When someone tells another person about a separation or divorce, the first question that usually arises is about what happened, after all.

  For some reason, people believe the end of a relationship is an event caused by a single fact, like a butterfly flapping its wings, altering air pressure and causing a tragedy on the other side of the world.

  It's not always that simple. Greta knew that now.

  There was no specific moment when she'd drifted away from her husband. There were several butterflies flapping their wings, in different places and at different times. Sometimes multiple cracks occurred in the same instant, and at others they divided across several moments as well.

  It was an unexpected lack of excitement upon seeing his name on her phone screen one evening. It was the indifference of finding him in the living room on another. It was a continuous disregard for each other's presence that some people take too long to recognize as contempt. There was the constant loneliness, even though she was an introvert. The impression that when something truly important happened, she had no one to count on.

  There was the feeling of being small and insignificant, having her own achievements frequently diminished by Valério and all her daily efforts reduced to mere duties. There was her sexual interest diminishing a little more each day, until it vanished completely. At first, she blamed her absent libido, but later understood she still felt the need for pleasure: she just didn't want to share it with her husband.

  Around that time, the mistresses began entering the scene. She truly didn't care. The extramarital affairs kept the man out of her sight, and that already helped.

  She even wondered if there might be some truth to the accusations he'd made once. She was cold, distant, frigid, incapable of loving or accepting love. When she heard those things, Greta said nothing. However, she kept thinking about the answer to these questions in the days, weeks, months, and years that followed.

  And one day the answer came, effortlessly, without special calling. Sitting in a neighborhood café, with a cup of cappuccino resting beside a plate with a half-eaten croissant, she lifted her eyes from her book for a moment after an impactful passage from A Special Place, by Peter Straub.

  It was a book as perverse as it was brilliant. Greta avoided reading suspense and horror titles at home or at the university: she could do without the deprecating comments she usually heard.

  She had two theories about the antipathy these two popular genres received. One was the popularity of the categories themselves. Everything that becomes successful bothers some people, as if the ability to speak loudly to a large group weren't, in itself, a great talent. For some, there's something offensive about pleasing crowds.

  Ego dictated the actions of small clubs that believed only they had the right to tell others what should be read and what should be discarded. And there were those who seemed to draw strength from the Christian moral that only suffering leads to growth, drama, tragedy. Entertainment doesn't.

  The second theory had more to do with what we were, and our constant need to overcome our old versions. Thus, when someone stops being a child and stops fearing the dark, they sometimes feel obligated to deny that the fear is real. Fear is part of human nature as much as humor. In the adult mind, there's no longer room for monsters. Still, they continue to exist, in various forms and sizes. More frequently, though, they're human.

  The thoughts were dispelled by the image of a young couple two tables away from hers. Well, technically, they weren't a couple yet, but they would be. They just didn't know it yet. You only had to look at them to be certain.

  The way he looked at her face and smiled without even noticing. The way she looked down and tried to stay serious without succeeding. The way the entire place disappeared for them. Only the other mattered.

  Greta forced herself to look away and give privacy to the magic blooming there without making a sound, yet illuminating the entire city. She wondered when was the last time someone made the world disappear around her, but couldn't remember.

  In her youth, she used to look at the distant city lights with passionate hope. Under one of those lights her companion would be, someone who would make each step of the journey less difficult by simply being there. Only now did she realize that even after marriage, she continued watching those lights with dreaming eyes. And only now did she ask herself why it took so long to perceive such a simple truth.

  And the answers came, one after another. She wasn't cold. She wasn't incapable of loving. And she certainly wouldn't turn away someone's love: she just didn't want Valério's love. He would find someone else. In fact, he'd already begun the process and met several other people. And she wanted the freedom to walk beneath the city's streetlights until she found the light that was meant only for her.

  Determined, she stood up to pay for the meal she'd lost the desire to consume, but not before directing one last look of blessing toward the two people being born in that moment, between knowing glances and hesitant touches.

  No one gets married thinking about separation, and part of Greta regretted the divorce petition she was about to make. However, most of her felt the lightness of right decisions, of duty fulfilled. It was with a light heart that she drove home, settled in the living room, and waited for Valério to arrive. Her mood changed as the hours passed.

  A house of cards had collapsed in her mind. The first card isn't the only one to fall. In the case of sudden perception of reality, one question leads to another. She began thinking about Valério's meteoric trajectory at the university, the rise far too rapid. He'd always been a good professor, recognized by students and colleagues. Even so, something didn't add up. He didn't take that many extension courses. After a certain point in his career, studying hadn't been a priority for him anymore. The new positions and constant promotions disregarded Valério's stagnation. Greta began to wonder why. Some scenes of her husband in the university corridors began crossing her mind like lightning flashes announcing the storm.

  What she saw on the faces of some colleagues, staff, and students during interactions with Valério was a mixture of fear with some other feeling difficult to define. Straining to find the right word, Greta could only think of one: embarrassment. Perhaps shame would work too. But shame of what?

