My Dead Fiancé's Messenger Magpie

Today marks 12 weeks since my fiancé killed himself. Maybe it's 13 weeks. Time had definitely been different, to say the least. I'm not even sure how to describe it. Days drag and drag. But somehow I can spend hours without leaving my bed. All I really needed was a blanket and my phone charger. DoorDash helps, too. I want to say I’ve done laundry twice since that day. Once my rotation of sweats and t-shirts get foul enough to bother me, you know there’s a problem. Luckily, I have a washer and dryer in my apartment, so I don’t need to go far. But even those simple tasks would take days of energy. 

Sometimes friends text me, attempting to give emotional support. 

Hey buddy, just know we’re here for you for anything you need.

Thanks, I would reply. 

They usually didn’t text back.

My sister often called, making sure I wasn’t starving myself. Giving brief human interaction from time to time. 

Don, have you eaten breakfast today? My sister asked.

Yeah, I had something, I lied. 

You’re bullshitting me, aren’t you? I’m bringing you some pancakes and bacon. You'd better have clothes on by the time I get there.

Even my mother, with whom I have a complicated relationship, tried her best to comfort me. 

Don, you know how I felt about Baxter. I really tried my best to accept the whole gay thing. But just know, I do feel really sad for you.

Thanks mom, I responded unenthusiastically.

I mean, he was only your fiancé, and it’s already been a few months. Maybe now you can focus on finding a good wife and starting a family. I might even have a few people I could set you up with—

Okay mom. 

Everyone always says grief isn’t easy. But to tell you the truth, I don’t want to feel at all. I don’t care how selfish it is; I would rather not think about Baxter. Sitting in my dissociative depression is good enough for me, thank you. I have all I need with naps, Parks and Recreation reruns, and a half-full bag of sour cream and onion chips on my nightstand. 

I was in the middle of that episode where Tom gives everyone in the park’s department snake juice, and they all get massively drunk, when I began to hear a noise coming from my living room window. Clink, Clink, Clink. The tapping started softly, but gradually got louder over several minutes. My first thought was that a branch or a kite fell on my 5th-story window frame and managed to get trapped right above the glass. But the sounds were almost rhythmic. Eventually, I had no choice but to get up and investigate. Distractions prevent me from fully immersing in my exclusive plush island, Aka, my bed. 

I stood in the doorway between my bedroom and living room. And there it was. A magpie stood at my window. When I entered its eyesight, it stopped for a moment, then kept going. Its sharp black beak beating on the glass. When I realized it might chip the pane, I ran in its direction, hoping to startle it just enough to shoo it away. The magpie jumped back slightly, maybe an inch or two. We were closer now. Still separated by the glass, but I could more easily make out its features. A metallic blue sheen on the magpie’s body glissened in the sun. I expected it to be fully black and white. But the feathers sparkled. In the seconds that we stood there, staring at each other, the magpie jumped back and returned to its sharp little knocks. It was demeaning. In my agitation, I slammed on the window, and the damn bird finally flew away. Still seeing red, I returned to my room. Fully intending to stay there the rest of the day. 

My body relaxed into the soft sheets, lying against a mountain of pillows and plushies. I reached across my body to the side table, grabbing a handful of Skittles. Scarfing them down, I pressed play on the TV remote. Not even three minutes later, Clink, Clink, Clink, Clink. 

“Oh my fucking god,” I griped out loud. I refused to get out of bed, and instead turned the TV up. When the episode ended, the bird was still going. Clink, Clink, Clink. Over and over and over. I sank my head deeper into the cushioned mound, hoping to block out the noise. I attempted to zone out. It would work for a few moments, then the tapping would speed up and get louder. It was meticulous and incessant. But I refused to leave my safe haven. I concentrated on the television screen. 

Eventually, after three episodes, it stopped. I didn’t even notice at the moment. But when my focus returned, I sighed in relief. Are you still watching? Asked about the TV notification on my screen. I quickly pressed yes. I even closed my eyes, giving myself permission to take a snooze. 

Clink, Clink, Clink. I jumped awake and looked at the TV. I had only been asleep for 15 or so minutes. Clink, Clink, Clink, Clink. Still disoriented, I threw off my blankets. The tapping was so much louder than before. Clink, Clink. 

