My boyfriend is missing. His name is Marco Ramirez, 5’11”, big hair the color of fresh dirt. He’s been gone for a week, and I don’t even know if he’s really missing or just missing from me. The police said they’re looking, but I know they won’t take the disappearance of some brown boy in our shady neighborhood seriously. So I guess I’ve got to find the answers on my own.
[[Go to the local hospital and ask around.]]
[[Look for clues at the bar he frequented.]](set: $hospital = true) On the off-chance he was in an accident and couldn’t be identified, I headed to the hospital a few blocks from our house. Marco has always been a safe man, but things happen. I’m hoping this is a longshot.
[[Go->hospital.go]](set: $bar = true)In a relatively tight-knit community like this, bars are gossip magnets. I’m sure someone at the bar will know something I don’t. There’s this one dive bar Manuel always liked and I’ve always hated, and some Saturday nights he’d go by himself when I didn’t feel like going out. They know him well there. Maybe better than I do.
[[Go.->bar.go]]“Hi, uh,” I say awkwardly. I fumble with a string on my sleeve. “I was wondering if you had anyone come in who you couldn’t identify… like someone in an accident.”
“Are you looking for someone specific? A family member?” the receptionist replies, looking bored but sympathetic, as if her empathy is on auto-pilot. Her name tag reads Cindy.
“My boyfriend. He went missing last week. Mexican, curly brown hair. Um, silver nose ring.”
“Let me see.” Her manicured red nails flip through a manila folder, searching.
“Here,” she says. “In the past week, we’ve had one unidentified patient come in. Car accident.”
My heart races. I’ve wondered endlessly since Marco disappeared whether he was alright, and what happened, but now I’m afraid of the answer.
“He doesn’t match the description of your boy. I’m sorry,” she says, pity in her eyes. My heart drops.
“Could I just see the file? Could I see him, please? Maybe it’s him and they got the description wrong,” I plead. She looks less sorry now, her eyes less sympathetic and more professional, more cold, as if she were looking at a particularly pathetic insect.
“White male, early sixties. No nose piercing,” she tells me. “It isn’t him, sweetheart. Have you tried going to the police?”
“Obviously,” I snap, feeling immediately guilty for it. But the police don’t care about the disappearance of some minimum wage Mexican kid. When I told them about it, they asked me if he was in a gang.
“Sorry,” I apologize halfheartedly.
[[Ask to talk to someone else.]]
[[Look around the lobby.]](set: $talktomanager = true) “Could I talk to someone else? I’m not saying you don’t know how to do your job, I just… want a second opinion?”
She rolls her eyes, the softness in them now completely gone. “I can get my boss, if you insist. It’ll be a few minutes. She’s a very busy woman.”
“That would be good.”
I go to sit in one of the stiff, clinical waiting room chairs. A man sits beside me, bouncing his leg frantically. He has a twitch in his left eye. He looks directly at me, and for some reason I feel exposed, like he knows something about me that I don’t.
“Hey,” he says, hushed but forceful.
“Um, hi?” I respond, looking around awkwardly, trying to avoid his gaze.
“Marco Ramirez,” he whispers, like it’s some big secret, and now he’s got my attention.
[[Talk to the man.]](set: $talktomanager = false) I decide to look around the lobby in the hopes that there’s some clue or hint, like in the movies—the wrapper of some specific rare gum, or a red and brown string from the sweater I gave him for his birthday.
There’s nothing.
“Psst,” comes a voice I don’t recognize.
I look up, and nearby, a man sits, bouncing his leg frantically while trying to pretend he wasn’t talking. He has a twitch in his left eye, and resolutely does not look at me.
“Are you talking to me?” I ask skeptically.
“Marco Ramirez,” he whispers in answer.
That shuts me right up.
[[Talk to the man.]]“I heard you talking to the lady over there,” he tells me. “I’m Manuel.”
“I didn’t mention his name.”
“But it’s him, right? Mexican, curly brown hair, nose ring. Likes chai lattes and stray cats.”
“That’s… That’s him, yeah.”
His face lights up in one of the brightest smiles I’ve ever seen. “We were friends! You must be his partner, right? He talked about you a lot.”
I wrack my brain for memories of Marco talking about a man named Manuel, but I can’t think of anything.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him, “but I don’t know if he’s mentioned you.”
“Oh.” He looks a little disappointed, but is still smiling that genuine smile. “That’s alright. He must be embarrassed.”
“Why would he be embarrassed?”
“We met in group therapy,” Manuel explains. His eye twitches again. “Six or seven months ago, I think.”
That… doesn’t make sense. Marco and I were together seven months ago, and he never told me about any of this.
“Ah, yeah, of course,” I say, playing along. “Group therapy. What was he like there? He, uh, never really talked to me about it afterward.”
“He only went for a few weeks. And it was like any group therapy,” he shrugs, as if that explains everything. “We went around the circle and I talked about my ADHD and bipolar disorder, and he talked about his depression and anxiety. Sometimes we’d get lunch together afterward, but never anywhere too busy. I think he’s ashamed to be seen with me, but it’s not his fault. I know he likes me. He talks about you sometimes too.”
