Mom… What Do I Do?

 

No one is born with eleven stab wounds inside.

Nor does one improvise the road to something irreversible.

But that afternoon, in a corner of a city that can no longer be called innocent, she fell to the ground with her eyes open, staring at a single point where she never imagined her story would end.

After that, there was only darkness.

The object that pierced her— not even a real weapon, but something improvised, ordinary, domestic, unclean—entered her body eleven times. 

Of them all, only one strike mattered: it found its way through the apex of the heart after tearing through the left lung. 

Deep, it cut through skin, subcutaneous tissue, intercostal muscle, pleura, and pericardium—until it reached the organ of love.

The heart— that first rhythm we hear when we enter the world, that secret chamber that answers to love even before it understands language. 

It was a crime without poetry— and yet, a brutal metaphor. 

Love was murdered in the very organ that symbolizes it. It wasn’t just a young woman who died; something deeper, something collective, died with her.

When the girl collapsed—still breathing, still unaware that her story had already been written— the other girl, yes, the one who carried out the act, turned not to justice, not to conscience, but to her mother. To the woman who had placed the weapon in her hand— or the idea in her mind. 

—Mom… what do I do? — she asked, as though history could be undone by speaking aloud. 

That question—dry, impossible—already belongs to the public record. 

The rest we know.

The paramedics gathered what was left. The medical examiners confirmed her death. The headlines repeated it. But the essential truth isn’t in court files or newspapers. 

It lives in the echo of that sentence— the last words before everything became irreversible. 

She did not die from a single stab wound. 

She died from the context. 

From a mother who didn’t correct but pushed.

From a culture that normalizes silent hatreds, that excuses violence as emotional reaction. 

She died from the absence of boundaries, from the lack of redemption among girls raised on inherited rage.

Justice will come—slow, as always— with charges, sentences, psychological assessments, and procedures. 

But the deepest wound, the deepest sorrow, won’t appear in any file.

It will be found in a society that looked in the mirror and recognized itself in that scene:

A mother who guides.
A daughter who obeys.
A victim who never saw it coming.

 

 

—titolugo@2025