The Year In Hell

I have spent the last year of my life in hell.
I have traversed the globe, not once, but thrice, in search of that which was mine.
I have occasionally returned to Spain, for the rest and strength that it provides, so that I can continue in my search.
Early reports were that Brazil held the answer, and I have spent much time there, looking under every rock, and in every corner, for that which has alluded me. Indeed, I have spent so much time there that I have purchased land there, a small ranch, austere but comfortable in its furnishings. It is a working sheep ranch, under my ownership, yet I employ men to oversee the business, allowing me to pursue....other ventures.
Such as the venture of finding my wife.
She is the reason that I have spent this last year in hell....she once my salvation, now my condemnation.
It matters not what I do in the remnants of this life, therefore, for I have no fear of death. Most men fear death because they fear hell. I hold no such fear for I have been there, lived there, for longer now than a year.
Commit murder and wind up in hell eternally?
Oh, to be sure, it phases me not in the least.
I dream of it, in fact.
I dream of my hand closing around the length of her pretty neck, my eyes trained upon her face, as I squeeze and watch her life, finally and totally in my hand, in my control, where at last she will know her place, as my wife and I her lord and master. I grin at her, sneering as I complete the deed....or grant her mercy.
It is the only thing I have left to smile about, so beware.
If you chance to meet me in the street, and I am smiling, you will know.
There is murder in my dream, in my eye.
Look closely, little one. Recognize what you have done to this man.
This bastard of a Spaniard.
Now....this murdering bastard of a Spaniard.

I am coming....for you, Gabriella.