It’s at my bedroom window?! I thought. How did the pest even know it was still MY apartment? I quickly stumbled to the curtains and threw them open, blinding myself briefly by the sun, which I had become wildly unfamiliar with. And there it was. The stupid magpie. I was so sick of its bullshit. I knew magpies were annoying, but why couldn’t it just leave me the fuck alone? The bird didn’t falter and continued to stare into my soul. I threw the window open and began aggressively shaking against the screen. Repeating the words, “Go away,” echoing its nonstop window strikes. It still didn’t move. In a fuming rage, I ripped the screen from the inside, threw it to the ground, and frantically waved my arms. Quickly hoping nobody saw, I gazed towards the sidewalk below. A few passerbys, but none seemed to care. Placing both hands on the sill, I turned my head to see the bird standing on the AC unit on the window next to mine. I placed my face in my hands, frustrated and drained. 

“What am I doing?” I mumbled. 

That’s when I noticed the bird carrying something in its beak. As if the magpie read my mind, it placed the piece of garbage on the AC and flew away. Just like that. It was a wrapper. Specifically, an aluminum foil recess cup wrapper.

“These ones are my favorite,” said Baxter, plopping his third recess cup into his mouth with a large grin on his face. 

It was our first month living together. Halloween was in a couple of days, and we decided to get a few bags of candy. We didn’t anticipate many kids knocking on our shitty apartment door, but we wanted to be prepared just in case.

“I know they’re different shapes and all,” I replied, “But aren’t they all basically the same?”

With a half-full mouth, Baxter gave me a look of disgust.

“The same? Absolutely not. The small cups in aluminum wrappers are the best. Not the normal cups. Not the Christmas trees. Not the Easter eggs. It’s all about the ratio”

“I mean, I guess.”

“There is no guessing,” said Baxter. He unwrapped another one and shoved it into my mouth. “See. It’s a world of difference.”

While trying not to cough up chocolate and peanut butter, I said, “The only thing I know for certain is that you’re wasting the Halloween candy. The children’s Halloween candy.”

He picked up the bowl of candy, laughing menacingly. “I’m about to waste a whole lot more,” he snickered, running to the bedroom. We chased each other, with lots of giggling and heavy breathing. Maybe losing a few more pieces in the process. 

When I noticed tears falling down my cheeks, I closed the window and shut the curtains, leaving the screen on the ground. And even though it was the afternoon, I crawled into bed and slept until morning. 

The magpie’s window taps woke me up the next day. After that unwanted interaction and reminder of my dead partner, I didn’t want to answer the call. But just as the day before, the sound didn’t stop. I got up after an hour of knocking, less angry than yesterday. More defeated and despondent. I peeked out the curtains, and sure enough, the magpie stood right in front of me on the slightly downturned brick ledge just in front of the sill. When it noticed me, it turned its head in curiosity. Almost like a dog. The magpie dropped a single, crusty crinkle fry on the ledge and flew away. 

I sobbed in Baxter’s Honda Civic. I didn’t know where we were driving. I just needed to get away.

“I knew they wouldn’t be okay with this,” I lamented. “My parents hate gay people. They hate anything that isn’t straight and god-like.”

Baxter held my hand while his other stayed on the steering wheel. 

“I’m so sorry, Donny.”

A notification buzzed on my phone. It was a text from my mom- I still love you, Don. I just can’t accept you being with another man. It is a sin, and I have to follow God and his commandments. But we can still talk about it. Please, come back!

I threw my phone in the backseat. Baxter’s thumb stroked the inside of my palm. 

“Let’s get your mind off it,” he said. Baxter pulled off into a Sonic, driving into a parking stall where you order and they bring the food directly to your car. 

“Can I get two large crinkle fries, please? Oh, and a Diet Coke.”

He knew I loved Diet Coke.

We sat there in silence before they quickly brought us the food. After a worker handed us a greasy brown bag and a perspiring cup, he handed a fries box to me. 

“I love you,” he said before I could get the chance to grab a piece. We had never said that before. “It doesn’t matter to me what your family thinks. You’re all I care about.”

I leaned over, giving him a gentle kiss. “I love you too, Baxter.”

I smiled at him through tear-stained cheeks and puffy eyes.

“You sure you love me even when I’m ugly and have snot running down my face?”

He stroked my soaked bangs away from my face.

“I think I love you even more now,” he said. “It’s actually a good look on you.”

We laughed and ate our fries. 

What was happening? Why was this random bird forcing me to face my grief? I had no intention of thinking about the past or “working through my trauma.” I was safe and comfortable in the nothing. I can keep having my parents pay for my rent, and I will slowly let my savings deplete on to-go orders. I didn’t need this. And I know everyone tells you that grief is a process and grief is a journey or whatever, but it was a journey I didn’t want to go on anytime soon. 

