Tick-Tock

I sprung from my bed, jerking upright.  My heavy chest rose up and down in fast, desperate motions.  I gulped in air.  The oxygen felt refreshing entering my lungs.  Beads of sweat trickled down my forehead, leaving my skin sticky and dry.   The century-old timer teetered on the edge of my rolltop desk, its slow and mournful ticks beating in a rhythm.  Just like my heart.  Rapid and panicked.

Tick-tock. 

Unlike past nights, I forced myself to endure the sound of the annoying timer.  The dreadful noise that struck at my head, causing the room to spin in circles and my stomach to ache worse than anything.

            Today something was going to happen.  This thing would make my life better or worse.  Which one, I had no clue.  In frustration, I almost strangled my hair while getting ready for school.  My reflection frowned back at me in my mirror, not excited at all for what was to come. 

My eyes caught the sight of the clock. Each tick of the second hand echoed throughout the room. My fingers brushed against the rusty, green metal of the century old timer.  I often wished for something more appropriate for modern-day society instead of that old piece of junk.  For thirteen years, its melancholy taps engraved themselves into my mind.  Tick-tock. But, it had never bothered me this much before.  I slammed the top of my desk down, locking the timer inside for the day.   The less I was forced to think about it, the better. 

            I compelled my feet to move forwards to where I could still smell the remains of bacon from my father’s early breakfast.  Our family’s big, white van awaited me in our garage so I grabbed a yogurt out of our fridge.  My mom squeezed the steering wheel.  I slid into our car and tore the lid off of my quick breakfast.  “Today’s the big day, sweetie. Your timer has almost reached your Major Life Event. I feel so excited for you to embark on this new journey in your life.”

            I allowed an aggravated sigh to escape my lips.  I totally wasn’t in the mood. “Excited? I talked about this before with you. It’s more likely something will happen to make my life miserable.”

            Mom smiled knowingly at how naïve I appeared. “But, think of what happened to me. I got this ring on my finger.” But, at thirteen, I prayed no one proposed to me.

            I sighed again and decided to let the conversation drop.  My mind was coming up with some snarky remarks, and my mother was not one to mess with.

            She broke the silence first. “Do you know why your father and I named you Arti?”

I shook my head.  I wondered sometimes, but never bothered to ask.  I figured if it was important enough, they’d tell me why my name was so unusual.  So unusual that in my elementary days, kids made mean comments about it. 

“The name Arti means noble strength. When we realized your MLE would happen when you were thirteen years old, we decided that you would certainly need to have some noble strength to be able to handle it. Many who are forced to go through something terrible at your age need to be more prepared. They succumb to the fear and are trapped. But, I think you’re perfectly capable.”

            I bit my lip.  Hard.  That nauseous feeling remained in my stomach, but it slowly sank away as my mother spoke.  I sat up straighter in my seat.  A small smile formed on my lips. “Thanks Mom.” 

            School crept by at a very slow pace.  I had until this evening.  7:42 to be exact.  Then, all my anxiety would be over.  Getting through the hours leading up to a person’s MLE always turned out to be the hardest.  And due to the fact I had been stressing all morning, I zoned out in math class and missed Mr. Feather’s explanation of how to solve a linear equation.

            I walked with my head hanging low over to my normal lunch table.  With very step I took, I imagined all the different scenarios that could occur later, and the butterflies in my stomach returned.  My best friend, Valentine, was already lounging in her normal spot at the head of the table.  I slipped into my seat, and the corners of her mouth perked up, amused. “Come on, Arti. You worry too much.”

            “That’s easy for you to say. You have twenty more years.” I zipped open my lunchbox and withdrew another cup of yogurt.  The strawberry-flavored goodness slid down the back of my throat, calming my nerves, just like it had ever since I was a child.  Valentine always joked that I would not be able to live without my daily dose of yogurt, and she was probably right.  I smiled a little bit thinking about this.

            “Relax. You still have over eight hours!” Valentine’s optimism was catchy.  Her corny puns cheered me up, and I found myself laughing along with her.  My friend’s bubbly spirit could always brighten my day.

            After school, I changed out of my uniform and replaced it with something more appropriate for horseback riding.  Instead of bringing me home after school, my mom turned into a secluded entrance off one side of the road.  My grandma’s bright blue house welcomed me.  I fixed my warm riding jacket onto myself and hopped out of the car, my heavy boots thudding onto the ground.

            My cousin ran out onto the front porch, and I waved to my mother, glad to escape all her questions about how my day went.  “Ready to ride?” Noah asked me as she pulled her hair back into a tiny ponytail that bounced in rhythm with her steps.  I nodded, and my heartbeat quickened at the thought of getting on my horse’s back for the first time all week.  The joy I felt when riding surpassed anything else I did.

