Without creating or causing any unnecessary concern, I think it would be appropriate on my own behalf to acknowledge that I have dedicated a solid amount of writing material toward true crime shows as of late. I’m not exactly sure of how to offer an explanation for this uptick, aside from the fact that I suppose I have discovered how much I enjoy watching true crime productions.
I probably should not admit that I tend to watch these shows as a means of relaxation, which is completely counterintuitive, but it works for me. It also works for Blaine, so while that might raise some red flags for other folks in marriage, so far, it’s working for us.
I started watching a true crime series via Netflix called The Staircase. It’s been around for a while now, and although I subconsciously flagged it months ago as something I wanted to watch, I just got around to doing so now.
The Staircase depicts the tale of Michael Peterson, a true-crime author based in North Carolina, who finds his wife dead at the bottom of their staircase after coming into their home one evening. His wife’s injuries are not, however, reflective of her falling down the stairs, and soon, Michael becomes a suspect in her murder.
Allow me to mention that the series I am referring to is the true crime version, not the miniseries version starring Toni Colette and Colin Firth. The one I am watching shows real footage, interviews, photographs, and court proceedings affiliated with the death of Kathleen Peterson, not an adaptation.
I do not wish to ruin this for anyone who hasn’t seen it that wishes to, but allow me to say that shit gets crazy real quick in this situation. Initially, you’re led to believe Michael is entirely innocent; a few episodes in, however, you realize this may not be the case, and I highly recommend watching it.
Photo by Oscar Vargas on Unsplash
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