The Diary of a Serial Killer's Daughter

by L. A. Detwiler

  “What are you talking about?” Daddy uttered as the principal handed a piece of paper across to him. Mrs. Vickers sat perched like an eagle in her seat, looking down her shrivelled, twisted nose at me.

  I didn’t understand. My heart beat wildly. My poem was good. I knew it was—it was probably the best poem I’d written up to that point. Surely Daddy would see that. It was good, wasn’t it? I hated that Mrs. Vickers and the kids in class had me doubting the one thing that made me feel proud. I hated that they were taking even that away from me.

  I tried to calm down, twisting my hands, wringing them and wringing them like they were full of lemonade I could squeeze out. The chair felt itchy, scratchy on my legs. I was wearing shorts because it was hot and I didn’t like to be too hot. I wiggled my toes in my red rain boots. It wasn’t raining, but they were the only shoes I liked wearing. They were comfortable and they were red. And I could wiggle my toes inside them and no one could see. I wiggled and counted, wiggled and counted. I looked at my watch, lighting it up over and over again. Suddenly, the principal’s office felt too small. It felt like it was squishing me, constricting me to the point I could barely breath. I fought the urge to jump out of my seat and run away. I didn’t want to leave Daddy.

  “I don’t see the problem,” Daddy said finally after looking across the table. “She’s being creative.”

  “It’s dark,” Mrs. Vickers murmured, as if she had to get her two-sense in. “Ruby, dear, why did you write this?” she asked then, as if I was on her team instead of Daddy’s.

  I just shrugged. I wrote it because that’s what I wanted to write. I didn’t need to defend that to her. She clearly didn’t understand poetry.

  “Now, there’s nothing threatening and there’s nothing that seems to suggest self-harm, as our guidance counsellor has noted. There’s nothing to warrant a call to CYS at this time, but we’re worried about Ruby’s mental state. This sort of thing isn’t typical for a girl her age, and we worry. Especially with her . . . condition.”

  Daddy’s breathing intensified, his face melting into a look of anger. He stood from his chair, and my heart stopped.

  “Ruby, come with me.” He reached for my hand, leading me out of the office. “Wait here, okay?” he asked kindly, motioning to a seat in the office.

  And then he shut the door.

  He wanted to protect me, I think. But the door was too thin and Daddy was too angry.

  Like an explosion, Daddy screamed at the principal. Principal should be careful. I wondered what he would look like out flat on the table in the garage. Him and Mrs. Vickers. It almost made me hope for it to happen.

  Daddy’s voice was barely muffled. I stared straight ahead, listening to him tell the principal and Mrs. Vickers what he thought.

  “Listen to me. That girl is amazing at poetry. It’s her outlet. I’ve dealt with your fucking horrible comments about Ruby and your grossly inadequate teachers not understanding her because this is supposed to be an excellent school. It’s supposed to give my daughter the best chance at success. But I will not have you threatening to call CYS because she writes poetry that is beyond your fucking imbecilic minds, and I won’t have you citing her condition like there’s something wrong with her. She doesn’t have a fucking condition. She just sees the world differently. She’s special. That’s what she is.”

  I beamed that Daddy yelled at the principal like that, even using the words we’re not supposed to use in public. Suddenly, the principal didn’t seem so scary. I was glad Daddy was on my side, always on my side.

  “Mr. Marlowe, I need you to calm down or I’m going to have to call security,” the principal said. It was a total power move, but he should’ve just stayed quiet. With Daddy in the room, there was no way he was gaining the power—especially not with Daddy so angry.

  “Call your goddamn security officer for all I care. And I’ll call the media and tell them how you’re harassing my child. Unbelievable.”

  “Mr. Marlowe, we know Ruby has been through a lot, with what happened to her mother and all.”

  “Don’t you fucking talk about my wife like that,” Daddy barked, and I imagined Mrs. Vickers turning ten shades of pale. They’d overstepped, and she knew it.

  The door flew open, the poem in Daddy’s hand. “Come on, Ruby, let’s go home. We’re done here.”

