Murder, the Internet, & All That Remains.
It’s 1 o’clock in the afternoon on a Monday and I’m surfing the Pinterest boards of a woman that murdered an old friend.
The first of many realizations — murder is made even more ghastly and bizarre by what you can find on the internet.
There will be other articles that examine the circumstances of Taylor Wright’s death. That’s not my place. This is not that piece.
I feel unqualified to write anything at all — I’m just an old friend that had fallen out of touch.
But Taylor’s death sits with me.
Haunts me, honestly, by all the ways a sudden, violent end can eclipse an entire life.
Death, Three Times.
The first thing about murder victims you don’t appreciate unless it happens to someone you know — they are stolen from three times:
1 - your life.
2 - your name.
3 - your legacy.
Everything you’ve done, good or bad, is reduced to expository character development in a story arc that climaxes with the crime that took your life.
At least as far as the internet is concerned.
As a marketer I’m probably more aware of this than most — that the internet is written in indelible ink.
Diversity of citations or, to be more specific, number of domains and their authority, ensure that coverage from the New York Daily News, Inside Edition, et al will be the point of reference from which people learn about Taylor for years to come. Probably forever.
That perspective is as incomplete as it is one-dimensional.
People doing a Google search for “Taylor Wright” will not learn she was a normal person that loved to fish, work out, and have a beer with friends.
That she would reliably, and often surreptitiously, pick up the tab.
That she loved her dogs, was afraid of spiders, and hated cats — until one became her best friend.
They’ll miss the nuance that in the last photo she chose for her Facebook profile she’s holding her son’s hand as he climbed the Tree of Life in the rain.
The Appalling, Involuntary Marriage.
The next infuriating realization — as a murder victim your name is immediately and permanently commingled with the person that betrayed you.
Oh, and your public photographs, too.
But perhaps the worst of all these subsequent deaths is this:
The Loss of Authorship.
“History is written by the victors,” a quote sometimes attributed to Churchill, is only a half-truth.
It can also be authored by thieves.
Murder victims don’t have a chance to write their own ending; the falling action in their stories is forcibly penned by the murderer. Subsequent media will write postscripts that focus only on the most click-worthy facts or speculation.
I imagine Taylor is at least as angry that she’s seen as a victim as she is to have lost her life. But that’s not a story told. None of her story is told, in fact.
On the internet, victims that die are victims forever.
The murdered lose their right both to future chapters and authorship. Their right to make amends — or mistakes. Their right to write and rewrite their lives interrupted not only mid-chapter, but often mid-sentence. All of these rights we, the living, enjoy and take for granted — sculpt our legacies.
But a sudden, violent end becomes a summary judgement on personhood.
What’s more — during the course of the looming murder trial there will be depositions. Inevitable character assassination. Probable victim-blaming. Taylor will be unable to explain or defend herself against any of it; but it will all fall into the cannon of discoverable information about her on the internet.
Helping to Tell Taylor’s Story
I don’t know everything Taylor would want to be remembered for — but I know it wouldn’t be “victim.”
Taylor was not a victim. She trusted the wrong people. She made mistakes. She was killed following a few of them. But she was not a victim.
And her life was far bigger, bolder, than its too-soon end.
She’d want to be known as a good friend. And a badass. She was both.
How any of this could have happened to her, of all people, I may never understand — but if you’d consider an alternate postscript, a counterpoint to the crush of search results, I offer this:
Taylor Wright was a strong, funny, infectious, badass. And a good friend.
Someday years from now, if her son searches her name, I want him to be able to find this essay and read that, too. It’s a better, more fitting description of Taylor’s life than what the internet would lead you to believe.
And it’s the truth.
