The Diary of a Serial Killer's Daughter

by L. A. Detwiler

  And that got me wondering if the lady was still in the garage, her black hair spread out behind her. I wanted to see her again. I wanted to see so badly.

  I knew Daddy wouldn’t want me out of the house alone, but I couldn’t help it. I got that image in my head and I couldn’t stop myself. I needed to see.

  So I crept down the stairs and out back. I snuck to the spot behind the garage with the hole and peered in. But I was surprised. The black-haired lady was gone. Her white face, her eyes staring. Gone. All the red was gone too. Everything was back in its place.

  Saws and tools hung in their spots. I smiled and got goosebumps on my arms. I loved how orderly it was. A board with tools in a row, everything in line. A table sat in the middle of the garage, the floor clean. Not a dot of red. Not a dot of dirt. Clean, clean, clean.

  I made myself small, small, small, and waited. Maybe Daddy went to get the black-haired lady and bring her back for the game. I yawned and yawned but fought to stay awake. I needed to stay awake. I counted. I checked my watch over and over.

  Finally, at 12:38 a.m., he came back. The truck rattled down the lane. The headlights went out, and the door opened. I heard Daddy grunt as I peeked through the hole. He was carrying something.

  A lady. This one had red hair. Red like me.

  I almost squealed. Red, red, red. Red like me, Ruby. So pretty.

  The lady was sleeping. Her neck looked funny, her eyes bulgy like a frog. Daddy sat her on the table, and I watched. She was naked. I closed my eyes. We’re not supposed to show those parts to anyone, that’s what Daddy always said. Maybe the rules were different for grownups. I’d have to ask him sometime.

  I opened my eyes and watched as Daddy grinned. He went to the wall and pulled off some rope. What was he doing? Was this a game?

  After a long time, I watched him hang that lady up from the ceiling. She dangled like the tire swing at school, swaying back and forth. Was Daddy making a swing? I watched with my mouth open.

  He took out a camera. My favorite, the instant camera. I like it because it comes out black and then poof—there’s a me on it. Grandma says it’s a relic. I don’t know what that means, but it sounds like a bad thing.

  He snapped a picture, and I wondered what he would do with it. Would he hang it up in the house? I didn’t see one of the black-haired lady. Then, after that, he stood, staring at her. For a moment, he didn’t look so happy. He looked like he wanted to cry. I wanted to run over and ask what was wrong, but I stayed in my spot.

  A long, long, long time later, he pulled her down. It seemed weird to hang her up only to pull her down. He put her on the table, the one the black-haired lady was on. The smile came back as he went to the tools. He took a saw and then another. Two saws. Wow.

  He walked to the table and touched her face. He was so close I thought he might kiss her. I’ve never seen him so happy. Well, once, I think he was happy. There’s a picture of him with Mama I saw and he looked happy. He was wearing a suit. She was wearing a white lacy dress and they were on a beach. Daddy looked happy then.

  I stared. The saw cut. Then there was red. So much red. My heart beat faster. I loved seeing the red puddling underneath the table. How would he clean it all up? I wanted to see the process. How did he get it clean?

  I watched and watched as he worked and worked. Small bits of something were falling to the ground. It was like art class, except all the paint was red. Maybe I would have to try that in school, I thought. Painting with just red. Maybe I could make Daddy a picture out of red paint. He could put it in the garage.

  Daddy worked and worked, and I wanted to stay. But I could tell he was getting tired. It looked like hard work. And I knew he’d go to sleep and I couldn’t be outside when he went in. So I had to leave.

  I hoped I’d get to see the rest sometime. I needed to see the rest. How he cleaned up.

  I wanted to know how he got it so clean.

  2:41 a.m. I went to bed.

  And then, the next thing I knew, Daddy was in my room.

  “We’re late. Let’s go,” he said gruffly. My eyes opened. I looked at my watch. How had I slept in? I never slept in. Daddy never slept in.

  I was mad. We were off schedule. We were off schedule! The day was ruined.

  Daddy looked tired. I thought of the lady. She must have kept him late.

