Tick Tock

After the explosion, time ceased to be linear. It collapsed on itself, pulling and forcing everything into a shifting nothingness. In retrospect, it is funny how we accepted time in its original, primordial flow, never questioning the laid-out sequence, the logical plan of that forward momentum. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

There was comfort in its predictability, one that no longer exists. I hunker down in the past only leaving the confines of my bedroom when it is necessary, when it becomes an absolute requirement for a semblance of normal living, like when I need to eat or take a shower. Stepping into the living room, kitchen, or bathroom, I find myself either in a present world where nothing makes sense, or even worse, a future that is disjointed, chaotic, and lacking in any discernibility. There are loops and time slides that bounce me between people, places, and events with such ferocity that my head feels like it will implode. Sometimes, all I want is to be given grace for having survived that initial paroxysm, to be able to understand myself and my relation to things again. There is an intrinsic desire to be part of an ebb and flow, but I am immobile and transfixed.

Each doorway, leading to another room, is the portal that scurries me to the next reality. Most days you will find me anchored to my bed, rocking back and forth as silent tears fall, splashing against the skin of my leg, a recognizable cadence. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. In this room, I can re-live the former things that I have let define me.

I can see your smile again for the first time.

Tick.

I re-watch the playful banter that formed the basis of our friendship and the flirtatious entreaties that followed.

Tock.

I linger in our jokes, the fullness of the laughter that flowed between us with ease. The intensity of your laugh washes over me like the sun, a brightness that imprisons me in its warm affection. With the series of events that occurred after the explosion, I have been cast into eternal darkness, and I don’t know if the sun or your smile is real. Is it? Was it?

Tick. Tock.

I watch the sun set on our inhibitions, you taking me to the heights of ecstasy with your mouth and your strong hands, savoring the way your skin feels pressed into mine. I know that part was real. I can still feel you.

Tick, tick, tick…

I remember you telling me that you felt dizzy, unbalanced, a pain in your abdomen, imploring you to see a doctor, but knowing I had no claim to spur you to action, being just friends. I wanted our friendship to be enough.

TOCK.

And then the universe exploded.

TTIICCKK^^^^TTTOOCCKK

I am confronted with the future state when I’m forced to go to the bathroom, which is more often than you would think. When showering or brushing my teeth, I tiptoe through these future insights, timid and nervous about what is happening, unsure of the skin I inhabit. A coldness sweeps over me that makes me shudder. I hear the solemn hymns swelling high above the stained-glass windows, the musty odor of the church off-putting in its wretched hold. I choke the sobs downward, gripping the edges of the pew I am sitting on, driving my fingers into the cushion. It is safest to keep my eyes closed as long as possible to delay the inevitable discovery. Someone hands me a tissue to dab the tears that race porous black streaks down my cheeks. I swiftly exit the bathroom. Tock_tock_tock_tock_tock.

The living room supplants me firmly in the present, a voided aching and helplessness. We are talking on the phone, trying our best to be lighthearted, skirting around the ugliness of the diagnosis.

“It’s not my time,” he whispers in my ear, “Don’t view this situation as something you are responsible for, Margaret.” I wilt when he says my name, my heart bending in the enunciation, his voice with its low accent, touching me in places that only he can reach.

“I do blame myself. I should have urged you to go to the doctor sooner. I mean, I tried, but I didn’t want to be overbearing.” I stop mid-thought. The hollowness of my inaction carves out the part of me that is breathing.

 “No,” he insists, “Neither of us are to blame. It is pure randomness disguised as purpose. It’s an ill-fated destiny, and I’ll get through it. I’ll be okay.” A pause, and then with determination he offers, “We’ll be okay.”

I muffle my heartache, pretending to buy into his optimism, allowing myself to relax into his reassurances. I can feel our lives beating in sync, moving toward a unified heartbeat.

Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock…

My trips outside this house are few. Driving to the grocery store or passing by the office, I find the streets are littered with ashen debris. I swerve to avoid collisions. Everything is blunted in greys and browns, a stagnant monotone that waits in the darkness, a hovering that assails me with its lack of substance. There are no doors to pass through and so I accelerate faster through this area where time does not exist. There is nothing tangible to hold me in a clawed grasp. I imagine that this is what hell feels like, an endless, running emptiness. Perhaps, I am in heaven. The idea causes me to smirk.