  I stood from my chair, still wringing my hands. I didn’t look in the principal’s office, didn’t make eye contact with the principal or my teacher. At the door to the main office, Daddy turned.

  “You ever give my girl a hard time again, you ever call CYS on me because of her poetry, you’re not going to like what happens.”

  “Is that a threat?” the principal asked, but I could hear the terror in the way his voice was shaking.

  “It’s a fucking promise.” And with that, we left.

  Daddy was shaking the whole way home. Raging.

  “Sorry, Daddy. I’m sorry,” I said, looking out the window, wishing I could take it all back. I hated that I’d caused Daddy this problem, this inconvenience. It was a good poem, though, wasn’t it?

  “I’m sorry, Ruby. I’m sorry I didn’t give you better. We should’ve went and looked for a different school district. We should’ve. But I can’t move away. I just can’t leave our house, you know? I can’t leave there. I’m sorry.”

  He was rambling, talking faster and faster like he did that one night I caught him come home empty handed. Daddy was so upset, he flew through a stop sign. He is the most careful driver. It isn’t like him.

  “I’m fine there, Daddy,” I murmured, and I knew I could be. I could do anything for Daddy.

  I knew why we couldn’t leave. Daddy murmured on and on about how the house was the last place Mama was alive, and how he couldn’t leave. But I knew the truth. Mama’s spirit could go anywhere. But the bodies of those ladies couldn’t. And if someone found their hiding spot, Daddy could be in major trouble for real. Bigger than if CYS came in.

  “You keep writing your poems, Ruby. I’m proud of you. They’re really good.”

  I beamed. He was proud. That’s all I could ask for. From now on, I didn’t need to share them at school. I’d write them for myself, for Daddy sometimes. I didn’t need Mrs. Vickers or the stupid kids at school to see them.

  “Ruby, just one question, though. What did inspire the poem?” Daddy asked, a look of concern plastered on his face.

  I alleviated the thoughts I knew he was thinking. “I don’t know, Daddy. It just comes to me. You know red is my favorite color.”

  He grinned, nodding, as if assured that he was doing all right after all. We’ll believe what we want to. It’s the thing I keep realizing over and over as I sit on my perch, away from everyone, observing. People will believe the story we sell to them, even if it clearly isn’t true.

  He took me out to dinner then, the diner at the edge of town that has the best chicken nuggets and fries. Then we went to a movie, which is something we usually don’t do because I don’t like being in a crowded place, but it thankfully was pretty empty. I think Daddy just was trying to calm himself down.

  It didn’t work, though. His hands are still trembly. I’m worried about him. I decided to show Daddy I could be flexible, maybe that would calm him. So that’s why I’m late writing.

  Stay Safe,

  Ruby

  Fingers, fingers,

  All about the room.

  Pointing, accusing, shaking at her.

  She pulls them off,

  One by little one.

  Red swirls and pools, all about the skin.

  Redness, redness,

  Swirling and swooping both without and within

  Her eyes dance at the sight.

  Eyes, eyes,

  All about the room.

  Staring, glaring, studying her.

  She takes the fork and plucks them out

  Watching them explode.

  Who is staring at her now with judgemental eyes?

  No one. They are all
still, all quiet, all redness of their own.

  October 16, 2013

  7:57 p.m.

  Dear Diary,

  I thought Daddy would go in the garage after the thing at the school. He didn’t.

  Even though it’s October, when he’s moodier than usual, he doesn’t go to the garage or go out after he thinks I’m sleeping. I know now that October is when Mama died. I think that’s why October is such a tough month for him. I think that’s why some years, the game takes place mostly in October. Some years, I think it’s so bad that it leaks into other months. But October is always a tough month, garage or not.

  Maybe the threat to call CYS scared him. I know what happens when they come in. Bernard, a boy in my class, had CYS called on his family. He doesn’t see his mom or dad anymore. He’s staying with some family that lives way out in the country. He only has two shirts, and he’s always hungry. Daddy doesn’t want that to happen.