“What did he say about me?” I ask nervously.
“He really likes you. He wishes he could be more open with you.” Manuel looks a bit nervous now, avoiding my gaze, looking left and right and fidgeting.
“Do you… Do you know where he went?” I ask him.
“He’s okay. He… doesn’t want you to be worried,” Manuel responds cryptically.
“Manuel Sanchez?” a nurse calls from the entrance to the waiting room.
He breathes an obvious sigh of relief. “That’s me!”
He gets up and heads for the door, ignoring my cries of, “Wait, wait, you know where he is? Is he okay?”
(if: $talktomanager is true)[“Excuse me, ma’am? I heard you wanted to talk to a manager about your missing boyfriend,” says a professional-looking woman, clad in high heels and a pencil skirt, approaching me with one of the fakest smiles I’ve ever seen pasted across her face.
“Nevermind,” I say, zipping up my jacket and making for the exit. I need time to think.](else:)[I pull the collar of my jacket up tight around my neck, like it will protect me somehow, and head for the exit. I need time to think.]
[[Go home.->condition]]I get home, take of my jacket and let it fall to the floor without even hanging it up. I’m beginning to think I don’t Marco as well as I believe. So I fall asleep and dream of Mexico, and left-handed priests, and fresh brown dirt.
[[Sleep.->morning 2]](if: $hospital is true)[(goto:"bar day 2")](else:)[(goto: "hospital day 2")]It’s just as shitty as ever in here, with its flickering neon signs, dim yellow lighting, and brown-stained pool table. For some reason though, it doesn’t feel disgusting like it usually does. It just feels… intimate. I feel closer to Marco here than at home, somehow.
I make my way up to the bar and lean my body up against its faded wood, trying to act cool. They might not tell me anything if they don’t think I’m cool. So I ask for a beer and sit down in the squeaky metal stool.
The guy next to me is dressed shoddily and smoking a cigar and nobody seems to care, and the bartender rubs a plate dry with a cloth, looking bored.
[[Talk to the cigar guy.]]
[[Taklk to the bartender.]]“Hey,” I say, glancing over but avoiding actually looking at him. Just like that, his entire posture changes to something different, almost predatory.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he says, extending a hand out to me. Reluctantly, I shake it. It feels repulsively greasy, and I want to shut this down as fast as possible. “Call me Quince.”
“Let me be straight with you,” I deadpan. “My boyfriend, he used to come here a lot. I was wondering if you might know him, if maybe you saw him acting weird.”
Although the man is nasty, he takes the hint alright, and suddenly he’s all business. I’m a little afraid of who this man is and what he does outside this bar, but that’s beside the point.
“What’s his name?” Quince asks.
“Marco Ramirez.”
“I know the guy. Everybody in here does. I’ve talked to him a few times, seems like there’s something seriously wrong up there.” He taps on his head to emphasize.
“What do you mean everybody in here knows him?”
He lets out a snort of laughter, as if it’s obvious. “The guy comes in at least once a week, gets blackout drunk. Half the time gets thrown out for being an ass, other half ends up sleeping on the floor.”
“I’m not sure we’re talking about the same person here.”
“Hm. Brown skin, kinda tall?”
There are tons of guys in this area who match that description. It doesn’t mean anything.
“Huh,” he continues. “I take your silence to mean I’ve got the right guy.”
“That doesn’t sound like him,” I say lamely. “He’s not like that.”
“He’s always getting into fights, but he can’t fight for shit. It’s like he wants to get beat up or something.” Quince barks another laugh and this one is ugly, almost cruel. “And anyway, why don’t you ask him yourself? Think he’s cheating on you too or something?”
“I’ve gotta go,” I tell him. I feel raw, like a nerve has been exposed and I’m stuck trying frantically to cover it back up again. “Thanks anyway.”
[[Go home.->condition]]“Bartender,” I call, and he looks up with this weird grimace on his face, as if he’s annoyed I’m talking to him but glad to be given something to do. This doesn’t strike me as a particularly friendly place, and I can’t imagine why Marco would actively choose to spend his time here.
“I was wondering if you knew anything my boyfriend, Marco Ramirez. He’s been missing for almost a week.”
The man just shrugs, and I roll my eyes. Digging around my wallet, I pull out a ten dollar bill and toss it on the counter in front of him. He pockets it, looking marginally less annoyed.
“I’m not surprised,” he tells me honestly. “The guy’s a psycho.”
“Wait, what?”
“He comes in here and gets drunk all the time. Serious issues.”
“What do you mean, ‘all the time’?”
“I dunno, at least every week. Tuesdays, usually.”
Something clicks together, like pieces of a puzzle. Tuesday nights were when Marco went out to play basketball with his buddies. That’s what he told me, anyway. But usually people lie like that to their partners when they’re cheating, not when they’re going out to get drunk.
“Was he ever… with anybody?” I ask. I know it’s more important to find out where he went, but some part of me is clawing to know the answer, although I’m afraid to.