The windows of the buildings have been shattered, walls collapsed, the heap of a forgotten life that persists in its brokenness. It is difficult to maneuver these familiar streets, strewn with trash, newspapers from a bygone day, remnants of commerce, tattered articles of fabric, and bits and pieces of irrelevant items blocking me from reaching something. I want to reach it, and I can hear myself yelling and screaming at nothing and no one. A piercing hurt stabs at my thoughts. I strain as hard as I can desiring to catapult past this suffering. Relief sulks beyond my grasp, unfettered and mocking. It holds me in its cold stare. Unconsciously, I look down at my wristwatch, the second hand gliding a circular path to nowhere. It has lost all meaning, a trite and tired path. I am exhausted.

The ticking is silent, the second-hand victim to a repeating loop.

Within this world that has been slammed out of orbit, I cannot find anyone, not a solitary soul to initiate a connection. I am alone. I cautiously guide my car through the mess scattered on the roads, relieved when I pull into my driveway with my tires intact. I park neatly in my spot and wait listlessly for a sign, a signal, a remembrance that will propel me toward anything akin to a natural order. I dread walking into the quiet house, not knowing if I want to tackle the present or the future in order to get to the past.

Mulling over the possibilities, I say aloud to the starless night, “I wonder if I can straddle the past and the future, one foot in the bedroom and one in the bathroom, creating an equilibrium where I can always be with you?” The stinging throb hits me directly in my temple, and I grieve for not hearing an answer.

The best option I have is to sprint through the side door leading into the kitchen and make a brief stop in the bathroom before throwing myself back into the limitations of the bedroom. The hopscotch between spheres assaults my senses, and I drift between wrecked conversations.

In the kitchen –

“How did chemo go today?” I nimbly ask.

             He falters with his words, “I’m taking a beating this week.” He recovers his fortitude and looks at me with an intent keenness as if he is trying to record my visage, the singular features tucked away in his mind’s eye.

Tickkkkkkkkkkkkkk

In the bathroom -

The church bells drone a melody, a bittersweet clanging that portends a finality. I gaze down at your lifeless face in the casket. I don’t want to remember you this way. I avert my glance, and plead to you, to the gods, “Where are you, David?”

             A beckoning silence ensues.

Tockkkkkkkkkkkkkk

Drowning in the bed with a mad flailing of the blankets and sheets, trapped in fitful attempts to hold onto the past, I swirl around to take another look at the guy standing on the street corner.

Our eyes meet for the first time in that perfect, blissful moment, and you say, “You look lost. May I give you directions? Help you find your way?”

                          Knowing that I don’t want to be anywhere but here under your gaze, I respond with a brazen charm, “No, I have found where I am going.”

…kkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk

The grandfather clock, stationed outside the doorway of my bedroom, presides over the stillness of the night. Focusing on the swinging pendulum, I let it take me to the recesses of slumber, a gentle sleep that will provide renewal if I am lucky. I fear my luck has run out. I lay in bed, moving softly to the tempo, hoping the physical rhythm will jump-start the conventions of time. I lull myself to the other side, a desperation to rest. In the dreams that haunt my conscience, a doorbell rings, a rooster crows, and I fight against the moon’s currents. I am forever suspended within the flickering fog.

When I awaken, I force my legs over the side of the bed, shuffling to the window with my angst. I peek through the window blinds, the sunlight stinging my eyes. The light is muted, but I have not seen it for what feels like an eternity, and I’m forced to squint. The neighborhood is cloaked in garbage, a filthy clutter of nominal objects. Is that a bird chirping? I frantically raise my window, my heart fluttering at the thought of life, something other than me. I sink into the chair next to the window, as the heaviness that has courted me lifts. With the bird’s musical refrain, I realize that I will be able to adapt to a new pulse, one that is different and devoid of your voice, but a beat that my spirit can follow. Follow me, please, follow me.

Kcit-kcot-kcit-kcot…Kcit-kcot-kcit-kcot…Kcit-kcot-kcit-kcot…