            I followed my cousin around the back of the house, neither of us talking at first.  But, I felt no tension in the air.   Noah looked very thoughtful as we strolled down to the barn, as if she realized that I just needed some time for quiet, time to think.  Noah would know this better than anyone because her Major Life Event occurred two years ago when she was fourteen.  She knew exactly how I was feeling.  Stressed.  Worried.  Terrified.  Yep, that pretty much sums it up.

            We galloped around the field that connected to my grandparents’ property.  I rode Dancer, my eventing horse, without a saddle.  Her back was bony, but feeling the horse beneath me without a saddle limiting my experience always turned out to be better.  The sharp wind blew my curly, red locks all over the place and nipped at my face.  Dancer’s movements were smooth, and she went whichever waay I directed her.  I sank deeper into the saddle, and smiled down at my horse, truly relaxing.  Although, it was still in the back of my mind, I thought nothing of my MLE clock back in my desk at home. 

            After showering, my phone read 5:18.  I needed to do some homework on my laptop, but it lay inside my rolltop desk.  I definitely wasn’t opening my desk until I had to get my clock out.  I wanted time to hurry up so I could get my MLE over with, but at the same time, I wished for it to slow down and give me more time to mentally prepare.  To distract myself, I grabbed my notebook and pencils and decided to draw.  At, six o’clock, four satisfactory pictures of Dancer lay on my bedroom floor.

            My mom called me in for dinner, her voice gentle but demanding.  I trudged down the stairs, ready for a boatload of questions about my thoughts and my concerns towards my MLE.  But, my family didn’t say a word about it.  They talked amongst themselves, not mentioning my MLE once.  I pushed my pasta around on my plate, even though it was my favorite kind.  I glanced down to realize that my hands were shaking, my palms sweaty.  I bit my lip, a nervous habit that always seemed to pop up.  Butterflies fluttered in my stomach, and emotions I never experienced before coursed through my body.  I couldn’t pay attention to the conversation around the dinner table without my thoughts drifting off, and anything I said was short and without feeling.

            At 7:38, all four of us gathered in the living room.  Society required three questions to be answered.  My answers had to be honest because of an act passed thirty-two years ago.  The Society greatly emphasized honesty.

“Are you scared?” My dad asked.

            I bit my lip for, as it seemed, the fifteenth time that day.  “Yeah, a little bit.”  How about scared out of my mind?  Anxious.  Worried.  About to throw up in my mouth.

             “Describe to us what you are feeling,” my mom said, a silver recorder in her hand.  The silver recorder stared me in the eye, warning me to choose my answers carefully.  The government would hear everything I said.

            “Well…scared. Nervous. I’m so worried that I can’t think very well.  I’m not excited at all, but very stressed.,” I explained my feelings the best I could.  But, the other emotions I couldn’t put into words.  I didn’t want them to know everything; I wanted to keep my thoughts for myself.

            “Are you willing to go along with whatever happens to you with no restraints?” My dad interrogated.  His voice quivered as he spoke.  A sense of protection washed over me.  To know that my father was worried for me too was enough.

            “Yes.”  But was I?  Could I do this?  Was I strong and noble like my name?

            The beaten-up timer lay limp in my lap.  My hands stroked the places where the names of users before me were carved.  Exactly 7:41.

            At 7:42, we heard a loud knock on the door and I cringed.  My teeth sank deep into my lip until I could taste blood.  It was my duty to open the door.  My time had arrived.  My dad followed me.  I took one giant step towards the door.  And another.  I turned the handle.

            Before me stood a blond-hair, blue-eyed man.  A very professional-looking nametag adorned his button-up shirt.

            “Miss Harris?  My name is Matt Underman.  The Child Abuse Association has sent me to your house. Sources tell me that your parents are physically abusing you.  I’ve come to take you to our Center.”

            “What?” The news took my breath away.  I was sure everyone nearby could hear the fast beat of my heart.  My arm shot out to grab a hold of the doorpost.  Fainting would be terrible right now.  It would show my weakness.  I assured myself of my strength.  Noble strength.  Arti. 

A thousand thoughts whirled in my head.  This can’t be happening.  Living away from my parents is pointless – they are the best in the world.  I gathered all my courage inside of me, knowing I must reply to Mr. Underman’s demand.  “You’re wrong. I’ve never been abused, especially not by my parents. They would never do anything harmful to me.”

            “I’m sorry ma’am. But I have to do my job. We need to get you out of this environment. Pack a bag and meet me outside. We’ll leave right away.”