He's only happy when it's complicated. He's never acknowledged her presence here, but now that she's gone, she's all he talks to. Aidan's name is Celtic for fire, and he replays regularly the day he lit her up in a full immersion of flames. It brings a sense of satisfaction to the humdrum room, which is very unappealing in contrast to the bright reds that surround her in his mind.
She has forgiven him by now. She must have. Tristina was an amazing soul, obsessed with colors and things not of this world. Aidan does not acknowledge her death because he feels her presence. He remembers their happy life, their happy world. Scarlet is still squirming in her mother's arms, clothed in purple.
Tristina always insisted the child wear purple. She had informed Aidan that this daughter was a gift from the gods, royalty. Aidan had renamed Scarlet Princess and told her stories of Arthur, Gwenythfar, Lancelot, and the magnificent Camelot. Scarlet was a god-send, their blessing. Aidan remembers when she was only nine months old, the age of perfection according to Dante and Tristina's ideas. That was the day he did it.
She must have asked him to, in some subconscious voice that begged from the inside. He hadn't intended to kill her, he just wanted to elevate her to the status of all the gods, and the only way to do that was with the fire, the heat that was the flames coming from her.
He poured the gasoline, and lit the tea candles around her. She awoke in that wooden rocking chair, questions written all over her face. It was so warm! Where was her baby? Her clothing was already burning, as was the entire room. Was her child safe? The bassinette was rocking, but from her vantage point it appeared as if Scarlet were safe from the flames. The tears fall down her face as vividly in Aidan's mind today as they did seventeen years ago.
Slowly the reds and Tristina's cries fade from the room, and the white returns. It's nothing but a single cell, with a simple twin bed against the wall, a sink, and a small window in a white padded door. This has been Aidan's home for the past decade. He sees Eliot, an therapist who is secretly in love with Sigmund Freud, once daily, but he hasn't seen Scarlet since the day he placed her safely in the porcelain sink in the kitchen.
She must be big now, the grey in Aidan's hair tells him that. But he would prefer to think of her as the wiggling child who rarely cried, because that was how she was when Tristina still existed. After he replays his memory there's always a little sadness.. he waits for Eliot as it slowly subsides. She's one of the few reasons his life isn't so lonely.