Author's Note:
And then the ticking became a problem.
Mental Tick
(or: The Boy Who Leaped)
A fanfic by Pseudinymous
Lines and Snags
Clockwork sat in his room, after being locked in there by his mother.
Well, there was a plus side to all of this — it was possible she'd never send him to therapy ever again, not after the events that had transpired. On the other hand, now she was more disappointed in him than ever, and the boy's insides twisted a little at the thought, at knowing that he'd let her down in such a way. After all, she did try her best, even if he didn't always agree with her.
So, in the monotony, he redirected his thoughts back to the model he'd come up with. It was very elegant, he thought, and quite perfect, even though many were sure to disagree. The more he set his mind on thinking it out, the more convinced he became that time really did look like that scrunched up ball of paper, a unique one for each person. He was also convinced that it had to be possible to traverse, although only if you had the right equipment. If he were able to traverse time like that, he'd be able to easily escape from his locked bedroom door, but… well, if he were to be more practical, he could probably just swing himself out of his first floor window, if he was really desperate.
Clockwork wondered when his mother would finally open the door. And whether she would ever stop thinking he'd lost more than few sets of his marbles.
Oh, but that was simple, wasn't it? His mother would be back to let him out in approximately 27 minutes, and she would never stop thinking he was at least a little bit out of touch with reality. It seemed so obvious now. Even though it was a feeling he had, he also knew that it wasn't just a feeling — it seemed so important, so right and quintessential to who he was, that knowing this was natural. Clockwork knew he was going to be right, and there was nothing he could personally do to dispute that.
27 minutes later, the latch to the door twisted open, and his mother stepped through.
"Adam," she began, lips curling into an unreadable expression, "I'm sorry."
Clockwork didn't know what to do. She was apologising? Why? It made even less sense than the not-exactly-sane idea that he'd been able to figure out how long it would take her to let him out, for no explainable reason. So he let the silence fill the space instead, waiting for her to elaborate.
Clockwork's mother was looking down at her feet, now, apparently trying to take an avid interest in them and their relationship with the floor. "I'm sorry for scolding you, and keeping you in your room," she managed, awkwardly. "But… but please, you have to tell me how you knew she had cancer."
More silence, because Clockwork really wasn't sure how to explain. He searched around in his head for something that his mother would actually understand, but it really didn't seem to be there. She didn't have a background in science and wasn't one for philosophy, either, so getting his point across seemed like quite the impossible task. But she was giving him one of those begging, underprivileged looks… the one he had trouble saying no to.
So he explained the best way he knew how.
"I just knew," said Clockwork, with a simple shrug. "If I think about it I can sort of feel some of the folds and lines… in time."
His mother lowered a sceptical eyebrow. Clockwork didn't like the way this was going.
"It makes sense, mum! It sort of just… came to me, but I was right! And I think I can be right about other things, too. That… the ticking thing, that's what makes it work."
Oh no. That sceptical eyebrow was becoming a most bizarre expression of disappointment and disbelief, her face screwing up like an overripe prune. Clockwork recoiled, and made a slow move to scoot further up against the backboard of his bed.
"And… and that's how you think you knew," she hazarded. "Was it the same when you basically flat-out told her she was going to die?"
Another shrug, although this one was far too sheepish.
"I see," his mother finished, quietly. Her head hung low with a subtle bow, and she walked out of the room, apparently giving up. Clockwork could feel the disappointment, the worry and fear, as it emanated off her in waves. Such horrid emotions seemed to cling to the bedroom walls, thickening the air until he felt almost as if choking on it.
It was suffocating, in its own way.
Clockwork's mind turned itself over, trying its very best to hold everything together. He hadn't been properly upset in more than a few years — he was a stoic child — but he could not deal with this right now, and he wasn't sure why. Anger, apparently, he could deal with… but that betrayed, disbelieving look, the look that made his mother seem as if she'd lost all hope for her only child… that, he couldn't process so well today. The guilt was overwhelming, enough to be a violent and tangible force that wreaked havoc on his insides and twisted up his stomach. It was a ridiculous reaction, really, but he couldn't do anything about it.
So it continued to rage, in spite of all attempts to contain the blaze. And it got worse, until it seemed like something in his chest was being violently torn apart, and in amongst this Clockwork finally realised that what he was feeling was a long way away from normal. Emotions weren't supposed to physically hurt this much.
Not even slightly.
His mother raced in at her son's yelps and cries for help, but the only thing she could do was sit down next to him as he curled up into a tight foetal position, unwilling to uncurl, where he eventually began to sob at the raw and blinding pain. It made him see white, see stars, see lines and snags in time that didn't seem real. It made him actually see the ticking for the very first time, but he didn't know what any of that meant, and was too far gone to give it all a proper thought.
Clockwork's mother panicked, and ran from the room to go and dial 999. But when she returned, Clockwork was gone.