I am ever so slightly resigned to my own murder. Not really. But a bit. What’s that noise? Oh, it’s a murderer. Who’s that man on the other side of the street? Probably a murderer.
“It started like any other day” intones the voiceover in the true crime documentary, “she grabbed her bag and her keys and left the house, slightly sweaty and in quite a bad mood.” Or, if not a voiceover, it’s some grainy, pixelated CCTV footage of me, arse looking titanic, hair-looking-slightly-thinner-or-is-it-my-imagination, walking through the park, scrolling through Instagram, wearing that coat that has always looked cheap because it was. The last ever sighting of me alive.
I’m so resigned that when I hear the murderer break into the house most nights, I don’t even grab my phone or go and investigate. I just wait for my fate.
How would I be found? Poor them. Who would write my obituary? Slightly poor them too. Would anyone check my Google history? Hope not, because it is super, super weird. But most of all, will the murderer be caught? Did they hunt me down or was I collateral damage? Are they remorseful or sociopathic?
Is this tasteless fixation the result of too many ‘Making of a Murderer’ and ‘The Jinx’ binge viewing sessions, or is it merely an extension of a natural pessimism blended with a natural tendency towards the dramatic, the exaggerated and the anecdotal? Or is it just an idle brain drifting about? Death looms large and it seems to me that wondering lazily about murder is more optimistic than wondering lazily about suicide. Too bleak? Well, there’s always cancer.