likely go back to my usual ways. Art needs to be made. Craziness must be conjured. Yes, I can't see things changing a great deal."

"Really? I thought you might continue to travel."

"And why would you think that?"

"Because this life suits someone like you," I say.

"Ah yes, a guy like me..."

"Well, yeah. You are a crazy nomad, after all."

"Indeed, indeed..." He kicks a stone, his clumsy moccasins connecting with ground more than pebble. "Who knows, friend. Maybe I will travel again... somewhere down the road. I have a feeling that at the end of all of this, I will need my art, though. Inspiration often calls when you are at your lowest. Of course, you know this all too well, my pen scratching pal.”

"Yeah. Maybe you can dedicate a few of your masterpieces to me."

"Oh, Dante, they all will be."

The sound of the trees and wind and humming bees overcomes us, the soothing backdrop making the unbearable silence less torturous.
 

"What about your writing, m'lad? Have you been able to defeat the page of late?"

"I'm afraid not, and to be honest, I don't know if I'm physically capable anymore. I don't think my shaking fingers would be much use."

"Oh, I don't know. You never had the greatest handwriting, anyway."

I laugh. "Yeah, I suppose. I don't know, I've tried a few times, but it never seems to work. It's strange, because a journey like this should send me to the page, shouldn't it?"

"Who knows. I'm not sure such a journey follows any particular rules."

"Yeah... maybe. It's sad, though. To think I may never write again."

Pausing, he looks at me before glancing away. "Would you like to know something?" he says, his tone calm. "I went for a walk yesterday and wandered around this lovely city. I sat on a wall and pulled out my notepad and began sketching away. It's the first time on this entire journey I've done any form of artwork—drawing, writing, sculpting, music... did you know that?"

I shake my head.

"Yes, I've been in some of the most creative places this planet has to offer and drawn a blank each and every time. So, believe me, Dante, m'lad. You are not alone." Holding my arm, he faces me. "Yesterday, however, I needed to—I don't know why. Anyway, I was drawing and drawing, and then a small girl walked past—seven or eight-years-old is my guess—and let me tell you, Dante, she was the most beautiful girl I've ever seen. She was exactly the kind of girl you'd hope your daughter to be: long blonde hair, an unwavering kindness, a spark of innocence that only a child possesses.

"The honest truth is, I welled up when I saw her. This girl was wonderful. Absolutely marvellous. I can only imagine how proud her parents are of her and the person she will grow up to be. I realised, though—regrettably, of course—that deep down, I hate her—that I hate all of the girls and ladies and women I cross paths with. I didn't want to hate her, but I suppose deep down, I do. I can't help but think this makes me the grandest of monsters.

"So much of my life revolves around hate. I never realised how much until this trip... until our talks... until I witnessed first hand your own demise, and how we're all so precious and fragile. I can blame my drunk of a mother and beastly father, but the truth is I've let hate rule me. And here I am, walking among the definition of beauty with the best of friends one could ever wish for—a friend who isn't only leaving us—no, stolen from us—but a father, a man who's created life—maybe a daughter just as beautiful as that girl. Will I hate her too, Dante? Will I hate your daughter because she's a girl and therefore represents pain and agony?"

He stops dead in his tracks.

"I'm sorry. For so long, I've been cruel to the woman you love. I've been cruel to so many women that I meet for no good reason. And above all, I'm sorry because I still haven't changed. I'm still enraged with hate. I trust no more now than I did a few months ago, and if this can't change me," he says, lifting his arms, "what will?"

He starts walking again, past me, fixed on a point out in front.

"I want you to know, however, my dearest friend, that I'll try. That I'll go back to York and continue to search for who I am. That I'll wake each day and think of you, remember your words and the kind soul that you are. I'll reminisce about the times you stuck up for me when you had no right to. That you were a friend when I gave so little in return. I'm so imperfect it hurts, but you make me want to be better. My biggest regret is it's taken all of
this
. That you've been sacrificed simply to spare me."

I step in front of him and force him to stop. "You're a good man, Wil. You're going to do amazing things—beautiful, awe-inspiring things. You say your world is filled with hate, but I don't think it is. You've grown on this trip, and I don't think it's because of me or where we've been, it's because you were ready to see beyond your fear."

He tries to pass me, but I don't let him.

"You're not a hateful person, Wil. You're just scared like everyone else. You have scars that you need to overcome. You're not a monster. You're just human. And I'm sorry I've not been there for you more in the past. You've opened up to me on this trip, and I fear I've let you down. You shared a version of yourself I never knew existed, but we've been friends for so long... I should have known. I should have known about your mother, and if something happened between you and your father—"

"Stop right there, Dante, m'lad. You've always been there for me. Not sharing certain aspects of who I am had nothing to do with you or Ethan. It was my choice to live in darkness. Do not apologise or doubt yourself."

"Then on this trip. I could have listened more. Finally, you let me in, and all I've done is lose patience and—"

"Ah Dante, stop. I assure you, your help throughout this journey has been more than I ever could wish for."

I move to speak, but he cocks his head to the right, seeming to plead with me to say no more. I never thought there was much to understand regarding my mysterious friend. I assumed he was a strange enigma with even stranger ways, and all the while, whilst I envied him and placed him on a pedestal, we shared the same doubts and fears as no doubt most people carry around with them. I no longer envy him, but I no longer pity or am frustrated by him, either. He's Wil. And he's beautiful. A beautiful, frantic, wonderful mess.

"I'm going to miss you, Dante... so very much," he says. "I will do you proud, though. I will do your child proud."

