Listen for the Lie

by Amy Tintera

A podcaster has decided to ruin my life,

(A side effect of being accused of murder is that you spend a lot of time thinking about it. You get used to it.)

It’s probably unfair to say that a podcast ruined my life. Technically, my life was destroyed the night Savvy was murdered. And then it was destroyed again, the next day, when I decided to take an early-morning stroll with her blood drying on my dress.

Let this be a lesson to all the men out there who can’t handle conflict—man up and dump your girlfriend, or you might end up living with a suspected murderer indefinitely.

Ben Owens, and this is the Listen for the Lie podcast, where we uncover all the lies people tell, and find the truth.

An insult doesn’t have the intended impact when spelled incorrectly.

No one gives a shit about my side of the story. To be fair, my side of the story is “I don’t remember anything,” so it’s not exactly exciting. Or believable, apparently.

And don’t go to the bar on Franklin, that’s where all the tourists go to get sloppy. A bachelorette party was throwing around penis confetti last time I was there, if you can believe that. I was finding penises in my hair for hours. Ben: That’s … unfortunate.

Maybe on the sofa too, and it does not look like the kind of sofa that’s easy to get blood out of. Not that I know which sofas are easy to get blood out of.

Maybe it would be less messy if I hit him in the back of the head. That would also be convenient, because now he’s turned away from me.

Not in the moment, anyway. I don’t think anyone—least of all my father—would be surprise...

I start to push the murder thoughts away, but every therapist I’ve been to (and I’ve been to several) has wanted me to deal with the violent fantasies instead of just trying to make them stop.

I recently admitted to my latest therapist that trying to avoid murdering people in my head has just resulted in me murdering even more people in my head. She was very supportive of my idea to just let the thoughts fly and see what happens. So, I imagine Dad’s brains splattering across the couch again and head upstairs to see Mom.

The very large bottle of vodka is still on the counter. I imagine smashing it into Mom’s head. A soft voice whispers in my ear, “Let’s kill—” “Has he ever tried to contact you?” Grandma asks. “Let’s kill—” Not now. I shake my head, and the voice, away.

She’s standing next to a rack of scissors, and I imagine ripping the plastic off and jamming it into her throat. “If you slice it like this there’s so much blood, let’s kill—” Shit. The voice is back. Shit. I’d hoped that by pretending it wasn’t happening, the voice would fade away again. It had been so quiet since I left Plumpton.

“First interview. I’ll be ready.” “I’m always ready,” the voice sings. “Let’s fuck someone up!”

“The truth doesn’t matter.” The voice—Savvy’s voice—is so clear now, clearer than it’s been in years. It’s always been Savvy talking to me. Since the first few days after she died, when her screams were so loud I thought my head was going to explode, to later, when she quieted to a murderous constant companion. To now, when she’s apparently had enough of me ignoring her. “Let’s kill—”

“I should have controlled my temper,” I said softly. I should have just cried. Taken the hits and crawled away to show my scars. I should have been a better victim. The truth doesn’t matter if you fight back. “I have an idea.” Savvy leaned closer to me. She met my eyes. Her mouth was set in a hard line, her gaze steely and serious. “Let’s kill your husband.”

She doesn’t want me to talk about Dad’s affairs, and she doesn’t want Grandma to talk about Matt being an asshole. Mom is, as always, dedicated to protecting the men in her life above all else. I’m not sure she even realizes she’s doing it. It’s a habit at this point.

“That’s usually when men kill the woman. When they try to leave.” And I said, “I actually don’t think Matt would do that.” “Is that really a risk you want to take?” she’d asked. No. It wasn’t. And she knew. Right away, she knew that I didn’t want to just leave. I wanted fucking revenge. “Let’s Thelma and Louise this shit,” she’d said, and I’d laughed.

“If you can’t be friendly with the podcaster who’s trying to prove you killed your best friend, who can you be friendly with?” I say it in an effort to lighten the mood, but both Ben and Nina look at me like I’ve grown a second head. Shit. That’s not something an innocent person would say.

People don’t believe women who fight back. When a man lashes out, people say he’s lost control of his temper or made a terrible mistake. When a woman does it, she’s a psychopath.

Well, not strange, exactly. Typical. Men always believe each other.