But Gaia focused most of her love and attention on Andrea’s latest gift: Loulou. She treated the dog as if it were a human being, lavished it with tenderness and loving words that she should have given only to Daniele and Simona. I did not allow her to be alone with our children.
Sybil or Mia had to be present because I was still not sure that Gaia would not kill our children only to hurt me as much as Andrea’s death had hurt her. I had never considered her capable of infanticide, but now I wasn’t so sure.
Images of my children’s lifeless bodies haunted my nightmares.
We were living a lie, which became more unbearable every day, but at the same time I was getting used to it. Four months after Simona’s birth, on our eighth anniversary, Gaia ended it all. I had made dinner reservations at our favorite restaurant for appearance’s sake, but the moment I got home I knew something was wrong. It was awfully quiet in the house. Too quiet. I was a man who loved quiet, but this kind of silence resonated too loudly, bouncing off the walls in ominous echoes. I found Sybil asleep on the couch. Shaking her, she recovered, but her eyes remained unfocused.
“I’m sorry, master. I must have fallen asleep.”
“It’s not just about sleeping. I told you to watch out for Gaia!” I growled, letting her go.
“Where are Daniel and Simona?”
Sybil blinked, then opened her eyes wide in fear. I started running up the stairs, then froze on the second-floor landing. Tiny bloody paw prints covered the beige carpet.
My heart clenched so tightly that for a moment I was sure I was having a heart attack. After all, it ran in our family. I rushed toward Simona’s bedroom, throwing open the door, then stumbled toward the crib. Simona lay still and everything in me subsided. In the one second I considered her death, I understood why Gaia wanted to kill herself after losing Andrea. I tore Simona apart so quickly that she woke up with a heartbreaking scream. God, it was the most beautiful sound in the world. I clutched her to my chest despite her relentless cries and kissed the top of her head over and over again.
Loulou barked, then squeaked. Simona in my arms, I left the room. Daniel was standing in the hallway a few steps from his mother’s bedroom, holding Loulou against his chest. The dog wriggled wildly. As I approached, I saw that his fur was covered in blood, as was his muzzle. Daniel’s arms were also red. I rushed to him and knelt down, holding Simona in one arm as I touched his cheek.
“Daniele, what happened?” My fingers flew over his little body, searching for wounds, but he remained unharmed.
“I found Loulou. Where is Mom?”
The dog snapped wildly until Daniel dropped him. He rushed through the crack in the door into Gaia’s bedroom. Daniele made a move as if to follow him. I grabbed his wrist. A cold terror pierced every bone in my body.
“No. Were you there?” “Mother was asleep. Is she awake now?” My throat clogged.
“No. She’s still asleep. Go down the stairs to Sybil. She needs to clean you up.” Daniel thrust out his chin.
“I want Mommy.”
“Daniele, come down the stairs.”
Slowly, he stepped back and then disappeared down the stairs. Simona had calmed down in my hold. She was too small to understand, yet I could not take her into the bedroom with me knowing what I would find. I carried her back to her crib before slowly heading for Gaia’s bedroom.
Pushing open the door, I slipped inside. A familiar scent wafted into my nose; It had never meant anything to me, but from that day forward it would. Although I knew what I would find, the sight hit me like a punch to the stomach. I slowly approached the bed.
One of Gaia’s arms hung limply along the side of the bed, still dripping blood on the wooden floor. Loulou perched under it, greedily licking her sticky fingertips.
She was in a puddle of blood, the amount of which told me I should not call an ambulance. My business required that I know how much blood a human body could lose before I had to take countermeasures to prevent an untimely death, before all the necessary information was extracted from the person.
Gaia was gone.
The blood continued to drip on Loulou, and the damn thing continued to lick it greedily. Infuriated, I grabbed the dog by the neck, staggered to the door, and threw him into the hallway. It landed with a squeak before taking flight. I stared at my bloodstained hands, then at my wife’s lifeless body.
Slowly, I closed the door in case Daniel passed by. A bloody handprint remained on the white lacquered wood. Daniele didn’t need to see anything else. I turned back to the gruesome scene. The red roses that one of the maids had bought for Gaia as a gift for our eighth anniversary lay crumpled next to the inert body.
Red roses to match the bloodstained sheets and her white dress. A desperate attempt to mend a marriage that could not be mended. Proof of my failure.
Seconds passed as I looked at my wife. Although lifeless, she was still beautiful. She had chosen to wear her wedding dress when she killed herself. It still fit her like a glove.
The crystals on the bodice sparkled in the glow of the lamp. Some of them were sprinkled with blood, making them look like rubies. They matched the precious stones on her necklace. She had even curled her hair the same way she had worn it on the day we said our vows. How long had she been planning this? I picked up the phone and called my father. I rarely called him after dinner. He and Mom would spend their evenings watching classics or playing backgammon. Now that he had retired, they had time for that. Their love had been something I had fought for when I was young, before marriage, before Gaia.
“Alessio, didn’t you book a dinner with Gaia?” A dinner to flaunt our failed marriage in public.
“Gaia is dead.” Silence.
“Can you repeat that?”
“Gaia is dead.”
“Alessio…”
“Someone has to clean it up before the children see it. Send a cleaning crew and inform Luca.” I hung up. A piece of paper on the bed beside Gaia’s body caught my attention. I crawled toward the bed. Death did not bother me, not when I was its messenger so often, but every fiber of my being rebelled at the idea of approaching my wife’s corpse.
The opposite arm, which did not hang over the side of the bed, was draped over her chest. Blood from her cut wrist had soaked the fabric of her wedding dress.
Her lifeless brown eyes fixed on the ceiling, even in death were full of accusation. I closed her eyelids and picked up her last letter with trembling fingertips. Its elegant handwriting and expensive stationery promised a love letter, but it was obviously nothing of the sort.