It was another normal and boring day at work. I was surrounded yet again by dusty piles of clothes and I was very hungry. It was around 1pm and we had two more hours before the last break for the day. I knew that I should have eaten more at lunch but it was so hot in this small room full of clothes and people that I couldn’t have been bothered with it. On top of that, I was almost out of water.
I was folding this stack of clothes, not paying much attention to the older women in the room, when my colleagues started a very heated discussion about a recent murder that had occurred in my grandma’s sister’s city- Burgas. What really grabbed my attention was that the body of an eleven-year-old girl had been found in an elevator.
“Kids these days kill each other over the bong, can you believe it!” Exclaimed Ivanka- the oldest one of my colleagues.
“No, not over the bong, granny,” said Irina who was working next to her. “They were arguing about where to go to smoke the bong and apparently the boy who is fifteen years old got too angry and killed her.”
“In an elevator?!” Asked disbelievingly Kremena. “Besides, they said that neither of the children lived in the building they found the body in.”
“Well, they didn’t give details on the case,” added Petya, who was the kindest to me of them all. I had been recently transferred to this new place and I had to do something completely different from before. Last month I was just throwing clothes in two massive baskets, now I was folding T-shirts and putting them in a basket. I now even had a partner who was working a little too quickly for my liking because she made me look like a slow worker while I was folding all of these clothes considerably quickly. One would think that working in a second-hand clothes warehouse would be easy. It was not.
“They won’t imprison him,” said Petya and my attention was once again turned to the discussion. “They made him sound like a mentally ill person. There was this interview with his mother who told the reporter that he can’t use a knife so he couldn’t have killed her.”
“Why a knife?” I asked. I wasn’t surprised that they wouldn’t put him in jail. For murder people usually would get from fifteen to thirty years in prison, even a lifelong sentence, however, he was underage so they should give him at least three to ten years. In Bulgaria though, criminals roam the streets freely, you could even witness a crime happening in from of you and nobody will do anything.
“Well, her throat was slit,” told me Ivanka, who was now pouring herself a glass of water.
“Yes, but her head had been bashed in with something big as well! Her body was found with no ID and it had been nearly unrecognizable!” added Petya.
“There was information that she had three thousand friends on Facebook!” said Irina. “They are trying to make it look like she was asking for it because apparently, they met online and messaged each other for a while before they decided to go out.”
“So it’s the girl’s fault now,” I said. “Typical to blame it on the dead.”
“I know, it’s so unfair. But they also said that they apparently got a partial confession out of him so I hope they manage to put him in jail or at least in a school of delinquents,” said Desa, my partner at folding clothes. Well, she was actually throwing them in baskets which I would later take and fold all of the clothes in them. “It was obviously an attempted murder.”
“Oh, look! It’s 3 o’clock already!” exclaimed Petya and everybody stopped working to take their much-desired break. Fifteen minutes later we were all back at folding and throwing clothes around, the murder over bong forgotten.
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