His fists impaling her, the splitting of her skin.
My child in her womb, unprotected from the cruelty of this world, except for the thin veil of protection she could offer, which meant using herself as a human shield to prevent his life from being snuffed out.
The image of that fucking monster hovering above her, ready to force her into submission, to break her body and her spirit.
The panic and fear she must have felt through it all, as if an entirely separate entity were being assaulted but one she loved.
It was clear to me that she’d separated from herself, to protect the most fragile parts from the situation she didn’t have the strength to beat.
Though she was the strongest person I’d ever known.
Her love had been strong enough to save my soul and my flesh more than once.
“Never underestimate a good woman’s love; the power of it. One word can send you to either heaven or hell,” Marzio had said to me before he died. “Yes or no.”
She was no monster, though, and it took a monster to kill one.
Mine. He put his unclean hands on mine.
The words swirled inside of my head, like a terrible storm brewing, over and over again, and again, I wished there had been a higher price for him to pay for what he’d done.
Taking her from me was the equivalent of ripping my heart and my rib from my side.
She was not just a wife.
She was a physical and emotional need that no other came close to.
She was a vital part of my makeup, as essential as flesh, blood, and bone. She was in all three, pulsing inside of me like the first and last heartbeat.
I had won in the end. He always knew I fucking would.
At what cost though?
He seemed to know the answer to that riddle too.
How much it would cost me in the end—not even his death was enough to pay the price, like mine would have never been enough to pay his.
That son of a bitch knew those images would be burned into my soul like a red-coal brand for the rest of my life, like the images of his mamma laying on the floor had been burned into his.
Lifting up some, I took out the two pictures in my back pocket. Time had worn them down some, though in terms of years, they were not that old. Pictures of Scarlett that had been taken while she lived in Paris without me, not long after she’d accepted the position with the ballet there.
One of them had been taken by another dancer’s brother. They had explored Paris on bike, she’d told me.
She was dressed in all black—thin sweater, those pants she called leggings, and flip flops. Her hands were on the cruisers’ handlebars, her feet out, her mouth open in a look of delighted surprise at how much fun she was having.
The picture was done in black and white, but still, her hair was luminous through the moody tint. It was much, much longer then, as gorgeous as auburn silk.
The other was taken at some rooftop bar, a small party for her troupe of dancers—nothing special, she’d called it.
Her face was turned toward the setting sun, a vast expanse of Paris the background, and the photographer had captured her and the light at the most romantic time.
This one was in color, and the setting sun had nothing on her.
I took a mighty swig from the bottle, enjoying the burn against the cold, releasing a heavy breath after. Smoke purled from my mouth in fierce-scented clouds, though the weather was much milder in Florence than it had been in Zermatt.
No snow here to cover up the partial death that some of the world experienced during winter—there was no hibernation, only a cold, hard reality to examine and ponder over.
Things die.