“No,” the bartender says without hesitation. “Always alone.”
My stomach immediately unclenches.
“You know,” he continues, “the guy was always weird. Had to throw him out a few times for starting fights, but it was less like a fight and more like he’d just throw the first punch and wait. Like he wanted somebody to beat the shit out of him.”
I don’t know why, but I suddenly feel sick. “I’ve gotta go,” I murmur. “Thanks.”
He grunts a goodbye, and I get up to go.
[[Go home.->condition]]I get home and this time don’t even bother taking my coat off, just fall into bed with it and my shoes still on. For the first time I’m almost scared, feeling like I’ve somehow gotten myself caught up in some shitty B movie that wants to be a dramatic thriller. Do I even want to see the ending anymore?
[[Sleep.->morning 3]](if: $hospital is true && $bar is true)[(goto: "night 2")](else)[(goto: "night 1")]I wake up, reluctantly get ready. I guess I should go see what other information I can find out today.
[[Go to the local hospital and ask around.]]I wake up, reluctantly get ready. I guess I should go see what other information I can find out today.
[[Look for clues at the bar he frequented.]]After the past few days, I don’t feel like going out. I want to know more, but somehow it feels more and more like I’m solving the mystery disappearance of a stranger than my own lover. I walk around in my pajamas, just thinking. Looking at the dust on this shelf or that one; the Bible in the drawer of the end table on his side of the bed; his apron hanging in the kitchen. As if these details could somehow tell me everything I want to understand.
I try to force myself to do something normal, to continue living my life. What will I do if I don’t ever find the answers I’m looking for?
[[Eat breakfast.]]I eat a bowl of cereal without really tasting it, which makes me feel better, but not different.
[[Watch TV.]]I sit through an episode of Chopped, but I’m not really watching. I couldn’t even tell you who won.
[[Clean.]]By the end of the morning, the floors are spotless and my hands have been rubbed tender. It doesn’t help.
[[Look through the mail.]]Even just seeing his name, on the bills and flyers, makes me feel my chest is on fire. The idea that the world keeps turning, that the sun will rise and set and the postman will deliver these letters from scam companies who don’t even realize that Marco Ramirez is gone, might never come back. It hurts.
I flick through each letter, and there are a lot. And then I see one addressed to me, from Marco Ramirez, with the return address in Oregon, all the way across the country. My stomach drops. I feel like an idiot for a second, because this could have been sitting in my mailbox for the whole week and I never bothered to check. My answers could have been right at home the entire time.
[[Read it.->read 1]]I hold the sealed envelope in front of me, just staring it, entranced.
[[Read it->read 2]]I go to open it but it’s like I can’t move my hands. I’ve already found out things I never knew. Awful things, lies and deceit and despair that I couldn’t help fix. I think about what Manuel said to me. //He wishes he could be more open with you.// Maybe this letter is him finally telling me the truth? Is that wishful thinking?
[[Read it, for real.]]I brace myself and read it, for real.
//Dearest,
I should start this off by saying that I’m sorry. I don’t know what you already know and what you don’t yet, but I haven’t been fair to you. I haven’t been honest. Not because I wanted to lie to you, but because there are things I never knew how to tell you. But I’m telling you now, and I hope that if nothing else, you might be able to forgive me one day, for your own sake. For the sake of closure.
I should begin by telling you that nearly all my life, I’ve suffered from depression. My parents died when I was young, which you might already know because I think I’ve mentioned it. And a year ago, my younger sister died to a drug overdose. That part, you don’t know. I tried therapy, but it didn’t help. Every week I said I was going to hang out with my friends, but I went to the bar and got drunk and sometimes got somebody to beat me up, which didn’t help either, because I hated the world, and I hated myself. I say that as if things are different now, but they’re not really. Not yet.
I’m writing you now from a mental facility in Oregon. Why Oregon, so far away, you might ask? Truthfully, I don’t know. I felt like a ticking time bomb and wanted to be as far from you as possible so I didn’t hurt you when I finally blew up, and I didn’t want you to miss me and try to come visit if I checked into a hospital, but I missed you too much and couldn’t stand the thought of you hurting and wondering because of me. I want to get better for myself, but I’m doing it for you too, even if you decide you can’t ever forgive me.
I’m sorry I didn’t tell you and made you worry. I know you’ve been worrying, because even though I’m far away, I still know you. I didn’t know how to tell you any of these things while I was there. This is my own deal. I’ve gotta push through it myself, which might sound dumb, but it’s true. This is something I’ve been wrestling since long before I met you. I’ll be back soon, okay? And then you can kiss me or scream at me or punch me or ignore me or whatever. Whatever it is, I know I’ll deserve it.
Yours (if you want me),
Marco Ramirez//
I take a deep breath, put the letter down. It’s… a lot to think about.
But there are all my answers, written out like some stupid guidebook to love and loss and pain—the answers about him, my lover(?), Marco Ramirez. I guess what comes next is up to me.
[[End]]THE END