If I Am Murdered Don’t Let Me End Up In A Podcast
I am not much of a sleuth, but I do devour true crime stories, especially in podcast form. I enjoy debating the latest inconceivably wrong inference spewed by my favorite really bad podcaster and I love gallows humor.
But if I am ever murdered, don’t let me end up in a podcast.
They will promise to keep my name pumping in the pulse of the public.
Do Not Believe Them.
See, if I am murdered, it means someone did the murder-ing. And telling the story of my death tells the life of my murderer.
I was living my life. It may not be much to some, but it was all I had. I was delighting in my son, the only truly deliberate good choice I’ve made so far in my 44 years.
I was just surprised by a particularly vivid morning light, when-
Poof, bang, (perhaps a thwack) ?
Some murderer takes me out.
Maybe it’s the “how” that attracts the podcasters. Was I bludgeoned so badly I couldn’t be identified? Was my head “hanging on by a thread” in an “ear to ear” near decapitation?
Good golly that’s a lot of blood, my blood, coagulating in listeners’ minds as they furiously search the interwebs for crime scene photos. Someone, somewhere, certainly posted them.
Maybe my murderer is claiming innocence, recanting an obviously coerced confession. False confessions are all the rage now, with nearly every article on the subject beginning:
“It happens more often than you think…”
Did my husband do it or was he railroaded, convicted by a corrupt system? Does the corruption run so deep listeners must don sock accounts for discussion groups?
I’ll bet it all feels very clandestine, perhaps even advocacy. Still, I’m begging you, do not let the podcasters in.
Because they won’t tell my story.
They will claim to be, claim to be remembering the “real victim” even while trimming the minutes of my life to enumerate my evisceration. After all, there are only so many minutes to be had and we simply must explore how my murderer got to the point of murdering. And to understand that, we need to break down their trauma, their pain, their childhood. (How many head injuries did you say?)
Even if not serialized as my murderer’s name will be spoken twice as many as mine. If only one episode in a sea of other snuffings, you will know their motivations and what attracted them to me. I will end before I even begin.
Now if I am murdered young, erased before my first prom or another youthful milestone, that is better. The podcasters could puncture hearts and minds with that needle. My hopes and dreams would light up a room, fizzle and fall when my murderer enters the scene. All the clichés would apply, what I could have been or done, amplified.
Alas, I’m already in the middle of my life. (Unless I’m murdered. Then I’m near the end.)
The hopes I hold for my aging self do not sparkle like those of one taken too soon. The reality was not nearly as exciting as the dreams of a child.
Okay, if I am murdered in my middle age, it is definitely better to go missing then. With any luck, they won’t find my body. Then no podcaster need issue trigger warnings before describing my flayed corpse, nor repeatedly advise against viewing the photos, conveniently organized behind a paywall on their Patreon account. (You could make your own FOIA request or probably find them somewhere else for free, but a few bucks now means optimizing your time).
If I am merely missing but presumed dead, there could be a “call to action”. The podcasters could then discuss my risk factors which is sort-of like talking about me.
Lucky I suppose, I am not a sex worker
-not that there is anything wrong with that.
If I am murdered and end up on a podcast, missing or otherwise, sex work
-not that there is anything wrong with that-
complicates everything. Because the podcasters will need to talk about it, the sex work
-not that there is anything wrong with that-
as it is considered a “risky” lifestyle. But inevitably it will teeter and then fall squarely into victim-blaming, no matter how many times they say:
“Not that there is anything wrong with that.”
All in all, whether I am found in a pond, a bed, a field, or never, one thing is certain:
If I am murdered and end up in a podcast, it will be about my murderer.
Because let’s face it, the most exciting thing about ME will be my murder. I am infinitely more interesting as an object; acted upon by “Clawheaded Claude. I am a narrative tool, my name a placeholder where any victim could cower.
Listeners will twist around in the plot, but store my name behind that of my murderer. And when the podcast ends, I will be inextricably bound, forever tethered to the person who took my life, the life you never heard about, not really.
