21 August 1968: two lovers were killed by a Beretta 22 Long Rifle in the dark and isolated countryside of Signa, near Florence. The same gun and the same bullets Winchester H series fired seven more times, until 1985, hitting by surprising young couples secluded on new moon nights. Suddenly in Florence, which has always been a symbol of Renaissance and good living, a veil was ripped open to reveal a sordid side behind the profiles of its rolling hills. Over 50 years after first murder, despite sentences, the case so-called Monster of Florence remains open, in a confused and never fully clarified plot.
The Monster of Florence’s story and its victims is like a russian roulette: you never know if, as and when destiny will strike a low blow, it’s an uncontrollable question. And even when in the darkness, symbolic of the human condition, in addition to the tangible fractals in which to withdraw, the fear is so great, there is always an ardor that tries to defeat it. An impetus that is not always pure and simple, but probably derives from the frustration and misunderstanding that live in human soul.
“I don’t hate anyone, but I need to do it if I want to live. Blood and tears will flow soon… the night never ends in me, I cried for them”: this is what we read in an anonymous note delivered to a local newspaper, probably by a mythomaniac. But it doesn’t matter if he’s not the monster. In those few lines is contained all the contradictoriness of existence, a dualism that’s part of each of us.