Tick Tock [Wattys 2018]

Tick Tock

I flip to the next page of the photo album on my lap. Parts of the photo are obscured by bread crumbs. As I flick them away, I become aware of how quiet the house is. The only sound comes from the ticking of the brain-shaped clock on the wall across from me. I glance up to check the time: 3:44. A sigh escapes my mouth as I lie back on the couch, resting in the serenity of the steady beat. It's always a comfort to know that time is consistent. It will never go back or come to a stop. People may pass away, but time is forever.

I look back at the album and smooth my hand over the page. The photo is of my sister, Eva building a sandcastle on the beach. She's wearing a black and white striped swimsuit. Half of her face is covered by her white, floppy hat and big, heart-shaped sunglasses. Her skin is darker than usual, but that's probably because of all those days in the sun. Eva has never told me about going somewhere hot. A frown grows on my face as I examine the photo in greater detail. The woman in the photo has a bright, white smile with a large gap between her top front teeth. I shake my head. That grin is so recognizable.

All of a sudden, something compels me to go to the kitchen. I place the album on the glass coffee table next to a small stack of books then get up from the couch. I pass the mirror on the wall along the staircase. Through the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of my reflection. What I see catches me off guard and I stop in my tracks.

The woman trapped in the glass looks like me, but there is no way that she is. Under her eyes are wrinkles that stretch across her face. Her pale blue eyes appear dull as she has seen too much evil in the world. Frowning, I pull my cheeks out; the older woman mimics the action. I need to start using some of that anti-aging cream stuff. There's no need to look forty when you're only twenty

As I continue on to the kitchen, I try to shake the images of the woman out of my head. The kitchen is spotless, except for a couple of plates in the sink. I approach the sink, my eyebrows knit together. It's unlike me to leave dirty dishes. My right hand reaches across the sink to twist on the tap. A fast stream of water flows down. I squeeze a small drop of washing-up liquid on to the sponge. I place it under the water. A scream comes out as my hand jolts away from the steaming water.

Quickly, I use my left hand to shut off the water. The back of my hand is a bright red. I turn on the cold tap and run my hand under it. My teeth clench together as I take in sharp breaths of air. Wanting a distraction, I scan across the kitchen. There's a yellow post-it on the fridge door. I turn off the tap and wrap a dish towel around my hand.

I walk over to the fridge. The words on the paper are a bit blurry so I lean in forward, my eyes squinting. It says 'Dinner @ 7' in big, sloppy handwriting that resembles Eva's. I close my eyes tight, trying to remember the significance of that note. Eva and some friends are supposed to come over for dinner tonight. How could I have forgotten that? I'm not sure if I even have enough time to prepare something. I run back to the living room to check the time on the clock. It's only 3:47, which gives me plenty of time to whip up something.

I notice the stack of books next to the photo album. The book on top is a cookbook, which I pick up. The book underneath is called Creating Moments of Joy Along the Alzheimer's Journey by Jolene Brackey. That's odd; I don't remember ever buying that book. I push that thought to the side.

As I return to the kitchen, I flip through the cookbook to find a simple recipe to prepare. Maybe, I'll be lucky and there's something I can use in the fridge. When I open the door of the fridge, another piece of yellow paper falls to the floor, but I just kick it to the side. On the top shelf is what appears to be a BLT sandwich wrapped in cling film with yet another note: 'Eat @ 3'. What's with all these notes?

On the shelf below, is a defrosted chicken on a chopping board. Perfect. I grab the board and place it on the counter. There's a recipe in the cookbook for roast chicken. I preheat the oven to the appropriate temperature then read the ingredients needs. Thankfully, I have all that is required.

When all the ingredients are measured, I begin to go through the directions. I get a knife from the drawer. Carefully, I slice the carrots up and place them on a plate. However, while peeling a potato, I accidentally nick my left thumb. A few drops of blood fall onto to the floor, which I wipe away with paper towel. The cut doesn't appear too serious so I just put a band-aid on it and continue preparing the meal.

Finally, I put the chicken in the oven. It needs to be roasted for forty-five minutes, which gives me plenty of time to go back to the photo album. When I enter the living room, it's completely silent. There isn't even the regular ticking of the clock. As I sit down on the couch, I check the time. It's 3:58. I pick up the photo album and go back to the page I stopped at.

The sound of the smoke alarm startles me and I jump up from my seat. The whole room seems to spinning around me. I try to make sense of what's happening, but I'm distracted by a sharp pain in my left hand. I raise the hand to my face to see that the band aid is now covered in red.

A girl runs into the room, her eyes wide like a deer caught in headlights. The first name that pops into my head is Eva since she looks similar. However, this girl's skin is much darker than Eva's and her hair is black, thick, and curly while Eva's hair is a fine and brown. She looks like the girl I saw in the photo album.

"Mum!" she yells as she runs towards me with outstretched arms. When she reaches me, she wraps her arms around my waist. My body stiffens at her touch. "What happened? Are you okay? Dad left you a sandwich and drink in the fridge, but they're still there! Why did you roast a chicken?"

I shake my head, unable to wrap my thoughts around what she's saying. I open my mouth, but no words manage to come out.

"It's okay," the girl reassures me. "All that matters is that you're okay. Dad never thought that it was this bad; he thinks that we need to have someone staying at home with you. The books can only do so much; we really need a professional to help." My body is still limp, so I allow her to lead me out of the room without a fight. "Wait, are you bleeding?"

As she leads me out of the room, I glance back at the silent, brain-shaped clock. It's 3:58.