And for just a blip, I wonder if the killer himself had any family. Any who were left behind in his life to live with the horror, the realization that someone they thought they knew, maybe even cared for, was actually a monster, and the incredible hatred that would overtake them in the days and years to come at the slightest thought of him.
No one can say the victims of the crime and their families don’t have the worst of it, but so many more than just them are affected by a tragedy like the Bladed Butcher. And in this case that spanned multiple episodes, consumed the last several hours of my conscious self and invaded the innermost corners of my thoughts, I can’t even fathom the number of lives that were shattered by that scum who defies even my most creative insults.
It might get me worked up, but there’s something about true crime that grips me. Heals me, in a way.
It’s morbid, sure, but it keeps me in check. Gives me perspective and keeps me from thinking I’m the unluckiest fuck in the world.
Maybe I’ve had a shit hand dealt to me, maybe my life isn’t everything I dreamed it would be, but there are others who have had it much, much worse.
Imagine being Jayce’s partner.
Thespouseof Jayce’s partner. Not just losing your soulmate, but having to hear what the love of your life endured in their final hours and moments, and somehow go on to live another thirty or fifty years with that knowledge, that unspeakable loss in your everyday life.
In comparison, my life is pretty peachy.
I have a theory. I think most humans feel like their lives are pretty shit, but it could be worse. It doesn’t matter if they’ve had a good upbringing or been through the bowels of hell. My theory is that our internal gauge—that meter of how much trauma one person can take—it expands as our human experience does.
Celebrities, criminals behind bars, trauma victims, and the lucky bastards who’ve never been through anything more scarring than losing a round of Monopoly at family game night or getting stood up at prom, we all have our reasons to gripe, to feel sad at times. Our outlooks are shaped by what we’ve been through so far.
Beyond that—while I’m soapboxing for a moment—I almost think until you’ve gone through somethingtrulyterrible, you might not realize how much there is to be thankful for, how much to appreciate in your everyday life. How sweet the sunshine on your face can be after so much darkness.
Me? I’ve got a lot to be thankful for.
“My name is Jynx, thanks for listening to my deep dives of the wildest murders of the eighties and nineties, you Vengeful Vixens. Season six might be coming to a close, but in season seven, get fucking ready. We’re digging up some fresh dirt to quench your hunger, bitches. That’s right, we’re jumping forward, to the current millennium, with the inside scoop on stories you thought you knew, and some you’ve never heard of. Get ready to dive into the grittiest, goriest details of killers who got what they deserved, like the?—”
But I don’t get to hear the rest of her closing monologue, because my van makes a noise I’ve never heard before.
Somewhere between a rattle and a clunk that drowns all other sound out for a moment.
Then the body of the van shakes, and a burning smell comes through my vents.
“—Slayer, and more. See you next time, Vixens, when we get more vengeance for victims who aren’t here to tell their own stories.”
“No, no, no!” I yell at my dashboard. “You couldn’t have waited until I was at a campsite to eat shit?”
The van’s check engine light mocks me in a steady orange glow. One I’ve gotten so used to seeing, I maybe, sort of, kinda forgot about it. It just became part of the scenery over time.
“We’ll get it checked out in the next city,” I told myself more times than I can count. “The next stop, when we have a fresh paycheck.” I’ve said that to the dashboard so many times it must have stopped believing me.
But money’s been tight, my checks are mostly spent before I even cash them out. I haven’t been given as many hours as maybe I’d like. Those checks are a little thinner than I’d prefer. And now my engine seems to be done waiting for me to feel like getting it looked at.
Van Gogh slows to a crawl, and in a panic, I shut off the heater, but the burning smell lingers. Checking both mirrors and my digital rearview mirror on the windshield—obviouslyno one is around, I haven’t seen another car in at least fifteen minutes, this could be the road McNair was taken down on for all I know—I gently depress the brake pedal and steer the van to a rolling stop on the shoulder of the road. If it can be considered that, what with the couple inches of margin separating me and my entire life from the side of a mountain beyond the flimsy metal on my right-hand side. I’m sure those crocus lilies pushing upthrough the dirt there will safeguard my fall if the van starts to slip.
My phone clicks, released from its holder near the dash and of course, offreaking course, I have no signal here. Because how else would this story go?
I might end up onVengeful Vixensafter all.
Do I turn off the van, grab my phone, and try to walk to signal?
Do I stay locked in the van, risk this burning smell getting a lot scarier, and try to fix my baby with the Care Bear Stare?
Do I just yeet myself over the side of the mountain?
Options, options.
It’s as I’m debating recording a video for evidence (maybe Jynx would get to play it on her show someday if this goes badly), that a set of far-off headlights glint in my side mirror.
My reaction is automatic, I don’t even think it through. In a split second, the van is off and I’m out the door, my phone in one hand, flashlight turned on, waving my arms like a lunatic begging to be slaughtered. But what other choice do I have?
