The Tragedy of Marco

Chapter IX

There were notebooks, computer and phone on Jordan's working table. All personal belongings of Marco were there, yet he wasn't able to connect the lines among the information he had received in the past month. The talk with Gaby made him realize Marco didn't trust anyone. Not even the love of his life. He was a loner whose thoughts ate him alive. And now it was on Jordan to find the remains of this young boy. Alive or dead? Bitter question, which went hand in hand with the investigation. The more Jordan read and heard about Marco, the more he started to feel furious towards his parents. Where were they when he needed them? What kind of problems must you have to forget about your own child?

He again opened the last notebook. There was a section titled "Pigeon":

"I never had a lot of friends. But the ones I had, always had a special place in my life. They were the light when I fall in the darkness of life. Oh, how I miss them. They were always there for me. I don't deserve them, but I want them to know I still love them ..."

Marco must have confided his friends more than anyone else. Finding them should be the end of this case. Excitement and hope grew in Jordan as he called his friend who worked as a computer programmer. While waiting for him to arrive, Jordan checked Marco's phone again. Most missed calls were from Gaby, Dan, Oscar and Clara.

"I have been in this for well over a month and it is the first time I hear of these three people," said Jordan to himself. He continued reading the Pigeon writing.

*

I will describe you my friends now, my dear notebook. You will consume their stories and treasure them.

Oscar and I have been friends for six years now. He is not very tall and he has deep hazel eyes. His hair is slightly curled and light brown. They are usually messed up. Just like mine. He always wears his blue jeans and different kinds of T-shirts. Everywhere we have gone, he always bought at least one T-shirt. I remember when we went to Germany with school. He bought five shirts with German writings, even though he didn't understand them.

I met him when he arrived to my town. He moved here because he wanted to attend classes offered here. It was in my second year and he was put in my class. He sat next to me. I still don't know what attached him to sit there but he did. We started talking and that was the beginning of a great friendship. I was telling him about people on school and, of course, all the devils that rule the school. Professors. They never liked me. I was always the one who asked questions they didn't know the answer to. I put them in awkward position. I guess that was my talent. Honestly, I didn't like them either. But there was an exception. Literature teacher. We had to write a lot of essays in her classes and I always got A+. The best grades I have ever got. She was always so nice to me. And she understood my work. I am still very grateful for that.

Anyway, Oscar and I really have a history. I think everything started in PE classes. And yes, dear diary, my university made PE an obliged course for everyone. I was never good at sports. So he helped me. We jogged together, played basketball and even tried aerobics. Didn't work out so well. He was the only person back then who completely understood me. And he always read my writings and commented on them. He knew me perfectly and he helped me raise my self-esteem a lot. I recall first telling him about Gabrielle. He later told me he had never seen me so happy before. He said I had a special spark in my eyes every time I spoke about her. He was probably right. She filled me with passion and love. Oscar was with me when I was on top of the world and he was with me when I fell down. I could call him at one o'clock in the morning and he would find just the right words to calm me down. He was the tree I hugged when I needed support.

I met Dan three years ago at a party. I bought drugs from him. I have never thought a person who sold me marijuana would become such a good friend of mine. He attracted me as a person because he lightened such a positive energy around himself. He just didn't give a f- about what other people thought of him. And his writings ... oh, they were a big piece of art. Something special. On one hand, they felt like you were reading his heart and brain but on the other, it felt impossible for him to have written them. I think the best moments we had were when we smoked in the park, at night, and talked. Talked about everything – girls, family, friends. He was the listener when I couldn't write. When I wasn't able to sleep, I called him, knowing he was awake for sure. His sleeping cycle was reversed. He slept in the afternoon and was awake the whole night and morning. At nights, he usually walked around the city, visited pubs or just sat in park. Puff. Something in me wishes to see him again. It is 10 pm. He is walking somewhere. I stand up and move to the window. I look outside. It is a lovely night. There is no one outside. Disappointed, I return to the table, drink a sip of whiskey and continue writing. I don't know what I expected ...

I never flirted with schoolgirls. They weren't for me. I rather went to a bar or in a park and met new girls. Before Gabrielle I have dated five girls. I met all of them in the same bar – The Jamie's. In high school, I met this girl, Clara, who was different from all the others. We first talked on a bus to Rome. It was a school trip. We decided we don't want a relationship so we "friend-zoned" each other and the awkwardness of society expecting a girl and a boy to only date was solved. We stayed friends and nothing as strong as love ever broke it. We usually climbed on the roof of our school and stayed there until late in the evening. We talked and talked about the most random possible things. For example: Why don't we bring wine with us on the roof.

Those were three of my closest friends. There were a lot of people in my life. But I always had a thick wall around me. I was not a person who would trust easily and that's why people needed patience if they wanted to have a true conversation with me. And Oscar, Dan and Clara had the patience. And, damn, it was a strong one.

I don't know when I decided to write everything in past tense. It is hard. Every sentence reminds you of the ending.

*

Friend of Jordan successfully entered into Marco's computer account. Jordan checked received emails. There was nothing interesting. Mostly advertisements. He then opened a folder with pictures. Most of them showed Marco and his friends somewhere in forest. Pictures were similar to the one he gave to Mary the other day. Jordan thought of the cottage Gaby mentioned. His friends must know where it is located. He immediately contacted all three of them.

*

Clara, Dan and Oscar were questioned separately but their answers were the same.

"When did you last hear from Marco?"

"He last answered my message on 16th of December."

"Did police already question you?"

"Yes, they did."

"Where did they get your contacts?"

"His mother, Mary, gave them my number."

"Do you know anything about a cottage Marco bought?"

"Oh, yes. We spent a lot of time there. It was his run-away-place."

"Are you by any chance able to describe the location of it?"

"Definitely."

Jordan was finally getting somewhere in his search. He could now conclude a few claims. Marco isolated himself around 15th of December 2014, as neither his parents, nor his friends including Gaby saw him later on. His last writing is dated 30th December, which means, that if Marco committed suicide, he did it around that date. Jordan now also knew the exact location of the cottage. It was on the countryside, around 155 miles (250 km) away from Garis residence. And lastly... Mary is still hiding information about her relationship with Marco and her talks with the police.

Jordan was looking at the notebook. The feeling of intervening into Marco's privacy filled him again. He didn't view the notes as evidence anymore; he now received them as work of art. Marco's mysterious soul was trapped in them, waiting for someone to understand it. He opened the first page of the last notebook. There was only one sentence written.

"I remember times when I didn't know how to spell the word "suicide" and now, oh, now this word runs my life. S-U-I-C-I-D-E"