  Terrible time to look for answers she probably wouldn't like to find. So she rose from the sofa where she'd been waiting and went to the bedroom. On the way, she passed by the phallic sculpture she'd always hated, knocking it off the table with a swipe. They'd been sleeping in separate rooms for some time. The idea had been hers. She'd justified it by saying she felt more comfortable reading late into the night, when in truth she just didn't want to feel the disgust of having his presence nearby.

  She climbed onto the bed to reach the highest part of the closet behind the headboard. From there she pulled a red bag, into which she placed half a dozen neutral pieces she could mix and match and some underwear. Over the clothes she placed her laptop and charger. From the ensuite bathroom she collected essential personal hygiene items and considered herself satisfied in that room. In fact, she wanted nothing more from that house.

  The next stop was her husband's office, where the safe was kept. Although her cards were all in her purse, she knew they could reveal the location of whoever used them. That always happened in movies. She needed cash, as much as she could get. Later she could withdraw more from her own account when she was at a safe distance. She removed the painting over the hiding place and entered the password. It was his birth year reversed, combined with Valério's graduation year also backwards. The choice never surprised her. The most important things to him were always about himself.

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  The pessimistic side of her personality expected the password to have been changed, but it hadn't. With a low click, the safe door opened. Greta took out several stacks of bills, doing her best not to pull out dollars along with them. They wouldn't be much use on the trip.

  At the bottom of the safe was a package wrapped in black plastic. She took that too, supposing it must be more money. She considered opening the package to be sure, but something caught her attention. A pistol and a box of bullets. She decided to take them because she preferred the gun in her own hands rather than in Valério's.

  As she stored the stacks in the red suitcase, she tested the weight. She could carry it without major problems. Greta estimated she had about forty or fifty thousand in cash. An excellent start. She zipped the bag and walked with it to the entrance hall.

  Sitting on the sofa, Valério watched her arrive, silent as cancer.

  "Going on a trip?"

  Her husband displayed the smile that was his trademark. Too broad, almost exaggerated, resembling the happiest of those theatrical masks. The well-trimmed goatee framed his lips, accentuating the expression that oscillated between charm and threat. The dark, deep, inquisitive eyes matched his slightly wavy black hair. The expressive eyebrows completed an appearance that easily won over students and colleagues, but that now, in the living room's dim light, resembled a clown with smeared makeup, about to spring from a Jack in the box. Paralyzed by the shock of seeing him there, Greta wondered: when, exactly, had the man who shared wedding photos with her transformed into her worst nightmare?

  He was impeccably dressed as usual, seeming ready for a presentation, which, in a way, was true. Valério was a born actor, and Greta knew she was about to witness one of his best performances.

  "My mother's feeling a bit lonely. I thought I'd stay with her for a few days." The lie came out before she could stop it. Where had her determination to put an end to this ruined relationship gone?

  "Your mother was never the needy type. In fact, she gives the impression of loving her own company. But the years can change anyone's personality, can't they?"

  "I suppose so."

  "Well, I won't stop a good daughter from fulfilling her mission. I insist on driving you there."

  Greta opened her mouth to agree. From her mother's house she could go anywhere else. Then she remembered it was summer, and her mother was probably on vacation on some paradise island. She'd even made a post about it on Instagram, but Greta hadn't saved the name or the trip dates. Knowing her husband as she did, she was certain he wouldn't be satisfied just driving there and letting her out of the car. No, not Valério. He would get out of the vehicle with her, insist on ringing the doorbell and offer his best smile when the maid opened the door. And what would the maid say? That the mistress wasn't there, naturally. Then the next clue he'd follow would be her suitcase. And everything would be lost. No, accepting the ride wasn't an option.

  "No, thank you. There's no need for that. You just got home. You must be tired."

  "I insist. It would be a pleasure to spend some time with you, for a change."

  There was accusation in the words, a silent statement that he'd endured her demands for distance for too long. Greta was still thinking about what to say, unsuccessfully. Then Valério took control.

  "The only way you're going through that door is if I'm with you, Greta. If I were you, I wouldn't play games to find out if I'm telling the truth."

  Greta closed her eyes. Under the darkness behind her eyelids, she found the courage to speak.

  "I want a divorce."

  The smile on her husband's face finally dissolved. The minutes dragged on and he remained silent. To relieve the almost palpable tension in the air, Greta forced herself to break the silence.

  "I'm leaving."

  "You're not going anywhere."

  He rose from the sofa and moved toward his wife. The expression, previously appraising, had lost any trace of humanity.

  His lips retracted, revealing clenched teeth, his nostrils flaring like those of an animal that had just broken free from its chains. The distilled hatred was so intense it could only belong to another person. How dare she?

  Valério materialized before Greta like an entity. The fury on his face consumed all the air around her.

  The woman instinctively retreated, feeling the cold wall against her back. The red suitcase, which had seemed light before, now weighed like lead in her hand. She dropped it.

