Page 2 of Biker's Property

Now…I have to end his life. It’s time. I know in my bones that it’s the right time. I’ve been through too much.

When a woman becomes deeply obsessedwithTrue Crime, nobody suspects that she’s doing it because she’s going to kill her husband.

To be fair, that’s not how my interest inTrue Crimestarted, but that’s how it ended up – poring over podcast episodes and YouTube videos until I came up with the perfect plan to end Seth’s life.

I waslate to the party. Most women came to True Crime through the “classic” cases that have long held the public’s obsession. I missed JonBenet Ramsay and Natalie Holloway when their cases were plastered across CNN and local news channels. I didn’t even tap in with O.J. Simpson, which has the element of racial conflict. My dad supported O.J. Simpson until the day he died.

I didn’t even get intrigued by the Scott Peterson case, even if the allegations made against him were some of the most horrific we’ve seen in modern times and so hard to believe because of his public image. I would become obsessed with that case later.

My first trueobsessionwas with the Gypsy Rose Blanchard case. Everyone knows about it now, but back when I started listening to True Crime, only a select few “weirdos” were completely obsessed with the case about the girl who killed her own mother. I didn’t just listen to the podcasts and watch YouTube videos about her back in 2015 when the court case happened.

I learned about Munchausen by proxy and all these new words that unlocked one research topic after another in my high school library. Her case was the first one that caused me to understand why peoplecared.Before that, I thought True Crime was for freaks who wanted to sleep with Charles Manson.

The Gypsy RoseBlanchard case was different. It was twisted, fucked up, and in some weird way, it felt like her criminal act was righteous defiance against abuse. I became obsessed with the trial and the weird guy who definitely manipulated her so he could act out twisted murder fantasies of his own.Terrifying.

His controlling behavior reminded me of a lot of the men at my church, strangely enough, and the entire case gripped me. I thought murder was too far, obviously, but there was something oddly compelling about this girl who did what any human might have done in her situation. People are animals at the end of the day and if you put an animal that’s meant to be free in a cage, it will do just about anything to get free.

I never thought she was a hero or someone anybody should worship but… I understood why she felt like there was only one way out of her situation. It’s messed up that people ever have to feel like that – like they have to take another life.

I know it sounds dramatic but… her mom sounded like mine. Sure, my mom wasn’tthatbad, but the similarities were clear. Anyone who has been through that type of thing understands — the twisted pull you have between loving them and hating them.

Listening to coverage of that trial was the first time in my life that I consideredchild abusemight be something I was familiar with. I devoured everything I could, listening to podcasts and YouTube videos at school, learning more about True Crime and quietly acknowledging how much I related to all the victims and their stories, even if they were dark and disturbed. But my life was boring — just school and church. My mother didn’t let me go anywhere else.

My church friends loved the True Crime rebellion as much as I did. What wasn’t there to love? In our community, more visible rebellion like piercings, tattoos, or even dyed hair, would come with punishment that was too swift. Too embarrassing. Listening to True Crime was tantalizing, easy to get away with, dark and satanic without exposing us to any real danger.

The best part was accessing this taboo content didn’t involve interacting with boys or doing anything that could shame your entire family.

Now that thosedays are years behind me, I find it funny now that they expect women like us to go straight from that into marriage – from never having touched or looked at a boy, never having considered our own desires, straight to marriage. It couldn’t be more clear in our fundamentalist world that women don’t matter.

And I guess in True Crime, we matter. Even if we were dead. Even if we were victims. Almost every story I listened to centered on a woman.A woman who I felt some strong kinship with… even if she was dead.

So that’show it started – a seventeen-year-old mixed race girl out in the desert listening to True Crime when she wasn’t listening to Pastor Woolstenhume’s sermons. It took me a long time to plan but finally, after years of notes, of soaking it all in, I’m finally ready to do it — kill my husband.

I might not get awaywith it, but at the end of the day, that man will be dead. And he won’t guess that the 4’11” woman that he beat and disrespected will have been the one to trick his ass straight to his death. I give him the most submissive look I can muster up, playing to his ego, preparing myself to watch something that I imagine will be both relieving and horrifying.

I hate looking at this man.

Maybe there wasone point I thought I could get used to him. But I can’t. There comes a point when a woman goes through too much hurt to ever forgive and forget.

My husband takesa deep drink of the coffee.

Seth letsa drop of coffee drip into his blond beard and gives me a smug, condescending look, the corners of his dry lips twitching with delight from whatever biting comment he plans on spitting in my direction.

“It only took you a decade to learn how to make a good cup of coffee.”

I’m too smart to fall for his attempt to start an argument with me. “Thank you. It’s this new blend calledJamaican Me Crazy.”

He laughsand gives me a look like he’s sizing me up. He does that often. He wants me to know that my fate, the entire outcome of my day, sits in his hands. If he wants me to have a good day, that’s what I have. If he wants me to spend my day in urgent care lying my ass off about lacerations and bruises, that’s the type of day I’m going to have.

And nobody givesa shit when all the doctors, nurses, and EMTs are a part of your church.

“Aren’tyou going to eat anything?” he asks. “People will talk if I have a wife who looks like a starving Ethiopian.”

I wantto tell him that there are children starving in Belgium too, but I bite my tongue. I really prefer not to get into useless arguments with this man unless I have a damn good reason.

“I already ate.But if you want me to join you, I will.”

For just a few more minutes,I have to act like the perfect wife. Once I pull that off, Seth Overman will be dead. And once I’m finally free, I willneverbe a man’s prisoner again.