Booth Three

22

The world wasn't ready to lose Oliver Ferrari. It's all people have been talking about. The news hasn't stopped reporting on it. Press are outside the hospital, outside the family home, outside the Ferrari building, and at the scene of the accident. Images of the flipped car keep flashing on our screens. The vehicle is completely wrecked. Bits and pieces are scattered across the road and littered on top of bushes. Not one door of the vehicle is attached anymore. There's a wheel missing, and the hood is completely crushed.

It was a country road — a dirt road. They were speeding, a lot. They hit a pothole, and the vehicle lost control. There are skid marks on the road and dried up blood spread all over the scene.

It's shocking. It's upsetting. They shouldn't be showing that.

The news is having a field day. It's one big media whirlwind. Each channel has already held a memorial, playing clips of Oliver's most memorable moments. There's a memorial growing outside the Ferrari building, too. People are placing flowers, leaving notes, and lighting candles. They may not all have known him, but everyone loved him. He was a positive role model for boys and fathers, and a sign of hope for institutional change. He's given back to the community in more ways than anyone else I know. He's funded hospitals, schools, community centres, social causes, and just about everything else he possibly could. He used his money and power for good. He wanted to make the world a better place, and without him in it, we have little hope.

The whole city is grieving.

For me, it's been three days of uncertainty. Three days of waiting, stressing, and doubting. I haven't seen Diego since he got the news.

He walked out of the hospital and hasn't been seen since — not by me, not by Roman, not by his family. At least, not in person. We've all seen him on the news.

He was arrested two days ago. He got into a fight at a bar near the hospital. The video of him brawling with another man has been playing on a loop in my head, along with the one of him getting dragged away in handcuffs with his face all bloody and his eyes heavy.

He's been released since then and has continued his binge. I've been keeping tabs on him online. Last I heard, he was passed out at a bar in Yonkers. I hope Roman's keeping an eye on him. If he doesn't want to see me, that's fine, but someone has to make sure he doesn't drink himself to death.

I don't know how I'm supposed to be feeling. I'm not mad at him. He's grieving. His best friend is gone. I can't expect him to continue his life like he did before. He's just doing anything he can to get by. I am hurt, though. I want to be there for him. I want him to want me there. I'm worried, too. And confused. I don't know what the future holds. I don't know if Diego's going to sober up and come back to me, or if he's going to spin out of control and I'll never see him again. There are too many unknowns.

More than anything, I'm sad. I've known Oliver for over a year. I've seen him every week since I started working here. I may only have just started getting to know him on a personal level, but he's been present in my life for a long time. He's been paying my bills, and he's the biggest influence on Diego's life. He spent his last day alive with me.

And now he's gone.

That shouldn't be allowed. No one should be taken away so abruptly. It's not fair. This shouldn't have happened.

I feel... helpless. There's nothing I can do to justify his loss. There's nothing I can do to stop the hurt. There's nothing I can do to stop the family's suffering. All I can do is hope. I hope the family is getting by. I hope they're being looked after. I hope Diego is safe. And I hope he'll come back to me.