Chasing Gracie(2)

Brent.

He had worked for Volumatic, a manufacturing company about thirty minutes from our small town, since he was eighteen. He’d spent the first four years working in production, building parts for equipment, tractors, and other heavy machinery. The last couple of years had led him to a supervisor position, but Brent hadn’t taken his job lightly. His hard work had kept him on the floor with his team doing work he should have left behind when he’d accepted the promotion. All the work he’d done had left his shoulder in constant pain, but he hadn’t quit working his hardest. He’d pushed and pushed until his shoulder had snapped. The doctor had actually cursed when Brent had been rushed to the hospital last month. There had been so much damage to his shoulder, that we’d had no choice but to have him file for disability and long-term workman’s compensation. No one had known if he’d be able to work again any time soon.

That was my Brent. Hardworking, dedicated, and kindhearted. He refused to let others do work he wasn’t willing to do himself. Heaven forbid he simply sit back and “supervise” as per his job description. Twenty-five years old and he’d had to say goodbye to his passion. The struggle his eyes revealed had left me helpless.

Brent wasn’t the kind of man who could sit at home and do nothing. So, instead, he took on the household chores, even the ones he couldn’t master, like cooking. He was good at many, many things. Cooking just wasn’t one of them.

I’d rushed home from the office, nearly two hours behind schedule thanks to my awful boss, who had always been determined to make my life a pain in the behind. Mostly because I’d turned down his offer to “swing” with his wife. Gross. Mr. Canton was nearly twice my age. The thought alone was revolting. Brent, of course, had laughed it off, cracking jokes at my expense. Not a day went by that I didn’t miss his lightheartedness. No matter my mood, his jokes and gentle embraces could turn my bad day into a good day.

When I walked into our house that night, there was no sign of life. The lights were off, but the front door was open slightly. I almost didn’t notice the door was cracked in my haste to get inside and make sure the kitchen wasn’t on fire or the laundry room covered in suds.

The second my foot hit the foyer, my heart sank to the ground. I could sense trouble, and panic crept along my skin, causing every worst-case scenario to run rampant in my mind. Little had I known that the worst possible scenario really was waiting for me on our beat-up hand-me-down couch in the living room.

I took a deep breath before turning on the light in the foyer. Calming myself down took long enough, and I decided that Brent had to be taking a nap or watching a movie quietly. Wrong. So very wrong.

I made my way to the living room, and when my eyes swept over his body, I sank to the ground. Any strength I had vanished as I lost all sense of reality. The world around me stopped, my vision faded, and my heart completely froze. Numb. I was numb with pain. With shock. With fear. Nothing could have prepared me for what I had walked in on.

Brent’s body was sprawled across the couch, an arm and a leg dangling over the edge, dripping crimson onto our ugly, peach carpet. His eyes were wide open, void of any life. I glanced at his chest, praying—begging—for it to move. Stillness.

Finding strength in my legs, I rushed to him, flinging my arms around his body. I wasn’t sure if my shaking him was on purpose or caused by the panic eating me alive.

I screamed with everything I had in me. “Brent! Brent, come back to me! Help me! Someone! Anyone, please!” Over and over, I yelled between my horrid cries.

My shirt soaked up his blood, covering me in the proof he was gone. My heart and soul refused to believe the scene before me. Little had I known that that scene would leave me scared and broken for an extremely long time. The people I loved always seemed to die in such tragic ways. No epic storybook scene for Gracie Kay Hart’s failed fairytale. Nothing but death and pain and unnecessary guilt lined my pages. Not to mention an emptiness far beyond my ability to comprehend.

Now, twelve days later, I was still at a loss for reality. Nightmares followed me around not only during my poor excuse for sleep, but also during my waking moments. I couldn’t remember what food tasted like. I’d been living on popcorn and containers of microwavable macaroni and cheese. Sure, neighbors had brought me lasagna dishes. I was almost positive there were at least seven in my fridge. I just hadn’t found the strength to deal with them.

There were too many moments lately where I found myself in a daze. Heck, those moments lasted twenty-three of the twenty-four hours in a day. I couldn’t wake myself up long enough to be bothered with trivial things such as eating, bathing, or even going upstairs to bed.