Intro to Pt 1: Clockwork

Chapter One: Clockwork

Four minutes and twenty-nine seconds. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

People are like clocks, Noah. You’ve got digital and analog, watches and sundials, no two are truly the same but in the end they all tick and beat and tick some more until they stop. Remember that when you feel like you’ve got no way out. People are like clocks and every clock’s got a reset button.

 �"Nathaniel Adams

Noah doesn’t remember much about his birth father. He remembers bits and pieces, vague touches and soothing words but now it’s all been distorted, warped like the grainy images on an old television screen�"bordering on forgotten--fading into nothing. The man’s a shadow in his life, imposing and impossible to ignore but weightless and it’s frustrating because half the time it feels like he’s on the tip of an iceberg, about to uncover something more, but in the end… nothing… just white-noise and that same memory of a callused hand ruffling his wavy hair. Four minutes and nineteen seconds. Ti-tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

 What he does remember though is intangible�"broken�"feelings like the sense of security that came from his arms or the love in his voice. Noah bites his lip, a furrow in his brow, and trains his eyes on the ground in front of him. His shoulders slump; he couldn’t tell you the color of his father’s eyes or about the wrinkles around his lips or what the sound of his laugh was like or how tall or short he was, but if you asked Noah if he thought he’d been a good man he’d have intrinsically said yes…

Noah shakes his head and kicks at a ball of dust beside his foot, glaring down at it like it had personally offended him. What was the use in remembering? He’s gone; dead for almost twelve years, and still the thought of the father he knew nothing of besides his name and a measly quote about clocks never failed to both make his heart clench and calm him down in a way that was beyond confusing.

Four minutes and three seconds. He kicks the ball of dust out of his range and sighs, running a hand down his face, he doesn't have time for this. He looks up.

Three minutes and fifty-five seconds. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Noah stands behind the flimsy red curtain and takes it all in. He can feel the energy thrumming around him like an aura, a high that leaves his stomach clenching and fingers twitching at his sides�"his heart beat erratic in his chest, ready to burst. Three minutes and forty-five seconds. He can hear the sound of the out-of-date analog clock on the wall above his head, always slightly off time, slowing down to an almost crawl between the eight and ten; smell the heavy, antsy musk of teens thick and heavy and as familiar as an enemy's touch. Three minutes and thirty-five seconds. It’s terrifying and comforting and crazy and maddening and he holds onto that feeling because it’s all he has to keep him sane.

 It hits Noah that in less than five minutes�"three minutes and twenty-five seconds he mentally counts down�"it’s going to be him on that stage, him out there with the spotlight burning holes through his face and scalp, the theatre props being the single barrier between himself and the massive screw up he’s bound to make. He’ll have nothing to save him, no one to help him, only the music playing in the background, the echo of his voice and his body and his acting theonlyfuckingthing to keep the audience engaged. Him. Noah Adams from der middle o’ nerwhere Louisiana with the too bright metal smile and the too loud laugh and the way too gimpy hair that always stands up on one side more than the other�"no matter how much gel or time or conditioner or relaxer or whatever the hell else he tries to put in it�"

And s**t, if anyone tries to tell Noah that’s not enough pressure on one person they are f****n’ lying to his god. damned. face. He puffs out a breath, sick with nerves, and rubs his chin with the back of his hand, his prickly sandy beard scratching against his fingertips.

Ah, what he wouldn’t give for a beer right now.

It’s stifling and he doesn’t know if it’s the grip his shirt has around his neck or the butterflies in his stomach but whatever it is, it’s driving him insane. He can feel it scratching at the back of his throat, radiating through his shoulders and down to the incessant tap of his foot against the floor, a never ending mantra of mocking laughs and degrading calls in his mind. Ha, ha! Ha, ha! You’re such a screw up! Get lost loser! You’re more monotone than Kristen Stewart in Twilight! You make nails on a chalkboard sound like f*****g Bach! He needs a shot. He really, really, needs a god-damn shot right now. He needs this anxious, nervous, uncool, feeling to go away�"to leave�"right now.

He gulps (can’t breathe) and pulls at the collar of his plaid flannel undoing the top button�"sweat accentuating the supple curve of his tan collarbone in the low light. Nancy Babafis saunters past him in her too-tight sequin dress and too-tall high heels and he catches a whiff of her too-strong-flowery-perfume and it’s really all too much but still his eyes not so subtly follow the curve of her a*s down the hall.

You know… she’d offered to blow him an hour ago�"cornering him outside the bathrooms�"trailing a too red finger down his chest and pressing too hard against him, but that wasn’t saying much because she offered to blow everyone. Still, what type of boy didn’t accept a free blow-job? At the very least it offered a much needed distraction from his nerves. He shook his head and shakily rolled up his sleeves�"he needed to focus�"it’s too hot but still not hot enough. Down. Roll them back down.

Breathe. Stay calm. He runs a hand through his hair. You can do this Noah. You’ve trained for the last five months for this. You’re amazing. Phenomenal. Superb. Extraordinary. Every girl wants you, every boy wants to be you.

You can do this.

Tick. Tick. Ti-tick. Tick.

Two minutes and ten seconds.

I can’t do this.

He’s feverish and pale; his eyes are glossy and wide. Sweat drips down his brow and he’s shaking�"really shaking�"he knows it, he feels it in his bones�"he can’t even hold up his damn guitar�"and he knows he should stop�"that he should be breathing regularly�"but he just can’t. One minute and forty seconds. Distraction. Distraction. He needs a distraction. Why isn’t anyone trying to help him? Is he f*****g invisible? Why did he sign up for this in the first place? One minute and twenty seconds. It wasn’t for his parents. (It was.) It’s not like they’re even coming to the show. (They don’t come to anything.) He doesn’t even like his parents. (He wishes he did though.)