I hug him like I never have before. A type of hug I usually reserve for Danii. "How about you do yourself proud?" I whisper in his ear.

"Yes," he says, pushing away from me and smiling that ridiculous smile of his. "Yes! I will. I will."

It's still light, but the sun is nowhere to be seen. We're engulfed in one large shadow, each patch of grass and strip of pathway covered in the shade from trees and fallen sun. A small pile of leaves rests near my foot, each one an array of faded tones. They're vibrant and colourful like Wil. My best friend. Someone I think I finally understand. At least, somebody I accept for being who he is.

12
^th
March—York:

Recommended Listening:

Ho Hey—The Lumnineers

Look At Miss Ohio—Gillian Welch

Never Play—Emily & The Woods

Riverside—Agnes Obel

When I consider all of the minutes in my life, it's this room that's probably experienced the most of them. I spent my childhood here, playing with toys and sleeping until late. It's where my father read The Little Prince, and the home of my mother's late night lullabies. If I could only choose a single home, it would be this small and familiar room. For so long I dreamed of escaping it, but now, I cannot bring myself to leave. Why did I move out whilst studying at the University literally down the road? Why did I move into a flat I couldn't afford, when this haven of memories was here all along?

It's only been a few days since we landed in Manchester, but it feels much longer. England is in flux, as it always is at this time of year. Venturing outside is a lottery: leave without an umbrella and it's bound to rain; wear a heavy jacket and the sun says hello; travel light, and that's right, the wind picks up and chills your core. Of course, I'm forever wrapped in layers now. Sun or no sun, I'm cold. Pills or no pills, I throb. Food or no food, I vomit.

"Hey, can I come in?" asks Ethan, teetering on the edge of my room and the hallway. "Your mum said you were up here."

"Sure. Come in. Sorry if it's a little warm," I say, pointing towards the portable heater blowing in the corner.

"As long as you’re comfortable."

"I'm great, mate. Never felt better." He looks at me with his usual intensity, but he can't battle the smile breaking through.
 

"Yeah. I was going to say you look fantastic."

"I'm going for the pale vampire look. What do you think?"

"Love it. And the bags under your eyes?"

"Yep. Next season's big fashion statement."

He laughs. "Oh man, this is horrible. I feel guilty enough without you making me laugh."

"The time for guilt has long since passed, cousin."

He nods and sits down next to me, my old bed creaking under his weight. "Seriously though, do you feel okay?"

"Yeah. I'm fine."

"Are you sure?"

I roll my eyes, my relentless cousin still acting like a father. "Yes dad, I'm fine. Some days are worse than others, but today isn't too bad. I am looking forward to my one final good day, though. From what I hear, it's rather marvellous."

"Yeah, we'll have to do something for it..." He tapers off. "And your mum. She's..."

"A wreck?"

He nods. "Have you spoken to her much?"

"A little. It's hard. She wants me near her all of the time, but we hardly say anything. We've had some nice conversations, a few we've needed to have for a long time now. It's nice, but being around her is hard." Finally, her face the moment I confessed my news no longer haunts me, only, I'd do anything to have it back. The new lingering image is of her at the airport, the moment she saw me walk into the arrivals lounge.
 

"She's just glad to have you back."

"I know." I push my fingers through my hair and arch my neck. "It's just too hard. Every time I close my eyes, I see her in the airport, knees buckling and clinging to my dad. Every time it's quiet, I hear her gargled cries."

"I know. It was horrible, but she's just glad to have you back."

"I did that to her. Me!" I say, dismissing his words. "Each day she must have waited for the phone to ring. The dreaded—"

"Don't, Dante.”

"And her hug. She's never hugged me like that. It was like her entire body reached inside me—"

"Dante! Don't do this to yourself. She would have gone through the same had you stayed."

I face him, my cousin, the same old Ethan, but with longer hair and a layer of stubble. "Yeah. I suppose."

"She loves you, and she's just glad you’re back. That moment at the airport was horrible, I agree, but it was only a single moment. Don't let it be a defining one."

Closing my eyes, I nod. "You're right. It's a shame my memory didn't steal that away from me, isn't it?"

He laughs again. "Sure is, mate. It sure is." Standing up, he takes a picture off of my windowsill, of me and my father when I was four-years-old. "How about your dad?" he asks, looking out of the window.

"He's okay. We had a good chat on the way to the specialist, and for once, it wasn't about music or sport. It was nice. Weird, but nice."

"That's good," he says placing the picture down. "I'm glad the two of you spoke. I know you've always found it hard to open up to your parents. It's nice knowing you get a final chance at that."

"Yeah... long overdue, but like they say, better late than never." Struggling to my feet, I stand beside him, Ethan offering his arm for support. My legs are like jelly, shaking and quivering under my weight. The specialist said I should move into the hospital, but really, what's the point? "Anyway, how are you? Don't think its gone unnoticed that you should be at work right now."

"I'm supposed be the observant one. Not you."

"Don't change the subject."

I catch his smile in the window's reflection. "Let's just say life's a little stranger these days."

"Don't tell me Ethan Knight's famous routine is no more," I say, slumping on the window's ledge.

"Didn't you want me to be more flexible?"

"Only if that's what you want."

"I don't know what I want. All I know is my desk doesn't feel quite so safe anymore. I mean, yesterday, I didn't do a damn thing. Seriously, I just stared at my computer screen all day. I had a huge pile of work to get on with, but it meant nothing. All those days spent working and dedicating myself to a sensible routine, when it can all be taken away at a moment’s notice. We think we're indestructible. That it won't happen to us. But it can, and it does. And I'm not saying I want to be like Wil, but I don't think I can go back to being me, either."