  Even though I hate it when Daddy gets moody, I know it could be so much worse. The one girl at school, Brittany, talks sometimes about how her dad throws things when he’s angry. Sometimes she has bruises on her. I know I’m lucky. Daddy’s never like that, even when he’s got the quaking hands.

  I try to be good. I try not to disappoint Daddy. And I’ve kept writing, like he told me to.

  Daddy lets me venture out more now that I’m older. I think sometimes he likes the peace. I tell him I’m going for a walk. I love walking, love being outside in the fresh, quiet air. I feel like a part of something bigger when I’m out there. Watching the clouds roll by, peeking in on a tiny bee in a flower. There’s always so much to take in, but my senses don’t feel overwhelmed. Somehow, even with all the sights and sounds and smells, they feel just right out there without anyone around.

  I don’t tell Daddy I often end up in the field, the one in the woods. The one that he frequents, too. There’s something magical about being there, something comforting. It’s a true comfort to a frazzled spirit on days when things get too hard.

  I know I’m not alone, not completely—but the ladies don’t talk. It’s perfect for writing my poetry. It’s quiet and pretty. I wonder if they like it there as much as I do. Sometimes I ask them, but they don’t respond.

  They only sway the grasses, the branches of the trees. I smile as the sun beams down on me. I like their responses.

  Stay Safe,

  Ruby

  November 2, 2013

  8:57 p.m.

  Dear Diary,

  I’m sorry I’m a little late writing today. I never am late, but wow, do I have a story for you today. I was taking a walk after dinner. Daddy was preoccupied. He said he was tired and headed to the couch to watch TV. I don’t know why he’s so tired. It’s Saturday, and we had a lazy day at home. I don’t mind, though. I like my quiet time, out in the trees, in the field. I took my other journal just for poetry—I can’t risk losing you out there, after all—and headed to my spot.

  But on the way, I made an amazing discovery.

  A squirrel.

  Not just any squirrel. A dead squirrel. It was on its side on the ground, chew marks on it. Its fur was pulled off in pieces, and some pieces of red showed. I dropped my journal, crouching down to examine it. All the red. All the missing fur. It’s frozen face.

  It was fascinating.

  I’ve seen dead animals before, of course. I’ve seen the dead birds in the yard or the dead cats on the side of the road when we drive to the grocery store. I’ve seen dead bugs and dead dogs. I’ve seen dead women. But I don’t remember seeing a dead squirrel, not in that condition.

  I wished I had a camera with me, Daddy’s camera. I wished I was good at drawing so I could capture it. I stood, staring at it, taking it all in, and the idea came to me. I knew what I would do with it.

  I scooped it up on my notebook, it’s body a little smelly. I held it tightly on top of the notebook, feeling its matted fur. I’ve never pet a squirrel. What an experience. So soft.

  I walked behind the house, to the other side where the shed is. The shed I’m allowed in. I was really quiet, creeping through the yard with soft feet and gentle movements. I didn’t want Daddy seeing me. This was my game now, my secret. And there was no hole in the shed for anyone to see.

  I shut the door. It was dark and stuffy, so I cracked open the shed door just a bit. The shed doesn’t have a lot of space, not like the garage. And it doesn’t have tools. Not like Daddy’s. I would have to improvise.

  So I put the squirrel in there, resting in the corner by my bike. I would have to find some other things I needed. I would have to creep back inside the house.

  I wandered in the backdoor, tiptoeing when I heard Daddy snoring on the sofa. I didn’t want him to know. My heart pounded. Is that what he felt like? It was so exciting, like being in a spy movie or something. I felt alive to the core, trying to evade being caught as if my life depended on it. Maybe it did.

  I crept upstairs, found the ball of knitting yarn, and cut off a long, long piece. I tiptoed back downstairs, into the office area we have in a spare bedroom. I glanced around until I found it. The camera. Perfect.

  If Daddy found me, what would I say? Stupid girl, I thought. He won’t find me. I know how to sneak around. I’m a genius at this. Daddy’s a master in the garage, and I’m a master at sneaking about. We’ve both learned skills these past few years, both gotten a lot of practice. I made it outside, Daddy not even rustling. He must’ve been tired.

