by Vivien Vale
It’s damn hard, though.
I’ve got to find her. I’ve got to make sure my wife is safe.
Nicole
I don’t check to see where I’m walking.
For a long time, I just follow my feet.
I walk past the lovey-dovey couples out and about, sharing gelato and recreating Lady and the Tramp over their alfresco breakfast.
I’m in Rome, but I can’t lift my head to sightsee.
Even in the shadow of the Colosseum, it’s hard to be excited. What’s the point of being in such a beautiful city if I don’t have anyone to share it with? Even Allison’s gone off with some boy, leaving me here all alone, on my wedding week.
Do I have a sign around my neck that says loser?
First, my dad leaves us for his new wife—his new daughter. Ryan can’t even be bothered to show up for our wedding.
Now Dante’s taking the same steps toward leaving me in obscurity. I bet even little Luciano is coo-cooing and having a right laugh about how he too can crap all over me before flying away into the clutches of some flashy dove with big…feathers.
I just really thought Dante would be different. He went through so much effort from picking out a beautiful costume, to save me from drowning, twice, and to making sure my first time was perfect.
I could’ve really believed he cared about me, that he loved me, but he’s just like Ryan. Except he’s crueller. And now I’m married to him.
I feel it call me, but I resist…for a while.
Eventually, I give in, and I wander through the archways of the Colosseum, doing a lap of the arena itself. I bet if I’d waited for Dante, he could’ve gotten us a private tour—so that the other tourists with their flashy cameras couldn’t capture my anguish in the background of their holiday pictures.
I stand in the centre of the arena, looking up at the stands and feeling all the hundreds of eyes bearing down on me like never before.
I’m used to being on stage, so I thought, but the invisible judgment from hundreds of dead Italians? I might as well have been walking naked on the stage when every other girl wore evening gowns.
I look around me at ground level, feeling another pair of eyes from the lower stands, and I try to find who it is that’s staring.
Maybe Dante’s caught up with me already—even though I told him to wait in the lobby—or maybe I was just imagining things. Either way, I pull my purse a little bit closer to my chest, holding it tight across my body.
It’s such a beautiful purse—a white Michael Kors leather tote bag. It was a wedding present, and I only peeled the stickers off the gold embellishments this morning. They sparkled in the early morning sunshine.
Dante’s words echo in the back of my mind—his warnings not to go anywhere alone.
Well, it’s too late to not be alone, but I can at least get out of sight from everyone. So I move out of the sun and into the shade, sitting down on the benches. For a moment, the echoes of other tourists vibrate through the ancient stones and ring in my ears.
I think I hear the screams of the slaves, alone and afraid, waiting to face their inevitable death for the entertainment of others. I guess some things never change—here I am, shackled and forced to perform.
But maybe…maybe I don’t have to suffer as the slaves did. They had no chance at freedom, whereas I do.
I could leave Dante—I could fly back to the States and go back to beauty pageants until I graduate.
If I leave him first, then Dante would never have the chance to hurt me by finding some other woman—if he hasn’t found one already, of course.
I wonder if he’s read my note yet—if he’s jumped at the opportunity to be alone, or at least to be without me.
It’s not like he’d ever have any shortage of women, if he ever looked to find one.
The screams seem to be getting louder and louder, echoing all around my ears and from across the other side of the Colosseum entirely. Except there are no other tourists in my immediate area, so I can’t see where any human source of the anguishes could come from.
That’s when I feel the fur rub itself against my ankle and a tail curling up my calf. Though I nearly scream at the sudden touch, the noise I heard rising through the stonework wasn’t the screams of desolate slaves—it was the cats.
Cats are everywhere in Rome; packs of them roam the cobbled streets, luring in tourists for a stroke or something to eat. They’re the true experts of the city—so of course they’d be all around the Colosseum, too.
They’re probably mourning their feline ancestors—the lions who suffered for all nine of their lives at the hands of the gladiators. So I scoop the kitty up into my arms—a sleek black cat, which is almost too hot to touch from the Mediterranean sun—and hold him against my body, nuzzling my face into the scruff of his neck. He doesn’t complain; in fact, he almost seems to relish the attention.
With the cat purring noisily in my lap, I’m reminded by something I read in one of my tourist guides about Caesar and Cleopatra. How Cleopatra—being the Egyptian pharaoh—absolutely adored cats, and so she gifted some to Caesar because she adored him, too.
Except, Caesar hated cats.
He loathed them.
Yet I look around this beautiful city, and they’re everywhere. Not only the cats, but Caesar and Cleopatra.
Despite all their differences, they were still one of the greatest power couples in ancient history. Ruling over Rome and Egypt—fighting together against everyone who would threaten their love and their reigns.
Would Dante do the same for me?
“What do you think, little kitty?” I ask, stroking the cat’s sleek head and running my fingers down its back and along the tail before starting the whole process again.
The cat, of course, says nothing in reply. It doesn’t even look at me.
Its green eyes are closed, and it’s lapping up my affection without so much as a thank you. The cat isn’t even startled when my purse vibrates on the bench next to me.
