Amanda Knox
07.08.2014 um 20:52Mal was anderes, weil die "Shit happens" Nummer gerade mal wieder auf PMF.net aufgetaucht ist:
Diesen Kommentar hat Herr Rivalland am 13. Dezember 2009 auf der Internetseite des "guardian" hinterlassen: http://www.theguardian.com/theobserver/2009/dec/13/big-issue-kercher-knox-murder
Dummerweise geht aus diesem Artikel der London Times vom 20. Oktober 2012 http://www.thetimes.co.uk/tto/magazine/article3569039.ece
erst an 4. November von ihrem Ausflug nach Rom nach Perugia zurückgekommen ist, sie besagtes "Shit happens" gar nicht mitbekommen haben kann... Ein Schelm...
Diesen Kommentar hat Herr Rivalland am 13. Dezember 2009 auf der Internetseite des "guardian" hinterlassen: http://www.theguardian.com/theobserver/2009/dec/13/big-issue-kercher-knox-murder
Dummerweise geht aus diesem Artikel der London Times vom 20. Oktober 2012 http://www.thetimes.co.uk/tto/magazine/article3569039.ece
The next evening, November 1, 2007, recovering from the previous night’s festivities, they all got together to watch a girlie DVD, The Notebook, at Sophie’s house. I couldn’t go because I was packing for a trip to Rome, where I was meeting my boyfriend. But the events of that night are well documented. Meredith left after the DVD, just before 9pm, and walked home. Sophie offered to go with her, but Meredith declined – the journey took just five minutes and she had done it plenty of times before; she didn’t need anyone’s help.hervor, dass Monique Rivalland (im Bild links ;-) )
In Rome the following afternoon, my boyfriend and I were traipsing around the city with our backpacks, looking for a cheap place to stay. My mobile rang. It was Lina. “I don’t know what to do,” she quivered down the phone. “About what?” I replied. I assumed she’d had an argument with her boyfriend. She came straight out with it. “Meredith has been murdered.” “What?” “Meredith. She’s been murdered, Mon.” She lost reception and her phone cut out.
To this day I find it impossible to speak those words. At the time they seemed so detached from reality. I didn’t react. I didn’t call Lina back. She didn’t call me back. Didn’t I have a million questions? What do you mean? How? When? Who told you? What do we do?
I did nothing. I turned to my boyfriend and said, bluntly, “One of my friends has been murdered.” It was such a ludicrous thing to say that it almost meant nothing. I just kept walking, staring blankly. Eventually, I sat down on the kerb and called my mother in London, who told me it had already been on the BBC news. I will never understand why, at that point, I had no desire to know more about it. It was as if, by not knowing, it wasn’t really happening.
We found a place to stay and went out for dinner. I drank one glass of wine after another. When we got back to the hotel room I went into the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror. I stared long and hard at my face and my eyes started to well up. Suddenly, I was overcome by emotion. I held on to the sides of the sink and wept hysterically, all the while watching myself in the mirror. This was really happening.
The next morning, consumed by dread, I called Lina to ask her more about it. Her voice was faltering but her words explicit. Meredith had been stabbed to death in her bedroom. “How do you know?” I asked. Amy and Robin had been calling Meredith all morning because she hadn’t turned up to their lecture on Italian cinema. Her phone had just kept ringing. She loved that class and they thought it was unlike her to miss it. Then they received a phone call from the police to say her body had been found. “Who found her?” I asked. “One of her flatmates called the police,” said Lina. “Do they know who did it?” “No. There was no forced entry, though.” “When did it happen?” “It must have happened when she got home from Sophie’s.” “In her own bedroom?” “Yes.” “What do we do?” “I don’t know. Nobody knows.” Surreal didn’t even begin to describe it.
I was on the phone non-stop that day, to Lina, my mum, the head of Italian at Leeds University, and a diplomat from the British Embassy in Rome, who said: “Please do not speak to any press who may approach you over the next few days.” Then a text from my friend back home: “There is a picture of you and Meredith on the front page of The Daily Telegraph.” I knew I had to get back to Perugia, but I was terrified.
When I got off the train I couldn’t stop looking around at everyone. Where was her killer? Within weeks in Perugia you were waving at the waitress in one café, the chocolatier at another, the boy at the post office – it was a small world. Now I started to question everyone I knew – could they?
erst an 4. November von ihrem Ausflug nach Rom nach Perugia zurückgekommen ist, sie besagtes "Shit happens" gar nicht mitbekommen haben kann... Ein Schelm...