TICK to the TOCK (A Coming-of-Age Story) (6 page)

He didn't look away. "You can't just give up. There's treatments and—"

"Yeah, I know all about the treatments and meds," I said, gritting my teeth. "The steroids and anticonvulsants, the chemo and radiotherapy and the various chemicals they want to pump into me, the Carbamazepine and Lamotrigine and Levetiracetam and Phenytoin and whatever other drug they invent tomorrow. But nobody gives me a chance in hell. Fuck, you've seen the percentages and ratios and all the bullshit they feed me. If it was even close to 50/50—hell, I'd take 20/80, for crying out loud—I'd fight until the bitter end. No questions asked. Because although it may not sound like it, I don't want to die. I'm actually fucking terrified of it. But I'm also scared of withering away on some machine as I lose every ounce of who I am. For what? A few extra months? A year? What hope are we talking about here?"

Dropping his gaze, he nodded. Slow, defeated nods of the head.

It pains me to see those I love go through this agony with me, but theirs is different to mine. Maybe they can cling to hope and faith, but as a throbbing headache devours me each morning, as it does right now, it's hard to see past the harsh reality of death.

Grinding my teeth and balling my sheets into fists, I stare at the ceiling. The pills help, but they don't forgo the pain altogether. Nothing can take away the torture completely. It's a waiting game: sometimes of minutes, other times an hour. I don't know how long I've been staring at the celling, but my jaw aches and shoulders throb. Each new breath eases forward though, the tumour giving in to the chemical whatevers roaming beneath my skin.

"Nearly there," I say, unclenching my teeth. "Nearly there..."

Rolling over, I slide out of bed and hobble towards the bathroom, the soft carpet comforting my toes. Each footstep rattles my head, but in comparison to a few minutes ago, it's bliss. Still, I frame my forehead in my hands and stagger towards the sink, turning on the faucet as soon as I reach it, and splashing my face with icy cold water.
 

"Shit," I say, looking up and into the mirror.
 

I need a haircut. It's always been shaggy, but it usually rests neatly on top of my head, with only the occasional flick or curl hanging over my ears. Right now, it's a maze of curls that flop in all directions. What once rested neatly now hangs loose and heavy. The top of my head has become a jungle.

The chaos doesn't stop there, but continues across my face. My once-sunken eyes now hide beneath two dark, thick, semi-circular lines. They rest ominously below, practically joining up with the near black eyebrows above, those, too, in need of attention. Where the eye's core once had a sleek, brown glimmer, it's now dark and eerie. Where there was once white, is now a cloudy cream colour with streaks of red branching out in all directions.
 

In the space of a month, I've become a stranger, and this is merely the beginning as insomnia, stress, worry, and more devour me. If I'm not careful, death will take me long before I die.

I've forgotten what fresh feels like. I go to bed tired and wake up exhausted, night after night of tossing and turning as I think... and think... and think. I can't stop thinking, but I think about nothing. I simply
think
.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I throw my hands on the sink as the tension in my forearms shakes. A surge of adrenaline consumes me, and I hate myself. "This can't go on," I say. "Just make a decision."

My indecision imprisons me in purgatory, not only now, but my entire life. For twenty-two years I've allowed one day after another to pass me by, living and waiting for tomorrow... for a good time... for the right time... but now, my end is near and I've achieved nothing. I want to be able to say I have no regrets, but I can't. I have many, and I'm terrified of dying and having them be the only thing left.

I often consider a time before Danii, a perfect example of my indecisive ways. Returning home from a trip to London one Saturday night, I stood shivering on a platform, waiting for my final train to arrive. The wind swirled around the large open station, attacking every inch of exposed skin. But suddenly, from nowhere, I was warm. A girl stood beside me, a girl who would forever be termed
Train Girl.
 

In a white mac with black sleeves, she wrapped her arms around herself in the same manner I was, swaying from side-to-side, completely oblivious to my staring. I couldn't look away. As the train pulled in, I didn't notice, locked on this swaying girl, and as the doors slid open, she moved, breaking my daze and urging me to follow her into the warmth of the carriage. My cheeks tingled as I crossed from outside to in, but I no longer worried about the chill, only where this mysterious angel would sit.

'
I must sit near her,
' I thought, desperate to discover who she was.
 

She sat and I followed, sitting across from her as a plastic white table separated us. '
Come on
,' I encouraged myself, '
just speak to her
.' The train rumbled into motion, my teeth chattering a little as I tried to pluck up the courage. Her cocoa eyes were tempting, her milky brown skin a delight. A chocolate delicacy only two feet away, but I couldn't utter a word.

A slight mole rested above her upper lip, a button to something more, a button I wished to press. Shifting her gaze to mine, she smiled, and I think I might have, too, although I can't be sure. Pulling her bag onto her lap, her dark hair fell over her face, covering her eyes and her skin and that delicate little mole for a few precious seconds. Searching inside, she pulled out a book and placed it on the table:
To Kill A Mockingbird
.
 

Heart racing, I fidgeted in my seat—the opening I required, presented before me. One of my favourite novels of all time. I could speak about Harper Lee for hours, but for
Train Girl
, I'd prolong it for days. '
Come on
,' I urged, '
talk to her!
'

I should have said something then, but I didn't.

One stop passed us by.

Then another.

Continuing to fidget in my seat, I did everything but open my mouth. One deep breath after another, steadying myself after each, convinced the next one would bring words... courage... an act of bravery. I thought of Wilbur, and how he would speak within seconds of sitting down. He'd ogle her until she took notice, and then, with a simple smile, speak, and she'd be his. I considered Ethan, and how he'd never approach her in the first place. He'd spot her, know nothing would happen, and therefore walk the other direction.
 

