Fear.

An emotion that no man escapes.

It acts unpredictably on instinct, making survival the primary goal.

It doesn't always act for good; it is devious, it thrill unleashes irrationality with the same emphasis as a madman seeing imaginary people: it appeals to you as a coward when you can't face it; it makes you see dangers where there are none and transforms platitudes like colors and people into threats.

Time passes, man evolves ... Fear remains. It is part of nature, although today it is very often senseless.

Because let's face it: there is no more difficult battle than having to face your own fear.

It is a continuous war against Fear, its too many victories are on the agenda. Its purpose is to make life a continuous tortuous path, yet it would take little to defeat it, and it is with Courage.

By it we mean the strength to face one's weaknesses, to learn about what is not part of our world, to raise one's voice to say when something is wrong because it is hurting others.

Courage is not a privilege for a few or for the strongest, it is a virtue that each of us keeps within us. It is hidden, difficult to extract, but only it can change life for the better.

But what would happen if the fear were "removed"?

****

Riccardo Angeli led a satisfying lifestyle, according to him.

He had the job of his dreams, a nice apartment where he could do what he wanted and he lived in the most beautiful city in the world, Florence, a jewel of Renaissance art.

He could also boast of iron health and good looks that few forty-year-olds in his class could exhibit without looking too old already. He had a nice toned body thanks to the constant loosening in the gym, amber skin typical of the people of Southern Italy but the cut of the face, the blue eyes and shoulder-length blond hair characteristic of those of Nordic origin, the unkempt beard all around the jaw completed the work.

Similar characteristics would have allowed him to break through on the catwalks of men's fashion or to become a new icon of Italian television. Instead (despite having repeated to him that he should have exploited these qualities) he had chosen to become a firefighter and to dedicate his life to safeguarding the environment and people.

Wearing the black uniform with yellow stripes gave more satisfaction than having to walk like a zombie on a narrow catwalk.

I mean, a guy like him could have the world at his feet, so to speak.

But no.

Rather, he preferred to stay quiet on his own, easily settling for little. In fact, Riccardo could be defined as the classic average man. He was satisfied with what he had, he did not aim for great ambitions and above all he did not like strong emotions. Strange thing this one, considering his job, but for that he had to be an exception.

People, when they learned to know him thoroughly, always tried to encourage him to do something different and more intense, not to be simply lulled by their habits. But he didn't want to, he hated when it happened. He liked his limit, he didn't feel the need to get out of his comfort zone at all.

In this regard: among the many life choices, the one that always challenged him was his continued being single.

In so many years, those few relationships he had with women had never blossomed into an intense feeling of love. Not that they were wrong, or that he had different preferences, it just never struck an agreement and he never found enough fuel to fuel interest.

That was peoples "favorite topic" to talk about and bother him at the same time.

That evening Riccardo had gone with some friends to an Irish pub near Santa Maria del Fiore.

Valentine's Day had passed for a month, yet it was full of busy couples enjoying dinner together in small and sensual bites, jazz music in the background emphasizing the growing eroticism that many, surely; they would then consume with a wild dance in the bedroom.

Friends were not happy with so much sweetness, and they were married or engaged.

What sense did it have to be, if you didn't indulge in a bit of romance?

It would have been one thing if someone had indulged a little too much in the effusions.

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Angeli hid an annoyed grin, it was yet another excuse to gossip (and even insist on settling down) about his single status.

There was never a lack of opportunity for anyone to dispense "advice" on how to approach women, or why it was necessary to have a partner, and so on ... topics that he had heard and resented in all the sauces ad nauseam; and of course let’s not forget the classic ironic jokes about sex, marriage and children. Angeli had stopped listening to them since the beginning of the speech, preferring to concentrate on his cold beer.

The men's evening ended at the same time as closing time.

In the end, the meeting had been very quiet, they hadn't overdosed on alcohol and no one had proposed crazy ideas, but only because tomorrow they all had to work and they could be in trouble if the captain noticed a not very lucid state.

Everyone went their own way, Riccardo entered one of the nearby very common underground parkings in the city, where it was easier to find a place for the car since the ancient Florentine narrow streets did not allow it.

As soon as he entered, the calm and the radiant smile that had accompanied him vanished in a gust of wind: the place was dark.

The parking lot smelled of mold and did not shine with cleanliness, but the element he had noticed immediately, since he arrived, was the poor lighting and now, as if to do it on purpose, everything had gone out. He hated the dark, his was a serious phobia that had very deep roots in the psyche, to the point that in the bedroom he always kept a dim light on that allowed him, from time to time in the night, to see what was around him to feel safe.

Despite the impression it may give, hers is not a childhood fear that has never been overcome.

Unfortunately it has more sad origins, than those that a lifetime is not enough to forget.

Riccardo gritted his teeth and with a tiny ounce of courage made his way into the darkness.

