Heads up: This post is not about body positivity. Sometimes I do things for school. This is one of those things.
“He needs a murder today.
[He] needs a human body, any human body, still and stiff and void of all life force.
… He needs that body shot, stabbed, bludgeoned, battered, or otherwise rendered inoperative through any act of human interaction.” (274)
Last week in Winnipeg, six dead babies were found in a U-Haul storage locker.
Last week in Quebec, Warrant Officer Patrice Vincent was killed in a targeted hit-and-run.
Last week in Ottawa, Cpl. Nathan Cirillo was shot dead as he stood guard at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.
I struggled through this chapter in Homicide. I struggled a lot.
Maybe it was because I had so much on my plate. Maybe it was because the only thing I can stomach lately is soup, or maybe it was because I had constant violent stress-dreams about failing the program I’m in.
I’m always the first one to pick up a true crime book. In fact, I’m typically the gal’ in the group to pipe up with an ominous ‘Well, did you know…’ then end the point talking about a double-rape homicide cannibalism/necrophilia ordeal.
So perhaps the reason I struggled was because of the horrible things that were happening so close to home.
On Tuesday, Winnipeggers learned about the 3, then 4, then 6 dead babies found in chemical ‘soup’, abandoned inside a storage locker.
The day before, 53-year-old Patrice Vincent was killed in St-Jean-sur-Richelieu, Quebec. According to cbc.ca, he had been thinking of retirement.
Then on Wednesday, news broke of a shooting in Ottawa, where the suspect, 32-year-old Michael Zehaf-Bibeau, was gunned down by sergeant-at-arms of the House of Commons, Kevin Vickers.
I suddenly wasn’t looking forward to Homicide. There was plenty of it happening around me, on the news and in the paper. I had met my quota for truly terrible things, a quota that I thought I would honestly never meet.
I mean, I like true crime. I like reading about good people doing bad things. I like the mystery, the uncertainty, and the pieces of horror that paint macabre pictures for those who dare read their details.
And although I did enjoy touching on the Latonya Wallace case again, or reading about Edgerton cursing at the dead, or a couple’a cops singing along with Bobby Fuller Four, the more gory, intricate parts of the chapter were lost on me.
Even talks about ‘the streak’ (264), which would have been something I’d typically love to read, were too heinous. Too detailed. Too much.
So I’m sorry, Homicide, but I’ve been too focused on the fucked up parts of real life lately.
I’m truly, truly sorry.