  I wanted to tell Daddy to save his garage game for weekends, that we can’t be off schedule. But I didn’t. Secrets and all. Privacy. Rules. He would be mad that I was near the garage. I didn’t want him to think I was breaking the rules. I never break rules Daddy sets, not on purpose. Not if I can help it—sometimes I can’t.

  I hadn’t gone in, I hadn’t. I’d just looked. He’d never said I couldn’t look. But I didn’t want him to think I was breaking rules.

  I made it through the day. Daddy had driven me to school and then went off to work. He didn’t tell me to stay safe when he dropped me off. That upset me. My whole day was bad. He always said stay safe.

  But at least he got me to school. And I was safe. That was good. I drew a picture of a lady with red markers. All red. The teacher said it was interesting as her eyebrows crinkled. I don’t think she meant it. Some of the other kids laughed. I ripped it up. I didn’t want Daddy to have a picture that wasn’t good, and I was mad that he hadn’t said stay safe. It was his fault the picture was bad.

  But it’s okay. I know he’s a good Daddy, after all. He knows the bus is too loud for me and it makes me upset, so he drives me every day. Even if it means he is going to be late for work like today.

  Diary, I like telling you what happens. Maybe I’ll get some red pens for next time I write. I think it would look so good in red. Don’t you?

  Stay Safe,

  Ruby

  September 16, 2009

  6:57 p.m.

  Dear Diary,

  Mama didn’t follow rules. Daddy doesn’t like to talk about her but when he does, he says she didn’t follow rules. He says she was a free spirit. I don’t know that that means exactly, but I don’t like people who don’t follow rules. I bet I wouldn’t have liked her.

  I will follow the rules. I don’t want to go where she is. Some kid from school’s hamster died and his mom told him it went to hamster heaven. I asked Daddy what heaven was. He sighed and said Ruby, some things are too hard to explain. I don’t think he believes in this hamster heaven.

  I don’t know where Mama is, if she is in hamster heaven or somewhere else. I don’t remember her. Daddy said she had pretty hair. My hair is red. Red red red. Red like apples my teacher says. Red like strawberries, Grandma always says.

  I hate strawberries. Grandma doesn’t know that. She doesn’t know much of anything, in truth.

  My hair is red like the licorice Daddy likes and red crayons and my backpack. I like red. It’s my favorite color. Daddy’s too. He said so yesterday when I told him I love the color red and asked for those red rainboots. He said maybe he could take me shopping for some if I wanted. I hate shopping. Too many people. But he said if I want them, I should really try them on and make sure they are good. So I guess I have to go to the store. I hate when shoes are too tight or too loose. Daddy says I’m picky, which is fine. He says it’s perfectly good to know what you like. So I guess this weekend we’ll look for boots. Daddy will hold my hand or say something to calm me if I’m upset. He never gets mad when I have one of my fits, as the teachers call them. He is nice and makes me feel better.

  Stay Safe,

  Ruby

  September 18, 2009

  6:57 p.m.

  Dear Diary,

  Daddy used to have a picture of Mama in his room, one besides just the one on the fireplace. I took it from his room when he threw it once. It was in March. I was scared but when he went outside to take a walk, I took it and hid it under my bed. I think he knows I took it. But maybe he’s glad I took it from his room. I think it makes him angry. I’m not sure why. I look at it sometimes. I look at the red hair like me. She was pretty, Mama was
. I miss her some days when I think about her. I don’t know her but I miss her even though she probably would’ve given me hugs and I hate hugs and maybe I would not like her much. It’s weird to miss someone you don’t know, but it’s kind of like when I miss Santa Claus after Christmas. I’ve never met him, but I miss him.

  I asked once what she was like, just a little bit ago. Daddy said girls who are seven shouldn’t ask so many questions. He said it’s Mama’s fault I’m so curious. I guess at least I learned that. Curious. I never realized I’m curious. I like the idea of being curious. It sounds good.

  But curiosity did not kill a cat, as my stupid Grandma says. She came over today. She was asking Daddy questions about me. If I’ve been to the doctor. To the therapist. If he’s making me try new foods. She is nosy. Nosy, nosy. Daddy gets annoyed. I can tell. Grandma needs a hobby. I don’t think he likes her coming around. I don’t either. But I also don’t like when I have to stay with her. Sometimes, Daddy has me stay with her in the evenings. I wonder what he’s doing then. He just says he’s going out. Whatever that means.