  "You think you can just walk out and leave me behind?" Valério hissed, with a note of insanity in his voice. "After everything I've done for you?"

  "You haven't done anything for me."

  Then came the first slap.

  The skin of her face burned with pain and shame. No one had ever slapped her face before. She thought she'd only see an assault like that in movies.

  Any words died before reaching her throat. The smell of her husband's expensive cologne now disgusted her.

  "I won't let a selfish, ungrateful bitch like you destroy my image, destroy everything I've built. Understand? Nothing ends until I say it does!"

  Greta shrank even more against the wall, her desperate mind trying to find a way to escape. If she could reach the suitcase, if she could get her hands on the gun…

  Valério moved even closer, his breathing heavy. He kissed his wife's neck, ran his hand between her legs. Feeling his growing arousal was enough: she found the strength to push him away.

  "Don't touch me. You disgust me," her voice was a low growl.

  Her husband wasn't shaken. He grabbed her by the arm, his fingers squeezing the flesh hard enough to leave marks. Greta felt the pain rise up her arm, but fear propelled her to fight.

  She kicked the air and hit the man's shin, making him release a bit of air, surprised, letting her go for a fraction of a second. He grabbed his wife's hair and dragged her down the hallway to the bedroom area. Greta couldn't balance her feet to offer any resistance.

  Valério opened her bedroom door and threw her on the floor like a sack of potatoes. He closed the door behind him before lifting the woman from the floor with ease and throwing her on the bed.

  "To celebrate your agreement to remain in this home, let's inaugurate this bedroom, as we should have done before."

  Lying on top of her, Valério held his wife's wrists with a force just below the point of fracture. When he tired of the screams, he squeezed her neck, his fingers pressing the skin. His look was that of someone who had nothing left to lose.

  Greta tried to breathe, but the air wouldn't pass. She struggled and slapped at the air. She wanted to make him stop. She scratched his arm. She tried to break free, but he was too strong. Her vision began to darken, and she felt panic scatter her thoughts.

  Then he had to release the pressure to unzip his pants. The darkness Greta had slid into began filling with points of light, reminiscent of streetlights in a distant city. If she didn't fight now, she would never see those lights again. Never see a lighthouse again.

  She struck his groin with her knee. Valério fell to the side howling in agony, and Greta ran to the door. After turning the key and hearing the lock open, she bolted toward the living room. Her only chance of survival was reaching the suitcase.

  But Valério's recovery was quick. He reached her long before she could touch the blessed handle of the bag. He laid her on the floor with a single punch. Greta's head hit the hard surface, her back hit the coffee table and the glass shattered. Things went out of focus for a moment. The world began spinning around her, but she clung to consciousness through the certainty that passing out would be the end. She couldn't die.

  Her husband was now dragging her by the wrists to one of the sofas. The grip was a bear trap about to turn her bones to dust. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a familiar figure on the floor, a dark piece, knocked down with the back of her hand when she'd crossed the room hours earlier. Concentrating on identifying it muffled the superhuman torment.

  Releasing his wife's wrists, Valério laid the woman on the floor again with a vigorous blow with the back of his hand. She began crawling toward the broken table, but he didn't care. The blows delivered must have been enough to break any line of reasoning. Instead of containing her advance, he focused on pulling down the woman's pants as she tried to crawl away.

  He'd already endured her whims for too long, and it was time to show who was in charge. The lesson might not be very pleasurable, but petty bitches like his wife sooner or later had to be reminded of their place. And he was a good teacher. Teaching was his specialty after all.

  The irony of it made him smile. Then he lowered his pants and pulled Greta close to him without difficulty. He turned her body, previously face down, to a more accessible position.

  He spent some time not understanding why she suddenly sat up. If she wanted to continue with that idiotic idea of trying to escape, it would have been much better to stand up. He shrugged. Then he saw there was something in her hand, but it was too late to do anything about it.

  With the phallic sculpture she'd knocked down earlier, Greta struck the side of her husband's head. His eyes stared at her without seeing, and his spine went limp. She considered the idea of delivering a second blow to that monster's head and ending it all at once.

  But she couldn't be a murderer, could she? Under no circumstances. She refused to allow him to transform her into a hideous creature like himself. It's just that…

  He'd said she wasn't going anywhere. Bringing the sculpture down through the air again, this time on his knee, Greta ensured he couldn't follow her anywhere.

  Trembling from the effort, she straightened her clothes, hung the purse on her shoulder, and picked up the red suitcase from the floor. She stored everything in the trunk, settled into the SUV's driver's seat, and took her phone from her purse. She opened a rental app on the internet and, using a distant aunt's name, rented a cabin in Imbituba.

  As she backed up the vehicle, the rearview mirror scraped Valério's car and the glass cracked. She would only notice the effect of the collision hours later.

  She drove for two hours without stopping before losing control of the car and running off the road.