  Back in the shed with my amazing treasure, I realized how giddy I was. It wasn’t the same as Daddy, certainly. I had found the squirrel dead.

  But then again, maybe that’s what Daddy does? I can’t believe I haven’t thought of this before. Maybe he finds the women. I’ve always assumed he kills them, but what if, like the squirrel, he just happens upon them? Maybe when he ventures out, it’s like a grand scavenger hunt he’s playing until he finds what he’s looking for. Where does he find them? Is he helping someone else? Maybe what he’s doing is okay after all. I didn’t kill the squirrel. It’s not my fault I found it.

  I took my piece of rope and tied it around the squirrel’s neck, just like I’ve seen Daddy do. I found a nail tacked in the shed wall. I hung up the squirrel. I watched it dangle, dangle. Beautiful. If only there were blood spilling, it would be perfect. After all, I knew how to clean it.

  I realized I would have to prop the shed door open more so I got the right lighting. I popped it open more. This was risky. If Daddy woke up and poked his head outside, he would find me. And maybe he would know what I know. Maybe that would make him angry. Maybe he would tie me up too. The risk of being caught, though, made it so much more enthralling. Nothing risked, nothing gained like Grandma always says. She is usually talking about buying an extra Bingo card or playing the lottery. This game of chance is a little bit different. The stakes are higher.

  I hurriedly got the camera ready, snapping the picture of the dangling squirrel and then shaking the photo paper. The anticipation almost killed me.

  4:45 p.m. I looked at my glowing watch as I shook, waiting for 4:47 p.m. to look at it. Sevens are my favorite, of course. It’s the best number. The moment of truth came. The picture was perfect. Beautiful even. Frame-worthy. I wished I could show Daddy. Wouldn’t he be proud? But this would be my secret. I would stash it away, just like he does.

  I took the squirrel down from the nail and removed the yarn. Holding the body, I wondered what to do next. There was a moment of uncertainty before it hit me.

  I knew what to do. I knew exactly what to do.

  I wished I had the hedge clippers or a saw or something, but I guessed I didn’t need it. Squirrel was small enough to take care of without that. Still, I wanted to see the splatters.

  I carried the squirrel to the woods, past the spot I found him. I walked on and on to the field, to my field until I reached my tree. I didn’t have a shovel, but I used my hands. Right over the spot I first saw Daddy working. I dug a little in the ground, wishing we had a dog to he
lp me. Wouldn’t that be great for Daddy, if he had a dog? The one crossing guard who works at the school has a giant dog named Henry, just like the books we used to read in second grade. He would go to work with her sometimes. He didn’t really help, though. He just stood, slobbering in his spot while she directed traffic.

  But a dog could really help Daddy. It would lessen his work a lot. I’m sure it would help. Maybe I should ask for a puppy for my birthday. A big mastiff like Henry or like Mudge from the books.

  I placed the squirrel in his final resting spot. Now the lady from years ago would have a pet. Wasn’t that a great thing? I wondered if squirrels made okay pets. I wasn’t sure. I’d have to ask Daddy. I covered my work with dirt and some leaves, smiling at my ingenuity and staring at my photo the whole way home. I tucked it in the journal until I could get back here to you.

  But it still took me a while to write. Because I couldn’t stop staring. Daddy was still sleeping on the couch—he’s really tired. So I just kept looking at the photograph, studying every angle, every shadow, every line. Do you think Daddy does this? Does he get out his photos? Does it give him the same rush?

  I thought about how it must be more of a rush if you actually killed the squirrel—or lady—yourself. Imagine that, having a photo of that work. Amazing.

  I’m going to store the squirrel’s photo with you, Diary. What a collection we’re building. I wonder what we’ll add next.

  Stay Safe,

  Ruby

  She is a strand blowing in the wind,

  Floating, floating, floating,

  But going nowhere.

  She is nowhere.

  Darkness strangles her,

  But so does the light.

  Where does she belong?

  Where does she fit?

  One place calls her in,

  Molding to her like a second self.

  Only one place.

  But sometimes that’s enough.

  Part V

  2014