Andrea was only 20 years old.

Just like you.

Just like myself.

I don’t even have to tell you that she, indeed, had her whole life left to do great things.

But a man came into her life.

She might have thought it was love.

It was not.

A year and a half later, she knew.

And she broke up with him.

She went back to her parent’s house.

She was living again.

She was happy again.

But he was not.

He said he would kill her.

And he tried.

He ran over her.

But she survived.

Instigated by her mother, she reported.


Her abusive ex-boyfriend.

Her aggressor.

Her nightmare.

Spain has a special law for cases of violence against women.
Lucky you – you would think.

She got a restraining order.

However, she was still terrified.



Andrea’s case was labeled as a “medium risk” situation.

She got a police officer assigned “occasionally” that was supposed to protect her.

It failed.

It all failed.

We all failed.

Justice, society, the law.

It was December the twenty third.

Andrea was apparently kidnapped by her ex-boyfriend.

He allegedly crashed their car into a gas station.

To kill her.

Just like he said he would.

Just like Andrea’s mother knew.

Just like Andrea knew.


He killed her because he could.

Because they allowed him to do so.

And now, how will they convince us that reporting is the way to get out?

To be safe?

To get our lives back?


This is the Chronicle of a death foretold.

Sadly, this time is not a García Márquez’s book.

It is life.

It was her life.


I am sorry, Andrea.

We are sorry.

Rest in peace.