swimming with serial killers
by Olivia Lemasters
in my twenties, i was fascinated with true crime.
when it started, it was like any healthy obsession
like when i picked diet coke in a can
instead of a fountain coke with natural sugar
it’s supposed to be better for you, according to someone
i am sure lacked the credentials to dictate my life
i thought that choice was innocent, like an angel atop the heavens.
i found a niche and burrowed myself into a body bag.
compulsively examined cold cases, precedents, law and order lingo
the complexity of criminal activity made my chaotic twenties seem systematic.
murders brought peace, and peace brought me death.
there should be a disclaimer on every episode of dateline
a notice that the farther you swim into the currents of crime
the harder it is to get out of the water.
no one bothered to warn me about what hid below the surface
the people on the screen and the bones in the ground
slowly engulfed me in their wrath, purposefully imitating quicksand.
their words and remains wrapped around my throat
until I had no choice but to join.
being in the wrong place at the wrong time meant nothing.
how hard is it not to get murdered?
how hard is it not to get caught?
why do all victims light up a room?
i did everything right until the night of my 26th birthday
the wind chilled my pale skin under the light of the full moon
my friends and i celebrated at a bar
on the corner of 10th and vine
a locally owned shop in my minnesota college town
the bar was dead,
no man eager to down espresso martinis
on a tuesday, and snow covered the roadways like a blanket.
the three of us called uber that night.
a driving service that was reasonably new to our small town
drunk driving was as stupid as walking through an alleyway in the dark alone.
this time, though, it might have been safer
the doors locked; the gas pedal smashed into the floor
we were too intoxicated and self-absorbed to care at first.
as our tears eventually flushed the alcohol out of our body
like water, we used to force ourselves to drink after a wild night out.
the car halted to a stop outside of a run-down double-wide
the basement held us hostage and taunted me with my knowledge
stupid is as stupid does, my friends used to say.
i loved true crime
it was an unhealthy obsession that suffocated me. ABC, Zodiac, BTK
i ache for a redo.
the moments in my head that I yearned for as a twenty-something
i just wanted to prove I was strong enough
i was smart enough
i wanted to be the girl that lit up a room.
I didn’t want to die.
i read, watched, and listened to these victims' stories
i followed the lives of serial killers
their childhood, specifically
i wanted to be like them.
the victim or the killer
i didn’t care.
i wanted someone to pay attention
to understand me in the way I understood them
I didn’t want to die.