It’s probably my phone, and it’s probably Dante calling to find out where I am so that he can order me to come back to the hotel. Then we’ll go to wherever he wants to go and do whatever he wants to do.
Well, I don’t have to do whatever Dante wants to do.
So I ignore my phone and let it ring. When it rings a second time, I ignore it again.
Ever since I got to Italy, I’ve just been pulled this way and that, told where to go and who to go with and told—no, ordered—not to go out on my own because of some potentially imaginary bogey-men.
How naive did Dante think I was? If I want ten minutes, or even an hour, to myself, then I’m going to take it.
The tourist traffic feels lighter now, maybe as people peel away to go enjoy breakfast.
My own stomach begins to rumble, but the sounds of approaching footsteps drown out my hunger.
“Excuse me, la signorina?” a voice calls over my shoulder, and I turn to look at its source.
It’s a man, with dark hair and tanned skin. Italian, probably, with the way his tongue rolls over the language so fluidly and easily.
He takes a couple of steps closer to me, which is when the cat in my lap rises from my legs and leaps away, all but running from this stranger.
“Hiya, oh, ciao,” I reply, smiling politely up at him.
My lap feels cold without the cat sitting upon it, so I pull the white purse over myself to maintain some warmth. The stranger looks at me for a moment more, his smile widening to reveal pearly white, stereotypically Italian, teeth. His eyes fall onto my bag for a second, admiring the leatherwork and the stitching.
“I was wondering, la signorina, if you could perhaps give me directions to the Colosseum?” he asks. His voice is so silky and calm that for a moment I don’t question my response.
“Of course, it’s just…” I trail off, looking around the space where I’m sitting for rest. “Why, signore, you’re at the Colosseum,” I say, confusion evident in my tone. I immediately stand
as I realise that this stranger is between me and my exit strategy.
“Oh sí, sí, so I am.” The smile that seems so innocent grows wicked, and his pearly white teeth almost turn into fangs. “You’ve been so helpful, signorina, but before you go, there might be one more thing you can do for me…”
Dante
I knew it—I pushed her too hard and too fast.
How is she supposed to be over Ryan in a matter of days? She was engaged to him for fuck’s sake.
I run my hands through my hair, refraining from pulling any of it out, and scroll through my phone once again. Eagerly awaiting a phone call, a text, anything…I need to know she’s okay, that’s all.
The note says ten, she’ll be here at ten. Where the fuck is she?
It’s fucking way past ten. It’s one thing that she left the hotel alone, without saying anything, but not show up at all? That’s rude and inconsiderate.
I know she’s better than that. Luciano is proof. Taking care of a wounded pigeon is one of the nicest, most considerate things I’ve ever seen anyone do.
How could she be capable of wounding someone on purpose? It doesn’t make sense.
I call her…again. No answer. I text her: Where are you? You’re worrying me.
Waiting kills me. I’m already impatient, but when it comes to the well-being and safety of someone I care deeply for and love, I have none.
I’m standing in the lobby, watching people walk in and out of the front doors.
Fury and annoyance fuel me as I watch the strangers talking amongst themselves, completely oblivious to my impending anxiety attack. The time is crawling by—one-minute feels like an eternity.
Looking at my phone again, I do the exact same thing as last time—check my texts, email, and phone log. Nothing from Nicole.
I pace the lobby, forcing people out of my way.
I need room and space, so I can figure out what to do.
Calling her for the tenth time now, I’m met with the multiple rings and her voicemail.
“You’ve reached Nicole. Leave your name and number, and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible…”
Hah, well that’s a fucking lie. I roll my eyes and press end.
I’ll give it another five minutes. She might’ve gotten distracted by one of the shops on the way back. Or perhaps, she made a coffee run.
Or worst of all, she’s dead in a ditch somewhere, her body mangled and left to decay.
No, don’t go there. It’s most likely innocent.
I hope.
The couples walking hand in hand through the lobby piss me off. Of course, you’re in love, happily enjoying your time in romantic Rome.
I can’t even find my wife—she left me with no reason.
I roll my eyes when one of the beautiful couples kisses passionately as the concierge hands them keys to their room. We were like that a day ago—what went wrong?
Honestly, I’m happy Ryan left her, but why did he have to be such an asshole?
Imparting her with such terrible memories that’ll leave her with abandonment and trust issues. The type of issues that are the hardest to fix and cure. I hope this isn’t her leaving me because asshole Ryan fucked up.
I shouldn’t be punished for his mistake. It’s been too fucking long.
I stroll through my phone log once again, and I pass Allison’s name.
Allison! I completely forgot about her.
She has to know where Nicole is; she’s her fucking best friend after all.
I dial her number, tapping my foot impatiently as it rings.
She picks up on the fourth ring, finally.
“Um, hello?”
“Hey Allison, It’s Dante. Have you heard from Nicole?” I ask, wasting no time.
“Dante? Remind me again?” She chuckles.