  Some of the things Grandma says are so dumb. They make no sense. Like about early birds catching worms and about breaking legs when I have a speech at school. I don’t know why she does that.

  I like that Daddy knows I’m smart even though I don’t talk to people much. My teacher said I am smart but also bad and stubborn. She thinks I’m bad and stubborn because I’m quiet. And because I always remind her of the time, like when we’re almost late for recess or lunch. I just want her to know that we are not on time. You’d think she’d be happy that someone is helping her stay on schedule. Someone needs to watch the minutes turn over, and I am nice enough to take the job on so she can focus on the loud, really bad kids.

  After Daddy said I was smart, Daddy said Mama liked rubies. I don’t know what rubies are. Daddy said they are reddish like my hair, which is why I’m called Ruby. Ruby like my hair.

  Ruby Marlowe.

  Marlowe with an “e” at the end. It’s a hard name to spell. I used to get it wrong sometimes. My teacher got mad when it was wrong and shouted “e” like she was an animal. I saw a monkey on the TV once. It made noises like that. The teacher didn’t like when I made monkey noises out loud at her. I was just trying to show what she sounded like. The kids started calling me monkey girl. I missed recess and snack.

  I hate recess, and snack was gross peanut butter. Sticky, sticky. I hate sticky. So I didn’t care.

  Daddy was mad when he found out I got in trouble. You need to follow the rules, Daddy said. He wants me to follow the rules. Sorry, Daddy, I’ll try and do better next time, I said.

  My hand hurts now, Diary. I’m going to go now and watch TV with Daddy. That show is on tonight with people sending in videos that are supposed to be funny. I laugh sometimes, but not at the stupid videos. I laugh because sometimes they stir memories in me, like the one of Daddy and the ice cream cone and the dog at the fair. That’s a funny one. But Daddy thinks I laugh at the show. He says it’s good to laugh, so we watch it together.

  Daddy doesn’t usually laugh, though. He just grins and lets out a bit of a coughing sound.

  Stay Safe,

  Ruby

  September 20, 2009

  6:58 p.m.

  Dear Diary,

  It rained today. I got to play outside in my new red rainboots. Bright, bright red, my favorite color. Daddy watched from the porch as I splashed out front in a big puddle. Mud went everywhere. Daddy didn’t care. He smiled and smoked his cigarettes while I jumped.

  I usually don’t like water. Rain is okay and puddles, but not the bathtub. Water scares me. It always has. Daddy has to sit by me when I’m in the tub, and he only can put a little tiny bit of water. He says I’ve always been like this. But puddles and rain are okay. Fun, even.

  Smoking is bad for lungs. I tell Daddy that. He should not smoke. We learned at school it is harmful. There are thousands of chemicals and it is addicting and it can kill you. Second-hand smoke is bad, too, but I’m not worried about me. I’m worried about Daddy. I don’t want something bad to happen to him. What would I do without him?

  He told me old habits die hard. That saying doesn’t quite make sense to me, but I still don’t think he should smoke.

  I splashed and splashed in the puddles. I jumped super high, higher than ever. It made me very happy to jump. My new red boots make puddle hopping a true blast.

  Shopping for them was tough. The sales guy tried to touch my feet and I got very mad. I stomped and stomped and cried in the corner. I didn’t want to cry, but sometimes emotions just burst out of me like the volcano our teacher made in science class. They just erupt and I can’t stop them. Some mother with her kids called me a brat, which made me even sadder and I cried harder. Daddy called her a bad word. We went home the first time without boots. But eventually Daddy convinced me to go back. He always helps me see things in a better light. It took a few trips for me to decide on the right pair and the right size. But I finally got them just perfect.

  Daddy helped me try on the boots, and once they were on, I nodded. They felt so good and they were red, my favorite color. But you know that.

  I haven’t wanted to take them off. I even wore them to bed last night. Daddy didn’t mind.

  So I spent the day jumping in puddles and having so much fun in my boots, testing them out in every type of puddle. I didn’t tell Daddy, but when I splash, splash, splashed, I pretended it was the puddles in the garage, the red puddles.

