FEATURES 5
THE FOUNDER November 2021 However, if you prefer your true crime highbrow, this content is readily available too. Murder at its classiest. Funding, precise narration, and interviews citing how ‘charming’ future serial killers were or how murder victims used to ‘light up a room’ are so common they have their own set of cliches. All of this, eventually, leads to the ultimate question: Is there an ethical way to enjoy murder?
Hazel Wright from Portland State University posits that true crime may be morally sound on the grounds that it fulfils the following six standards: Well-researched, clear, humanizing, non-sensationalist, non-glorifying, and socially aware. These factors sound reasonable, logical, and fair. They also seem to describe almost none of the popular true crime entertainment available. In fact, sensationalism and glorification could be argued as the cornerstone of the media. Humanising sounds more within grasp until you face the harassment of the victims’ families and the speculation about their lives and potential involvement that seems to spike with every case. The victims themselves often have their humanness put on trial. Were they innocent enough? Did they fight back? Should they have seen the red flags a mile away?
Even if a piece of media managed to fit these criteria (though you may be hard-pressed to find one which does) does this take away from the fact that we are essentially consuming grief? If you clean up a crime scene do you drop the charges? None of this is to say that those who watch this content are without morals in any way, nor is it to say that they intend any harm by sharing theories or discussing the potential motives of the killers. True crime enthusiasts have many explanations for their morbid enjoyment including escapism, a sense of justice, and the process of engaging with that which they fear. As stated at the beginning of this article, fascination with murder is by no means something new, in actuality, it is all rather human.
Malibu and Coke ABRA HERITAGE | EDITOR IN CHIEF
Content Warning: Alcohol Spiking
I
t’s 10:30pm and you’re giggling with your flatmate on the walk to the party a couple of doors away. Sure, you’re not entirely certain whether the laughs are pure nerves or genuine excitement, but it’s kind of fun anyway. An hour later and any anxieties have been numbed by the Malibu and Coke in your hand. Hallelujah for the drink of all 18-year-old girls across the UK, it’s served us well for a while now. A few swigs from a bottle of indescribable red liquid passed around and now you’re ready to tell everyone that you love them. Oh, God. Really need to finally break the seal. Leaving the remnants of your coconut concoction on the side, you dash upstairs to the bathroom with your mate. Of course, it’s not quite a night out without a good 10 minutes spent in the bathroom promising to be each other’s maids of honours in years to come, and you’re feeling more validated than ever when you step back into the overcrowded mass of Lynx Africa boys. You blame your early swaying on being a lightweight that only ate a crumpet before going out. Besides, it’s nice having the attention on you. People ask if you’re having a good time as they laugh over Kayne West’s blasts from the far-too-loud speaker. In all honesty, you’re not really sure how much of a good time you’re having. You don’t normally feel so trashed before the morning hits, and it’s weird how self-aware you are of your drunken stupidity. One final embarrassment of falling across the floor, drink in hand, and you’re ready to call it a night. ‘Let’s get out of here’. The walk back is the worst part. ‘God, I’m really not feeling great’. ‘Let’s order food’. Your eyes won’t focus as you look down at your phone screen to see what delights are available at 2am. ‘I think I’m really gone’. You manage to stab at the screen for an order of chips, before falling into your flat’s kitchen. It’s getting bad now. The stairs up to your room are moving with you, carrying you back and forth. Your whole body shakes and jerks. It’s screaming at you to help. What can you do but fall into bed and hope this drunken spell passes? Even lying down hurts. The boys come in, laughing at the state of you. ‘You guys really went all out, huh?’ You laugh with them, but it feels wrong. ‘How much did you drink?’ You look at each other confused, it really makes no sense how hammered you are.
You can’t find the part of your brain that allows you to reply. Then the sickness hits. Your whole body heaves to rid itself of the poison. 10 minutes pass, then another 10. ‘This isn’t normal’. More laughs from the boys. Sweaty and shivering all at once. Your body’s ignoring you. Heartbeat in your head. ‘Let’s get you guys some water’. It doesn’t help.
Are you going to feel like this forever? It’s been hours since your last drink. Your friend drunkenly mumbles what you really didn’t want to have to believe. ‘I think we’ve been spiked’. This is followed by a roar of laughter from the boys. They rub your backs, tell you to get some sleep and stay hydrated. Now it’s just the two of you. Then the tears start. Salty drops of sheer panic, anger, sickness. Google doesn’t help. Why had you never been taught about this? Sure, there were the warnings of keeping your drink covered from overprotective aunts and grans, but what happens when that fails? What happens when it’s too late to protect yourself? There’s the woman on the line, answering from the 111 call. She asks pointless questions. You’re going to throw up again. ‘Try to stay with me, just a few more answers and we can help you’. Then there’s the confirmation, the ambulance on its way. ‘It’s likely something was put in your drinks, girls’. ‘Don’t move unless you have to’. ‘Stay with each other’. ‘Keep drinking water’. Great.
The next morning. The poison continues to pump through your blood stream. It hurts to move. The boys return. ‘Recovered, ladies?’. You want to thrash out, to scream, to cry. You sit still instead. The rest of the day is an almost return to normality. Why hasn’t there been uproar about what happened to you? They’ll all forget in a day or two. It will be flat gossip for a while until it’s boring. You try not to hate yourself for not getting a blood test done, for not asking around with others at the party, for not causing a fuss. It’s easier this way.
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