I’m not sure if she’s serious or not, but I’m not in the mood for fucking around. She knows who I am. She would’ve been horizontal on my bed the first night if it wasn’t for her distractingly gorgeous best friend, whom I’m now married to.
“Your best friend’s fucking husband—Dante. That’s who.”
“Jeez, I’m just joking. Calm down. Now, what do you want?”
This woman is incorrigible. I’ve been on the phone with her for ten seconds, and I already want to hang up.
“Have you heard from Nicole?”
“No, I haven’t. Why?”
“Well, she left the hotel this morning and didn’t tell me where she was going. She said she’d be back here by ten, and there’s still no sight of her,” I rattle off the information as quickly as possible.
“Okay, okay. Hold your horses. It’s still somewhere between ten and eleven o’clock in the morning, not the afternoon. Have you thought maybe the line at the coffee shop is long, or she’s shopping for a new outfit? You know, Nicole does like to do that stuff.”
“Yes, I’ve thought of that. I’m not stupid. I’m just worried. She shouldn’t be alone,” my voice is filled with worry.
“Nicole is a big girl, she can take care of herself. She has had a crazy few days, maybe she needs to have some time for herself. Let her have that,” she explains in a condescending tone.
“Still, it’s unlike her. I told her not to go out alone, and then she just does it,” I respond stifling my anger.
“That’s why. She needs to do what she wants, without someone telling her what to do or how to do it.”
“You’re not making me feel any better, Allison. Can you help me or not?” I ask, my rage now bubbling at the surface.
My response is clipped, short, and stern. She might know her best friend, but she doesn’t know me. She doesn’t know what we have or had.
She left her as soon as she could. She didn’t even get to know us as a couple. And if anything, Allison left her with a stranger.
“Dante, I have to go. I don’t understand why you’re so worried. She’ll come back when she wants. Sorry, I don’t have any other information. Ciao!”
And then she hangs up.
What the fuck? That was a waste of five minutes. Other than infuriating me with her condescending and ridiculous assumptions—even though there might be some truth in them—she didn’t help at all.
So much for the best friend. I knew she wasn’t worth my time.
I examine the lobby, hoping to see a glimpse of her—her purse, her brown hair, her voice, laughter…anything. I might’ve been distracted by the phone call and missed her walking in. Doubtful, but possible.
No sight of her. I call her again. Nothing.
Check all the usual apps on my phone and I’m left empty handed. Still, no sign.
It’s getting nearer to eleven, and I can’t wait any longer.
Something’s not right, I can feel it. She would be here right now or would’ve at least texted me to let me know she was running late. Like any normal, not-in-danger person.
Putting my phone in my back pocket, I dart out the front door, pushing through the mingling couples. The crowds of people have started to form in the streets.
I maneuver through and around them, trying my best to avoid crashing into the people who abruptly stop to take pictures of whatever church they’re aweing over.
I nearly run over an old woman standing in the middle of the street doing just that.
“Watch where you’re walking, mister,” she screams after me.
I give her an ‘I’m sorry’ look, then realize I should use this as an opportunity.
“Apologies ma’am, but have you seen this woman?”
I show her a picture of Nicole and me, one we took last night as we lied in bed together, reveling in each other’s presence.
She looks at it, squints her eyes, and in a single word breaks my heart, “No.”
“Well, thanks,” I respond gravely.
Fuck. Dead end number two.
My pace quickens as my body tenses and my anxiety builds. I’ve only walked a few blocks, but I’m feeling defeated at every turn. I remain diligently awa
re of my surroundings, knowing that she could be anywhere in these crowds—hidden behind large men and women, blocked by random statues or light fixtures.
I go into all the coffee and shops I pass, asking everyone in there if they’ve seen my wife. I’m praying to find her fawning over a new purse, sipping a cappuccino, or perhaps someone who has seen her and can point me in her direction.
I’m digging for any information, any glimmer of hope and sign of life.
Frustrated, I stop walking. I stand looking around me, silently praying.
A sparkle catches my eye across the street from me.
Intrigued, I head towards it.
My nerves are standing at attention. My heart sinks when I reach it. It’s her purse.
The purse I gave her as a wedding present—a white, Michael Kors bag with gold trim.
The gold sparkles in the sun. And it’s in the fucking trash.
I reach for it, opening and searching every inch of it, desperate to find something, anything that leads me to her.
Nothing. It’s completely empty.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Standing there with her lifeless, ransacked purse in my hands, my insides twist and tighten in turmoil, and the realization that my worst fear is a reality hits me.
Is she still alive?
Nicole
The combination of his dark features, broad shoulders, and wicked smile makes him all the more menacing. Despite being petrified, I straighten my shoulders, aiming to create a larger presence, and plaster an unfazed, non-petrified look on my face.
I scan my surroundings, planning scenarios in my head on how best to escape.
I should run. Run and scream, in any direction. Hopefully, that’ll get someone’s attention.
I’m aware I don’t have much to use against him, other than my purse.
My new purse.
I look down briefly at it, noticing how small it is. Something I never thought to care about before now. I clutch it, my knuckles turning white from my tight hold.
