A first-person account of a true case
The story told from the victim's point of view is a fictionalized rendering of facts drawn from a real murder conviction handed down in 2022 in Lovech.
The image is AI-generated based on the original concept of the illustrator Albena Limoni.
According to the police report, I am identified only by my initials, but I would like you to remember me as Zhanna.
I don’t know if you’ve ever seen me. Maybe you’ve passed me on the street – a mother with a child, a shopping bag, and a perpetually tense look. Or perhaps I was the one who barely spoke at parent-teacher meetings. Or maybe you heard me screaming one night from the sixth floor.
Yes, that night.
But let me tell you how I got there.
I lived with him for more than ten years. We had a daughter – she was my light. But most of the time, I lived in the shadows. At first, he was harsh with words. He wouldn’t let me see my son from my previous marriage. Then came the hands. Not constantly, no – just enough to convince me it wasn’t worth contradicting him. One punch – and a week of silence. One kick – and two months of pleading to forgive him.
I started filing complaints with the police. To no avail. In 2018, they advised me to turn to the District Court. The medical report was clear – a bruised forehead, black eyes, contusions on my arms and chest. There was a civil case for domestic violence, but I dropped it. He repented, promised he would change. He looked me in the eyes and said: “Never again.” I believed him. Most of us believe them. Do you know why? Because we want to save ourselves, but even more, we want to save hope.
Then came the day when I couldn’t bear it anymore. I moved with my child to my mother’s place. I imagined starting fresh – I worked, cared for our daughter, tried to remember who I was without fear. But he didn’t leave. He stalked, called, cursed, threatened me. When that didn’t work, he started harassing my mother.
What happened wasn’t sudden. It was a culmination. Every woman who has lived through violence knows the most dangerous moment is leaving. That’s why psychologists call it “goodbye murder.” As if, for some men, a woman’s life has meaning only if she is submissive. If she leaves – better that she’s dead.
On March 3, he had been drinking. A lot. First at work, then at the neighborhood bar. Later he came home. He called me. Said to come over with the kid for a while. This wasn't the first time. My mother disagreed. But I went anyway. Silently. The way you go into a battle you know you’re unarmed for.
Later that evening, I returned alone. Without explanation. I just… didn’t want our child to be there.
In the apartment, the quarrel began. Anger, jealousy, alcohol. I got scared. I tried to escape. I ran out into the stairwell and started screaming.
Later, the police learned that the neighbor had heard everything – how he dragged me back, how I screamed and begged him to let me go, how I pleaded for someone to help. She heard him say he would throw me from the sixth floor…but she did nothing. She didn’t call the police. Maybe she thought “this is a private matter.” Or “it’s not the neighbors’ business to interfere.” Or maybe she was afraid. I don’t blame her. Fear is paralyzing.
Then he dragged me inside. The rest I remember in fragments. Blows. Shoving. Blood on the walls. Pain in my head. Movements, walls, falling. Fading in and out. I don’t know exactly when consciousness abandoned me.
In the morning, he called a friend. Told him I was unconscious, that “we beat each other up.” I lay on the bed, my voice already gone. Only breath remained.
Then – hospital, surgery, transported to Pleven, brain death. Officially, I died on March 11. But my soul left that night, when no one heard me.
I left my daughter without a mother. My mother – without a child. My sister – without a sister.
I had filed reports. I had spoken up. I had begged for protection. I had shown my wounds.
And in the end, I died with them.