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I watched Moo walk to the kitchen of our apartment, his clothes rumpled and hair askew. He looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks.
He stumbled to the cabinets, grabbing a mug to make some coffee. I would’ve had the pot going before he woke up, but I was so fatigued I could barely stand.
I sat on a stool at the kitchen counter, watching him. He acted like a zombie, moving so slow, as if on autopilot.
I knew his job had been giving him more hours, sometimes waking up in the morning to see him already gone. He wouldn’t get home until late, not even taking the time to take off his clothes before falling on to our bed.
He cried some times, but only in the shower. I wasn’t sure why he cried, I’d tried asking him about it but he just ignored my questions. So I gave him some space and sat at my desk in my office to try and write something.
I’m a writer, you see, I love writing books. And Brock loved reading every draft before and after I’d send it to my editor. The expressions he made while reading my writings brought me joy, knowing that just a few written words could make him cry or laugh or frown.
He was so expressive, I felt my heart speed up every time he smiled. And I couldn’t help but cry every time I saw tears fill his eyes. And when he was mad, oh, it was like nothing you’d ever seen. Raging in video games wasn’t him being mad, that was playful banter.
Brock being mad was as if the sun was completely blocked from the earth, he became cold and silent. He didn’t have a mean anger, no. It was a disappointing anger. He’d just look at you and wouldn’t say a word, everything he could say being shown in his eyes. Those beautiful eyes… Seeing them when he was angry was if I’d been punched, the breath was knocked from me. Because if Brock was angry, then I’d have to let him deal with it alone.
And right now, Brock held no emotions. I couldn’t see a flicker of sun anywhere in him, as if he was just an empty husk left over after a terrible harvest.
He sat across from me at the counter, slowly drinking his coffee. He had poured whiskey in it, something I never understood. But I loved him for it. The shirt he wore was yellow with an embroidered cow face on it, I’d gotten it for him as a birthday present a few years ago. It was usually a very pretty color and smelled like detergent, but today it looked old and dirty as if he’d been wearing it for a few days, weeks even.
Had our washing machine broke and he hadn't told me? I know I’m not the handiest when it comes to tooks, but I could YouTube my way around a washing machine.
After noticing his shirt, I saw that his hair was greasy and looked like he’d ran his hands through it and tugged on it in frustration. I reached forward to press my hand against his cheek but he pulled back and finished his coffee, standing up and placing the mug in the sink.
I put my hand back down and sighed, watching as he washed the mug and put it on the drying rack. He usually didn’t wash dishes after using them, I guess he didn’t want them piling up.
Following him, I watched as he put on a hoodie and sneakers and opened the apartment door. I didn’t know where he was going, but I was following him. I needed to make sure he was okay.
We left the apartment and walked a few blocks away, heading to the bus stop and taking it to wherever Brock was going. I still had no idea what was going through his mind, but I planned on finding out.
Brock stood up and made his way to get off the bus, I made sure I wasn’t too far behind so I wouldn’t get lost. I was terrible with directions, especially since we took the bus.
We got off the bus and walked across the street, to a cemetery. Had someone died? Had one of our friends died and I didn’t know? How did I not know?
I was lost in my own mind as I followed Brock into the cemetery and through the gravestones, stopping beside him when he knelt down in front of a grave.
I couldn’t see the name on it as he pressed his forehead to the stone, a few tears running down his face.
“I miss you so much… Why did you have to leave? Why did you have to go to that stupid conference? I know you were a guest speaker, but you should have declined… Now you’re gone and I’m stuck here…” He wiped his tears and sniffled, standing up and taking something from his sweatpants pocket.
It was a necklace I’d gotten him when we first started dating. I couldn’t believe he still carried it with him.
He placed it on the tombstone and stepped back, turning and walking away after whispering his goodbyes.
I couldn’t move from my place as I stared at the words written on the grave, my world shattering around me.
Marcel Cunningham
May 8, 1990–June 1, 2019
He made the world brighter