(He’s a coward.)

No one cares.

They all want you to fail.

One minute.

Ti-tick. Ti-tick-tick.

Fail. Mess up. F**k up. Screw up. Fail. Fail. FAIL!

Noah grips the fabric of his shirt between twitching fingers and twists, sliding down the rough brick wall, the wool pinching up to the middle of his back. His guitar clangs noisily down beside him. Each breath is ragged, loud and deafening, pushing up into the foreground of his senses, numbing everything else. The world is moving. It’s dragging. It’s speeding. It’s spinning. He tastes bile in the back of his throat and he feels the judgmental stares, hears the condescending giggles.

His head drops between his jean clad legs, body curling in on itself, breaths short. “Shut up.”

 Knew he shouldn’t’ve gotten the part. McCullen was so much better. And dreamy. Can’t forget dreamy. Let the understudy have a shot huh? Come on, give up, give up, give up!

He hunches his shoulders up defensively. “Shut up.”

Give up! Give up!

“Please just shut up.”

Close your eyes. Breathe in and out just like dad always told you. Focus on the clock. Match your heartbeat to the clicks. One. Tick. Two. Tick. Easy now. Come down. Come off it. Three. Tick.

Thirty Seconds.

Twenty.

Ten.

Zero.

Open your eyes.

He shakily gets to his feet.

It’s showtime.

Noah lets out his breathe, two quick puffs, one, two, and taps the glass face of his battered watch; he’s had it for as long as he can remember. He’s not ready, but he’s as ready as he’s going to be, but… still... He shakily feels the inseam of his jacket, biting his lip and glancing anxiously around him before nervously taking out the little plastic bag the size of the palm of his hand.

Pathetic. Are you seriously stooping so low so early? The night’s young man.

Noah gulps. He knows he shouldn’t, he knows he should put the bag of pills back in his pocket or better yet toss them down the drain, but he needs it. Them. He needs the bubbly, childish, immature, carefree high�"the release�"the disconnected calm that comes from the pill. He craves it. It calls to him, the urge moving under his skin like an insatiable and uncontrollable itch that just refuses. to. leave.

You’re so weak. Noah can hear the disappointment and distaste in the voice, his voice, the self-hate. His hands clench the pills in his trembling fist and he hangs his head in defeat, hair hanging over his eyes like a curtain. He is weak, he knows it and right now it disgusts him. It makes him want to cry and scream and rage and jump off the bridge over the 405 freeway. It makes him want to feel in a way he has no desire to at the moment. In a way he can’t afford to at the moment. His resolve steels and he rips open the bag, quickly popping a pill in his mouth.

Noah nods to himself and glances at the mirror beside him, he looks like s**t, pale and sickly, but he’s ready. His pupils widen.

            Now he’s as ready as he’s going to be.

 

Reviews

[SpeedyHobbit Armstrong]

Wow, this was definitely a very interesting psychological piece. You really give a lot of insight into the chaos of Noah's mind as he counts down to doing what he is doing.

[Tsukin Archangel]

Thanks! I'm glad you caught onto it lol, it shows just how insecure he is and of course plays into later parts of his psychological stability.

[theladygraceling]

I don't think this is too long. It is a chapter of a book anyway and it doesn't need to be short. I think this is pretty good. Having certain words italicized really helps me connect with the character and really see what his inner feelings are. I'll be reading the next chapter. Nice job.

[Tsukin Archangel]

Thanks! And oh I just realized that WC changed all my "--"'s to quotes -.- Ughhhhh. So that's what those quotes that are like kinda randomly placed throughout that is if you were wondering. And yep I'm actually sort of focused on finishing the 2nd part of a diff story atm but the next chapter's already done for this one I jsut need to edit it some more. I've been letting it sit so I can come back at it witha fresh mind ya know?

[Penny]

Nice story, truly presents your character the way you wanted him to look. Quite long though. Tge fact that your character is introvert and psychologically keeps readers like me interested but I really hope the next chapter is a little bit to the point (it kinda bugs me).

[Tsukin Archangel]

well I can't say I personally agree with your comment on saying it's not to the point you'll have to back up that assertion. And considering this is less than 2k words I can't say I think it's particularly long either LOL. You should see my Sex is in Our Veins or Betrothed if you think this is long lol. But I'm glad you at least slightly enjoyed this and thanks for the comment!

[Penny]

I read sex is in our veins and thats why I expected a little more from this one. Still as I said its not bad, anything that comes from heart can never be bad. And just to tell ypu I am also very stubborn when I am told to make changes to my work.. lol. So I totally get you therr. :-)

[Tsukin Archangel]

its not that I'm like stubborn lol I just don't really see WHERE you see it as like off point or too long. Cause I've had other people read it and none of them have mentioned something like that soooooo if you could be more SPECIFIC with those two statments maybe I could see what you meant. To make changes. And the 2nd chapter is done but... eh idk I wanna change it, it's feeling kinda weak atm to me soooo I don't want to post it. Though speaking of sex I'm actually writing a like... sequel? To it. Soooo more of that lovely universe to come lol.

[Penny]

I'm waiting.. and post next chapter of this story too.. I would like to read it. Sometimes as you move further in a novel you start liking it more and then you get the real intention for making a chapter the way it was.