  Can you imagine, Diary? How fun it would be to jump in the red puddles in my red boots? It would be so pretty. But then it might be harder to clean. I hope Daddy goes back to the garage soon so I can see him clean. I want to see what he does. How he does it.

  I’m tired from splashing. I might go to bed early tonight. I don’t know. I don’t ever go to bed early but I’m sleepy.

  Stay Safe,

  Ruby

  September 25, 2009

  6:57 p.m.

  Dear Diary,

  Today was a good day at school.

  The teacher had us write poetry. Most kids hated writing poetry, but I loved it. And the teacher noticed my poem. She said it was very interesting. She was worried the bunny was hurt. I told her how once, when I was younger, we found a baby bunny in our yard. It was hurt. Daddy helped it. Still, it didn’t live. I was sad but couldn’t stop staring at its stiff yet floppy body. Daddy said that happens sometimes, that all things die. Like Mama? I had asked. He didn’t answer.

  My teacher smiled at me today. She said poetry is a way to show feelings. She said the poem was good. She said I did a wonderful job. This time, I think I believed her.

  We had to have rhyming words in it. I like rhyming. Rhyming is like cat and hat. Jump and bump. Caboose and noose.

  I made the last one up. I don’t know where I heard the word noose. I’ll have to ask my teacher what it is. But caboose is a train. Daddy and I went on a train once, a couple of years ago I think. I don’t remember why. Writing the poem was easy. I showed it to Daddy. He liked it too. He put it on the fridge.

  He asked why the bunny was hurt.

  I said I didn’t know. It just came to me. I don’t think he remembers the bunny from a while ago. When did that happen?

  Here is my poem Diary. I hope you like it. Maybe I will write more poems tonight instead of watching TV. Daddy said it would be okay to break the routine. I get nervous when the schedule is different, but he told me to work on my poetry if it made me happy. He said we all need an outlet to express ourselves.

  So maybe I will write more. But here is that poem.

  Stay Safe,

  Ruby

  Little bunny in the flowers.

  He rests for hours.

  White as a cloud.

  He isn’t loud.

  Soft like a shirt.

  The bunny is hurt.

  October 2, 2009

  6:57 p.m.

  Dear Diary,

  Daddy has been really tired
lately. We get home from work and school and eat dinner and do homework. And sometimes after I’m done writing, I go out to the living room and he’s asleep already.

  I worry about him. He has been quieter than usual. Last night, he was too tired to read Goodnight Moon. It made me sad and mad at the same time. I read it to myself, but it wasn’t the same.

  Sometimes Daddy gets in these moods, these weird little funks, as Grandma likes to say. He pulls away. It usually happens in October. I don’t know why. Grandma told me October is hard for Daddy and to be patient and good. I asked her why but she just shriveled up her weird looking face. The wrinkles got deeper and she shook her head and told me not to ask that question.

  October is hard, but sometimes March is bad for Daddy, too. The picture, the one that was in his room that I stole, the one of Daddy and Mama . . . it has a date on it. March 12th. I wonder why that date is important. I want to ask him but I am afraid. He seems upset and I don’t want to bug him. I hate it when people ask me questions when I’m upset. So I’ve tried to be quiet and good and follow the rules as I always do.

  I wonder if Daddy gets lonely. I sometimes do at school when the kids are mean and won’t talk to me. But at home, it’s okay. I like it just me and him. I don’t like talking to other people anyway because it’s really hard and they get confused and I get mad. But Daddy isn’t like me. He doesn’t mind talking to people. At least when we grocery shop or go to the Post Office or to the hardware store for supplies, he talks to people. He smiles at them and asks how they are. Everyone in town seem to like him. But Daddy never really has anyone over. Not except the ladies in the garage.

  He used to have a guy from work who came over sometimes. His name was Pete. He would come over on Fridays and drink a beer with Daddy and they would watch TV. But then Pete stopped coming over. I don’t know what happened or why. I should ask Daddy.

  So now it is just me and Daddy, all the time. When Grandma isn’t butting her big butt in.

  I like that it’s mostly just us. I wonder if Daddy gets sad though. I wonder if that is why he gets moody in October. I wonder if he misses Mama. I wonder so many things.