TICK to the TOCK (A Coming-of-Age Story) Read Online Free

there's ever a time to drink and drown one's sorrow, well, it's during the worst of days."  
    With that, he nudges a shot glass in my direction, the sharp smell of tequila rising from below. I hold it, and look at it, and twist it around in circles. This isn't the answer, but then again, what is?

21 st September—York:
    Recommended Listening:
    Helplessness Blues—Fleet Foxes
    Worms—Beth Orton
    Angel Eyes—The Czars
    The Drying Of The Lawns—The Tallest Man On Earth

    The warmth from the cup comforts my frozen digits, each one eking out heat from the steaming mug of black, rich coffee. The smell seduces my tastebuds as it rises up my nose, the caffeine a welcome addition despite that it’s still too hot to consume.  
    I'm not sure why, but my hands are unable to warm. It gets cooler as each day passes, autumn creeping forward and leaving summer behind, but the air is still warm, only the breeze adding a chill. My fingertips remain frozen stubs at all times. Is it through worry, my blood rushing to my brain in a bid to figure out the constant roving questions? Is it my body's way of saying the end is near, and with it, useless parts like fingers and toes are neglected?
    Maybe it's that I'm more conscious of myself, and it might be this why my headaches seem to have gotten worse. I'm now equipped with pills and pain relief, which are soothing and welcome, but my mornings—before I push the bitter tablet into my mouth—are painful.  
    As I wake, I experience a serene peace for a second or two, but then the throb comes forward and brings a striking bolt of agony with it. I squeeze my eyes shut with force, the darkness easier, but only for a few seconds until the pain finds a new way to penetrate my defences. It's unlikely the headaches have become worse in a matter of days. It's surely a case of mind over matter now that my body's aware of the deeper issue at hand. The daunting part is they'll get worse, and I've been told to expect an array of potential worries as this process draws on, although the specifics remain hazy. Nobody knows what to expect from this apparently rare case.
    Then again, this new realisation may be due to the constant reminder of my mother's face the moment I shared the news. I didn't want to tell her. I wanted to find out more information, to take more tests and visit more specialists.  
    "You have to tell them," Ethan insisted. "They're your parents. They deserve to know."
    Of course he was right. He's always right. I'm their only son, their only child, and to hide something so important from them isn't fair. But I've never been fair on them. I love them, but can't remember the last time I told them. I owe them so much, but have I ever said thank you for loving me, caring for me, standing by me despite keeping them at arms length, always? Hell, it was six months until I introduced them to Danii, and it was Danii herself who called my mother when we finally broke up. They both loved Danii so much, but did I care enough for them to hear the news from me?
    Walking up to the house I grew up in, my stomach rumbled with an anxiety far greater than the pain devouring my forehead. Taking a deep breath, I walked through the door, my mother stopping dead in her tracks with a steaming dish in hand.
    "What a lovely surprise," she said. "We're about to have dinner. Come and join us, sweetie."
    I hated myself, the smile on her face so lovely and genuine. ' When was I last here' , I thought. ' The first time in weeks, and I'm here   to share such news. I'm horrible .'
    I don't wish to remember any of the evening, but I do. Each second hung, trickling by as the hush consumed all three of us. Only the tick of the hallway clock—tock, tick, tock—, the squeaks of cutlery on plates, and chomps and mushes of food in mouth made a sound. They must have known something was wrong, they must have. It was so quiet, as though we were all terrified of what words might bring.
    I remember too much of it, especially my