The story told from a child-witness` point of view is a fictionalized rendering of facts drawn from a real murder conviction.
The image is created with AI-elements based on the original concept of the illustrator Albena Limoni.
Their shouting awoke me. Nothing out of the ordinary. Mornings at home often began like this—Mama's high-pitched voice, his irritated response, the door slamming, then silence, or something worse than silence.
We lived in a house in Plovdiv. Eight children. My mother. My father. And fear. It had been with us for years. We were used to hearing him on the stairs when he would return home drunk. Being aware of the silence before a slap. Knowing when to remain silent. It was part of our lives.
It was different this morning. Their voices didn't quiet down. I got up, still in my pajamas, and went to their room. He was standing next to the bed, hurling insults at her. She was sitting on the edge, in silence. Then he grabbed her by the hair and started striking her. First with his fists, then with a foot. I didn't budge. I stood there and watched. Like they weren't my family. Like they were in a movie.
Mama fell to the floor, crumpled into a ball. Papa kicked her in the stomach. He was barefoot. I remember it very clearly—a white sock, a jerking motion, the sound of something soft hitting the floor. And then it happened again.
When he finally stopped, I went in and was able to help her lie down. She was crying. There was blood on her face. I took an old undershirt and wiped her forehead. She changed her clothes because they were wet. Then I gave her some painkillers. I asked her if it hurt. She said, “My head.” Then she went quiet.
The afternoon was quiet. Strangely quiet. He had been drinking again. He said he was going to sleep. Then he went back in with her and started all over again. More blows, more screams. This time my brothers and sisters saw it too. Not for the first time. But something was different this time. She didn't talk anymore.
When I asked her later if she wanted some water, she barely nodded.
I brought the glass to her lips. She took a few sips and then leaned back again.
A little more time passed. I heard one of the little ones crying and went over to him. He was sitting by the bed, and our mother wasn't moving. I tried to lift her arm—it fell back down. It was cold.
I ran outside. I shouted for my brothers and sisters. Then I called our brother, who wasn't home. Then I called 112. They said the family doctor would come. I called back and explained again. That she wasn't breathing. Or maybe her heart was still beating after all. I didn't know what I was saying anymore.
They finally came.
The room is quiet now. The undershirt I used to wipe her face is still in front of the washing machine. It's wet. It smells like blood. No one has put it in the wash. It's as if keeping it means that she's still here.