I sat on the corner of my bed, leaning over my thighs. My grip tightened around my biceps, scratching my skin in an attempt to quiet the mental noise. I tried to inhale and exhale the hurt away with each deep breath.

But the tapping returned. Again. I screamed. 

“Get the fuck away from my house!” My voice bellowed and rammed against the window. I could swear I saw the curtains rustle in response to my winded cry. I didn’t care about the neighbors or passersby anymore. I thrust the window open, and for the first time, I was within physical distance of the magpie. It was inches from my body. I could touch it if i wanted to. “What do you want? I just want you to leave me alone!”

My shouting didn’t faze the bird. It stood there, as it did the past 24 hours, before dropping another surprise. This time, the magpie didn’t leave. It just stood there, staring at me. Waiting. I picked up the garbage it brought. It was a plastic ring you find under the lid of a plastic soda bottle. 

“Didn’t you already have one of those today?” Baxter asked.

I cracked open a cold, fresh plastic bottle. “You know how much I love Diet Coke. It’s an addiction, Baxter,” I rebutted. “You can’t condemn me for that.”

We sat on a park bench we often frequented. It was tucked between two growing trees and faced a small river. Our knees touched. As I removed the lid from the bottle, the little plastic ring between them stayed attached. I took a swig from my soda and removed the ring. I showcased it to Baxter. 

“This ring is high quality, you know.” I held it close to his face. “It may fit a little loosely around your tiny fingers, but it would do nicely for a proposal.” 

Baxter chuckled nervously. I grabbed his left hand playfully and did my best Queen’s English accent.

“Baxter Henry Davidson, will you do me the great honor of becoming my lawfully wedded husband?” I jested. 

“I do, my dearest Don,” he replied, while attempting to match my cordial tone. “But I have a question for you in return.”

He reached into his back pocket, pulling out a ring box. He pulled me up to my feet and fell to one knee. “I know you did it first,” he tittered sarcastically. I saw a tear well up in his eye. “But will you marry me?” Baxter opened the box showcasing a beautiful golden band, with a line of petite glittering diamonds around the center. I gasped and smiled, nodding my head before I could even think to verbalize my response. My entire body was elated with surprise and energy. 

“Yes!” I squealed, falling to meet him at his knees. His shaky hands placed the band on my left ring finger, and we fell into each other's arms. I kissed his lips and cheeks and forehead and chin. My answer could not have been easier. I loved Baxter more than I knew how to love. And he was officially my person for life. 

The day after Baxter killed himself, I threw my engagement ring into the river by our bench. I was so angry and confused. It was as if my eyes had been ripped from my skull and replaced with red marbles. Unbreakable and enraged. I have regretted that every day, at least as much as I have allowed myself to feel. 

The magpie still sat on my window, and when I turned towards it, its wings began to flap. Just as my feet began to move. I flew to the living room, grabbed a pair of sneakers, and lunged out the door. I ran through the hall, down the stairs, and towards the street, putting on my shoes while hoping towards my destination. I sprinted towards the park while tears streamed down my face. It was only half a mile away.

I huffed as the river entered my view. I saw our bench and the trees. I saw children playing at the nearby park. There were ducks floating down the stream. When I stood there, where I got engaged, and where I threw away his memory, and stared into the water. I had no idea if the ring would be reachable. Someone could have found it and sold it to a pawn shop. Or maybe it floated all the way to the ocean. I sat on the grass and tucked my knees to my chest. 

Sitting there in that fateful spot, my mind was reminded of the love I felt. The love I still feel for Baxter. I don’t know why he chose to die. And I would never truly understand. But ignoring the heartache and anguish prevented any positive memories from re-entering my life. I couldn’t remember his adoration without allowing the bereavement. Allowing it to flood over me didn’t automatically make me feel better, but I’m glad I could at least feel at all. 

My legs fell open, crossing over each other. I took a few deep breaths. The water smelled of dirt and moss. Suddenly, I felt a sharp bump on the crown of my head. I grimaced and felt my scalp, where a small bump started to form. Above me, the magpie flew. Its wings were quieter than I expected. It must have dropped something. A final gift. I searched the grassy earth where I rested, grazing my fingers between the soft green blades. 

And there it was. My engagement ring. My disbelief forced me to my feet. I held it in my palm before slowly gliding it down my ring finger. And as I looked up, the magpie was gone. That fateful magpie wasn't just a bird. It was a messenger. I looked to the sky and saw Baxter in the light-colored blue. He was still with me.