Without You

-Sasha Chekov

Tears stream down my face. I make no move to hinder their salty spill. The streaks of wet cake from the blush that I had piled onto my cheeks only a mere hour ago. I don’t care. The only thing that I ever truly cared about is lying before me on a cold, metal table, three bullet holes in his chest.

Darien had never cared what I wore. He had never cared that people looked down on us, not only because we were both men, but because I was with a gay cross-dresser. Darien had loved me solely for me.

I can still see your vibrant sea-green eyes shimmering with laughter when I woke up in the mornings. I was always frumpy, my mesh of tight curls knotted and sticking up at odd angles and the smudges of eyeliner and eye shadow around my eyes because I was too lazy to clean my face off the night before. I was never a morning person and you were, so you always laughed at me when I made my way into the kitchen looking like a zombie. You always kissed me and told me I looked beautiful.

I cried harder. Those eyes were cold and lifeless now.

If only I hadn’t forgotten my cigarettes outside. This was all my fault. You always joked about my inept memory and now look where it has gotten us.

“Mr. Chekov? Mr. Chekov ?”

I was jolted back into the all too harsh reality surrounding me. My nostrils were once again filled with the distinct smell of blood and fresh death.

“Yes?” I managed to sob.

“I need your confirmation one last time. This is Darien McNabb?” The mortician growled, the silver whiskers of his upper lip muffling some of his voice.

I wrapped my bloody arms across my crimson stained pink baby-doll T, letting my head fall, the curls covering my eyes. There had been so much blood. I had never seen so much blood before. After I had heard the gunfire outside, I dashed from my bureau not even bothering to grab my shoes. My heart pounding in my chest as I flew down the three flights of stairs, my mind filling with endless possibilities but never with the thought that things would end like this. When I saw you lying there on the New York sidewalk, your plush lips stained crimson as you struggled for breath, blood bubbling from the wounds in your chest, I couldn’t believe my eyes. I still can't.

“Mr. Chekov? Do I need to ask again?”

“No, no you don’t… Yes, this is Darien…” My voice was hoarse and barely above a whisper. The mortician must have been used to this sort of behavior because he had no difficulty understanding me. He went back to scribbling some things down before turning to leave the little cubicle. He had other deaths to tend to, I was sure. They would probably ship him down to the morgue now, like he never meant anything to anyone and handle that luscious body like he was never a living being. They would do things to him as if he had never been loved, had never loved, had never laid next to me every night for the past four years…

I was crying even harder now. I had worshiped that body only two hours ago. My tongue had played with that collarbone. My hands had dug into those arms as he had forced out the most intimate of noises from my throat and swallowed them with those lips.

I hadn’t even noticed when two more people slid the blue curtain aside and stepped inside. In all actuality we were in a large room that was merely divided by makeshift walls and curtains. The hospital saved more money that way for whatever reason. There was the illusion of privacy but the entire room could hear my grief. I barely glanced up as the newcomers came in. They were police. One short, plump woman with short blonde hair pinned back into a bun and the other a lanky man with black short-cropped hair. I didn’t spare them much attention. I knew that they really didn’t care about what had happened. This was New York. People died everyday from things like this and it could mean a thousand things, but we were no one important. No one would care.

“Mr. Chekov? May we ask you some questions?” the woman inquired. Her voice was gruff. I just nodded my head reaching out to grasp Darien’s cold, blood stained fingers. I had the absurd idea that if only I touched him more I could breathe the life back into him. He would feed from my energy and he would live again. He would get up early and make coffee, trying his best not to wake me up yet until it was ready. He would smile at me as I sat at the bureau carefully applying my lip-liner. He would make that unbelievably sexy moan in his final moment of passion. If only I could keep touching him… “Oh, I’m sorry, what did you say?” Apparently the woman had continued talking.

“I said, is there anyone that you know of that would have a motive for firing at Mr. McNabb?”

Silently I shook my head.

“Is it possible that this could have been a Hate Crime?” the lanky officer asked next.

I didn’t have to think much on that. “It’s possible. He’s gay. He’s my partner. A lot of people don’t like us. It could have been anyone that knew of us and hated us. Not like it really matters now. You can’t do anything about it. No one really cares.” My response was met with their silence. They knew that I spoke the truth. These questions were just protocol. It would lead to nothing and it wouldn’t bring Darien back.

They asked more questions of protocol. I didn’t pay that much attention to them. It didn’t matter. I grasped that hand as if I were memorizing it even though I already knew it all too well.

The police left and soon a nurse came in. She placed her hands on my shoulders and tried to steer me from your body. I wouldn’t let her. I claimed that if I left you then you wouldn’t come back.

Your body gets smaller and smaller as they lead me away from the cubicle. The blue curtain slides into place. You're gone forever.