To get to his Ford Fiesta he had to go all the way to the parking lot, with his mobile phone flashlight it was easy to orient himself but this was not enough for him anyway, only if he had the sun in his hand, most likely, he would have felt calmer.

His breathing quickened with every step, at any moment he could pass out. Finally the car appeared, while he was trying to open the door with his trembling hand, the keys jingled so loudly as to sound like the bells of the Cathedral, there was a moment when the lock did not click and he felt like crying. When he finally got in, he started the engine and ran away quickly, the wheels skidding so hard that the whole neighborhood probably heard it.

The calm lights of the city managed to calm him down, they weren't showy lights typical of a metropolis like New York or Tokyo but they were enough for him. They were gentle lights, suitable for a city like his, if they were too many they might have ruined that mystical aura that still lingered from the time of Leonardo, the Medici family and Botticelli.

He turned on the stereo; Virgin Radio was playing one of his favorite songs, Elvis Presley's "Viva Las Vegas".

He began to hum the famous single, taking the road to go home.

****

The Angeli had lived in Malta for almost seven years, they had moved there after both spouses had reached their well-deserved pension.

They had been advised by friends to move there, listed as one of the places to stay and lead a good retirement life. They had thought about it for a long time before making such an important decision, and now they spent most of their days at the seaside taking long walks on the beach, without remorse for leaving Tuscany.

That day they were exploring hand in hand a local market on the island of Comino, full of merchandise that attracted crowds of people including tourists and locals: stalls rich in culture and tradition increased the business of the crafty vendors.

> said Mr. Angeli, observing with little interest the numerous objects that surrounded it.

Maurizio Angeli was the classic old-school grumpy Tuscan man who had to complain about anything he didn't like.

He was a retired cop, the kind of man who wanted things to be done in order. When he walked he seemed to march like a soldier, his olive eyes hardly visible when he had a sulky or serious expression, a very pronounced and round potato nose as much as his face and belly. Whether it was winter or summer when he went out he always wore a different hat, just to hide his now dominant baldness and to make sure that the raven toupee didn't fly off, and don’t dare to look at it.

> replied his lady, while she made herself air with an electric blue fan with black embroidery.

Vanessa Toninelli was quite the opposite of her husband.

Looking at her, the first thing that came to mind was a "mother hen"; perhaps because she loved to dress almost always in white, she had a pointed nose and a black-gray bob of hair that recalled the soft plumage of a hen. She was very social, witty and also a little talkative, her blue eyes seemed like street lamps, however bright and there was no way not to catch her not to smile, her most effective weapon to convince customers to buy, when she still worked as a milliner for bride.

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The lady continued her tour, ignoring her husband's rumblings.

She carefully observed everything that attracted her attention, rolling her eyes trained to notice the most curious details from right to left.

There were so many nice things she could have bought, but they would have been more suitable for herself and not for a man like her baby. If he had had a girl rather than a boy, giving gifts over the years would have been a much easier job to do.

The lady had almost given up when suddenly a sparkle did not stop her: the shimmering reflection led her to an isolated counter by a soft pistachio green tarpaulin patched in several parts, farther away from all the others who were stuck together, as if to want to remain hidden.

As she approached, she discovered what had brought her here: a rectangular mirror decorated with a frame of cream ivory on which strange deep designs were engraved, reflecting a ray of sunshine on the clean surface.

The mirror lay in the midst of so much stuff that could not even pretend to be antiques, arranged in a disorderly manner on the wooden rectangle of the table, marked with small paper price tags. Another strange fact was that that object was the only clean and tidy one in the pile, even in its arrangement it seemed that it had been put on purpose to stand out from all the rest ... as if it shouted that it wanted to be bought.

She took it to examine it, she was immediately struck by the lightness. It looked ancient and it didn't look like a fake, she liked it a lot.

The salesman, sitting on the sidelines; was sleeping.

He was a dark-skinned man who smelled of sweat, had a thick white beard that covered his cheeks and chin, his head as bald as that of her husband.

> he asked aloud, waking him up.

The man looked around in confusion, then looked at the woman and the object in her hand with a dazed face. He stayed that way until he could babble something:

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The lady handed over the banknotes and left with her purchase.

Probably, if it weren't for her son, she would have kept the mirror to herself.

As he watched her go, the merchant wondered where that mirror had come from. It was not part of his merchandise, but he had immediately seized the opportunity to make money.

So there was no need to clear up the misunderstanding.

That evening the poor fellow would be rushed to hospital, with signs of severe beatings and torture all over his body such as a broken jaw, cigarette burns and so on.

He will come out alive, but psychologically destroyed. He will never return home for fear of finding that stranger, who entered secretly, capable of breaking his fingers with the same simplicity with which a breadstick is broken.

A neighbor will testify that he saw a man in a long jacket running away. He hadn't seen the face ... but he wouldn't forget the creepy insane laugh.