Blood on the couch. Father’s voice: “I’m not to blame.” The late neighborhood horror. A family tragedy that did not come abruptly – no one just wanted to see it.
The murder of Nea Smyrna It was not a thunderbolt in the air. It was a drama of many acts, a silent subtle slide that had been played for years behind the apartment curtains on Adana Street. Sunday morning the last act was written: The 71 -year -old father stabbed his 45 -year -old son to death.
The police arrive. Rescuers simply confirm the obvious. The man’s body is lifeless, the father claims to be defended. How his child was nailed to the knife. A murder without a murderer, a tragedy without responsibility.
A family shouting help – and we changed sidewalk
“The whole neighborhood knew it,” they say today. Quarrels, voices, chairs on the walls. But “we are not mixed”. This is how the city’s apartment buildings survive. A small universe of sterile indifference, where “everyone has its own” becomes mitigating for complete abandonment.
P … was not a “drug addict” – he was a filmmaker
The 45 -year -old’s girlfriend insists: the victim has long been clean, creative, full of dreams. A man who “caught the stone and set it up”, as he said. He had work, plans, scholarships, cinematic ideas. And inside his home, a constant battle with his father’s alcoholism.
“Other has the name … another grace,” he says now, with drowned anger and pain. Why, after all, who do we think when the time comes to blood? The 71 -year -old who says “I caught him before killing me”? Or the one who saw him the night before, clean, calm, dreamer?
When crime becomes the natural consequence of indifference
This is not the first time a house becomes an arena. Not even the last. But every time someone dies – every time the “domestic” comes out on the screen in red letters – we remember that we could have prevented it once. With a complaint. By a phone call. With a clearer look at people’s cracks next to us.
Instead, today we count dead. A 45 -year -old lad, with life, with talent, with people who loved him. And a father with blood in the hands – or in the soul.