TICK to the TOCK (A Coming-of-Age Story) by Matthew Turner

bits and pieces of memory, like the random scene from a holiday in Spain when I was ten, maybe eleven-years-old, her standing over me as the sun shone through gaps in her hair.
    Or the time we were in the car, she in the passenger seat, twisting and smiling at me in the back. She didn't say anything or ask a question, simply basked in pride and offered a love I've never understood.  
    Of course, the image of her reaction when I told her my news always creeps to the front. It's always there... haunting me... taunting. I have little control over the memories and thoughts that spill forward. It's not like the conscious world, where I direct the orchestra of my past and present. During my morning torture, I'm at the mercy of whatever lurches.
    Thankfully, it didn't take long for this morning's pain to pass, and soon, the four of us were outside in the relentless rush of Rome. It's a city I instantly fell in love with, but I fear will soon hate. Everything we longed to do has been done, and once the excitement of the Coliseum and Fountains and ancient lovelies has been captured, the realisation of Rome's ruthless abuse comes to light. It's a full-blooded war. Tourists, locals, scooters from all directions, and the unforgiving horns blaring at all times. Rome isn't busy, it's alive with passion. You don't stroll around this city, you battle your way through it.
    Today's morning sun turned to afternoon cloud, and now, as the evening gives way to night, a full overcast blanket rests above. A succulent dark orange invigorates the clouds, turning them from grey to fire and ending the day in style. It'll be hard for night to take over such a sight, but in the coming minutes, it will.  
    "Ethan, m'boy; Dante, m'lad, the time has come to leave this place," says Wil, looking at Danii.
    "Thank god," says Ethan, dropping his slice of pizza into a clumsy heap. "I can't take this damn city anymore."
    "I like it," says Danii, twirling a piece of cheese on her finger.
    "No, I'm with Ethan," I say. "It's great, but I'm done. We need a beach and some sunshine."
    "Ah yes, ah yes, good thinking old Kingsley, m'lad. A quiet, old, peaceful beach town is what I think—maybe in Greece or Spain or Africa—oh, Africa, oh Africa—yes, yes."
    "I'll start researching as soon as we get back," says Ethan, leaning in his chair and grinning.
    I picture Ethan back home, and whether he would lean in such a way. He's dealt with the spontaneous life of travel better than I expected, although his rational ways always sneak through. As soon as travel needs organising, he steps forward, and when an issue arises—in the hostel, maybe, or at a tourist hotspot—he reacts in an instant and takes charge. Still, change engulfs him more each day. Maybe it's his hair—the gel not as tight, his thin, wispy strands flowing in the breeze—or his t-shirts—the same retro designs from 1970s bands, only these days untucked and creased—or how Wil doesn't tease his style on a daily basis; rather, complementing his new rugged look.
    I can't imagine my cousin being anyone but my crazy rational cousin, but I do hope he changes enough to enjoy the life around him.  
    Taking a bite of pizza and filling my gums with the hum of tomatoes and spice, Ethan catches me staring, putting down his own chunk of dough and sizing me up. I know his routine well. It's predictably simple: he stares, relaxes his mouth, straightens his shoulders, and waits... waits... waits... only this time, he doesn't, smiling instead of waiting.
    "Everything okay?" I ask, raising my thumb and nibbling away at the nail.
    "Sure,"
    "Positive?"
    "Yeah, how about you?"
    "I'm fine," I say, continuing to nibble.
    "Really?" he says with a sudden serious tone. The table goes silent, Wil fidgeting in his seat, placing his hands on his knees, then under them, then on top of them again.  
    My nibble transforms into a chomp. "Yeah. Why?"
    Ethan waits, saying nothing. Wil continues to fidget, looking left, then right,