Complete opposites, but both braver than me. I did one nor the other, simply lost in the middle: I
could
speak to her and I
could
love her, but
could
usually manifests into
what could have been
; past tense, you see.

Looking up, she caught me staring again, smiling once more. I did smile this time, I know I did, and I was hers and forever smitten. I tried to speak, breathing an empty hush each time, but she must have known because she didn't look away. "The book," I eventually stuttered. "Do you, I mean, are you enjoying it so far?"

Closing it, she rested her elbows on the table. "I love it. I read it when I was younger, but it was a few years ago now."

Like a Christmas Tree can only come to life when lights are aglow and decorations all over,
Train Girl
transformed into something more glorious as soon as she spoke. Her delicate voice played with her smile, her eyes growing larger and darker: two Belgium chocolates resting on a perfect pearl backdrop.

Moving to speak, I was cut off as the train slowed and pulled into a station. Placing her book in her bag, she stood. "It was nice meeting you," she said. "Next time, speak sooner."

I should have stood up and joined her, because who cares if it was a stop too early, and does it matter if I required a taxi? Mulling and mulling, I eventually stood and rushed to the door, but I was too late, as a beep sounded and the train rocked into motion once more.
 

She was gone.

I was broken.

I spent weeks searching for her, raising my head in the hope of seeing her face once more or hearing her seducing tones. I told Ethan and Wil, and the three of us went out as often as possible, in the hope of crossing paths with my lost love. Days turned to weeks, and then, months, and with it, the story of
Train Girl
became just that, a story. The pain subsided, sure, but I've always wondered
what if
. Would those eyes change me; that mole, break me; her smile, complete me...

One indecisive moment after another, my life in a nutshell. I can no longer live in tomorrow because I have no more tomorrows left. Soon, all that'll remain is regret, the regret of
Train Girl
and all of the other
what-might-have-beens.
I'm sorry,
Train Girl
. I had no right to walk away. We should have shared a time together, learned about each other. I took that away from you, and I'm sorry.
 

I took it away from Danii, also. So much love, but my indecision destroyed us.

I'm selfish and cowardly. I have one final chance to change and live before I die, and for once,
Train Girl
, I'll do it, because I should have done it then, and in some way, maybe this will right that wrong.

I need to make a decision, my decision, and it isn't about making the right decision, or the one to please my parents or Ethan or anybody else, but
my
decision.

Tracing my mouth with my finger, I peer into my reflected stare. Staying means accepting my indecisions and
what could have beens
. Staying means giving up. Leaving will cause pain, sure, but any more than staying would? I don't know...

I can't stay. I can't stay and dwell on the past as pitying onlookers ravage me with their apologies. I can't look in this mirror each day and watch my face deteriorate. I have to leave. I need to run. I can't stay. I just can't.

30
^th
October—Manchester:

Recommended Listening:

Waiting Around To Die—The Be Good Tanyas

All Of My Days—Alexi Murdoch

Big Jet Plane—Angus & Julia Stone

I've always found airports mysterious. They are, quite frankly, no different from any other busy aspect of modern life, with shops and rules and frantic bodies pushing past one another. However, there's something strangely unique about these micro metropolises.

Sitting in a coffee shop at an airport is different to sitting in one anywhere else, as is walking into a shop or settling down with a book. Families that pass are not families, they're nomads awaiting adventure; couples aren't couples but two lovers on the verge of their first romantic trip; men in suits aren't mere workers, but important folk off to close million-dollar deals. Airports are part of the everyday, but somehow overshadow it.
 

I'm part of this strange microcosm right now, living in the everyday but not. Behind is a wall of glass separating me from a fleet of planes and a rather long runway. The little boy to my right doesn't lean on the room-sized window and peer outside, he inhales what's beyond it. There's a buzz of adrenaline in the air and a constant hum of ambient noise. But again, it's not simply wayward sound, it's unbridled adventure and hope.

Hope
... an overused word of late, but one I finally understand.

It's been two weeks since I finally decided to live. Time since has been a blur, full of exciting and terrifying tasks. Booking flights and spending money without rational thought was fun, but confessing my decision to my parents wasn't. In some ways, this occasion was harder, for it was my own choice, not one delivered by fate. It's hard to make them understand, but recently I can't stop thinking about one of my early morning appointments in Manchester.

I'm unsure who the specialist was, or where on this journey it took place, but I do remember the near empty waiting room, and I most certainly remember the encounter: his shaking fingers; his desperation; a peek into my future.

It was early, so early the nurses and doctors were still arriving, whipping off their jackets and unveiling their white uniforms. My sleepy eyes ached, not only from the lack of sleep, but the process of tests and relaying my story and how I felt and what I knew, and
did I understand this
, and
am I aware of the risks?

Keeping my gaze on the floor, I was aware of a nearby man, striding back and forth and picking up magazines before dropping them on an empty chair. My fidgety fingers scratched my thighs, and the tension in my neck clung tight to each fibre of muscle. I didn't look up. I couldn't look up. I knew if I did, this strange man would talk to me. He had an aura about him, a desperation of needing to unburden his troubles.

"I hate appointments at this time," he said, ending the silence. "Waiting rooms, at this time, freak me out." He said
this time
like it had another meaning.

I didn't look up. "Yeah, a little chilling."

"It's my wife, you see," he blurted. "She prefers to do
this
stuff early in the day. So she doesn't have to worry all afternoon, you know? At least, she used to, anyway."

I raised my head for the first time, following his black trousers up to where his white shirt tucked beneath the waistline. The plastic cup in his fingers shook. "The worrying is tough. I imagine it's just as bad for you," I said, honing in on his face: stubble surrounding his mouth and jawline, messy hair flopping over his forehead.