The Diary of a Serial Killer's Daughter

by L. A. Detwiler

  I went in the attic.

  The attic doesn’t have rules like the garage, but mostly because Daddy knows I won’t go up there. Too claustrophobic up there. Too tight. The stairs are creepy, and I hate the dusty smell. But I’ve seen some movies where the attic is where people store all their memory books and mementos. I thought maybe I could find something of Mama’s. I don’t know why I didn’t think about it before. I thought, though, that maybe up there, I could find something of Mama’s that could prove Clarissa wrong, that could teach me about the red-haired woman who is a complete stranger to me.

  I crawled up, shoving down the fear and the feeling screaming at me to turn around because I hoped that I would find something to answer the burning questions within me.

  And boy did I.

  Daddy has a box. I found it way, way, way in the back corner, underneath an old tablecloth. I don’t even really know how I came across it, but I did. Maybe Mama wanted me to find it. Then again, I don’t believe in ghosts and all that nonsense. It must have just been dumb luck. I never understood how luck could be smart or dumb, but that’s how the saying goes as Grandma likes to remind me. I scavenged through the box hurriedly, knowing I didn’t have much time. The store is a bit of a drive since we live so far out, but Daddy wouldn’t be gone long. He liked to get in and out of the store, just grab what he needed. I flipped through some items, my fingers feeling all of the textures and assessing them. There was a slippery silk dress in there, the fabric cool to the touch. A metal jewelry box cradled a few rings, its design making it prickly and cold. At the bottom were some photos, scattered about. My eyes danced over images of Mama and Daddy, and even a few of me as a little girl.

  Then, Diary, at the very bottom, there was a black leather book.

  And guess what? It was a Diary, just like you. My heart pounded at the sight. It was like spotting a familiar friend out in public. There was one difference between Mama’s Diary and you. Mama only wrote two pages. I wonder if she didn’t like writing after all. And I know diaries are secret, but I couldn’t help myself. It was like a window into Mama I’d been searching for.

  I read the words. My hands started shaking.

  I read them again, and again, and again.

  I felt the sobs coming. I was shocked by what she wrote. Mostly, though, I was devastated by the fact that even after reading them, after uncovering the window into Mama . . . I realized that I understood even less than before.

  I read the words again. I read them one more time. Then, with shaking hands, I closed the box. I worked really hard to make it look like I wasn’t there, but I took the diary. I had to take it with me. Those words, Diary, they’re lodged in my head. They’re swirling over and over and over until I’m dizzy. A part of me wishes I could forget them. A part of me hates Clarissa even more. If she hadn’t said that today, I wouldn’t have gone up in the attic. And maybe then I wouldn’t have these complex, horrid words pounding in my head.

  Daddy came home and I was in my room. He asked what was wrong. I shook my head. He must’ve assumed I was having a bad day. But he has no idea.

  Actually, he does have an idea. He does. He’s known all along.

  I love Daddy still. I’ll do anything for him. But suddenly, I realize that Mama’s not the only one I know so little about. Because all this time, Daddy’s been keeping more secrets than I could’ve ever imagined. He’s been keeping Mama’s secrets. And that hurts worse than anything. Worse than anything.

  Stay Safe,

  Ruby

  November 16, 2017

  7:57 p.m.

  Dear Diary,

  I don’t know if it’s Mama’s writing that’s done it or if I’m just tired, but I almost messed up. In Daddy’s words when he’s really mad, I almost fucked up today.

  It could’ve been so bad.

  Mr. Pearson was talking in class today about the horrible news. Apparently, a lady named Lucinda Barley went missing last month, around October 28th. It turns out, she’s his neighbor’s cousin, and Mr. Pearson said his neighbor is really upset. Lucinda was a bartender working about forty minutes from here in a town called West Hill. She lived alone and didn’t check in much with family. I guess she had a reputation for picking up and going on adventures. The bar didn’t even report her missing until last week.

  Mr. Pearson was talking about how awful it was, how distraught his neighbor is. It made me feel really bad. Super bad. Mr. Pearson recently taught Crime and Punishment, and we talked about the idea of guilt in the book. It’s been a hard concept for me to understand, but now I think I get it. Because here’s the thing, Diary. Mr. Pearson showed us the news story today. He likes to talk about current events. He likes to build what he calls empathy. Plus, he says everything relates to English and he hopes by sharing Lucinda’s picture, maybe she can be found.

  My classmates were sleepy, only half paying attention as the brunette’s picture flashed on the screen. But I jolted right up in my seat. My hands were shaking, and I couldn’t look for very long.

  Because I’ve seen Lucinda before, Diary.

  In the garage.

  And now I feel guilty. Because I want to tell Mr. Pearson so his neighbor doesn’t have to worry. But then I feel guilty for wanting to tell—because what would happen to Daddy?

  Mr. Pearson says if something happened, the person will get caught. I had to fight the urge to run out of the room. I don’t want to look guilty. I don’t want Mr. Pearson knowing I have any connection. Because if anyone figures it out, Daddy will be taken away. He will suffer. I can’t let that happen. I have to stay strong in order for us to stay safe. I know that, Diary. But it was so hard.

  Lately, I’ve been wondering if the killing game is worth it. Is it worth risking our family for? Does Daddy think about that, about how much he is risking? Does he even care?

  I wonder if Mama would be upset if she could see us now. I bet she would be. Her diary still keeps playing on repeat in my head if I let it. I push the words aside. I don’t want to think about them or Lucinda or Mr. Pearson’s neighbor or Daddy going away. I don’t. I just want to put on my red boots and splash in puddles like when I was little. I want to be young again. I want to do it all over. I want to go back to when the garage felt like just a fun game. I want to go back to when I thought the women were just sleeping and Daddy was invincible, could never be taken away from me. I want to go back to before the Diary I found, back to when Mama was just a giant, peaceful mystery.

  Maybe I would do it differently if I went back. Maybe I’d ask Daddy to stop. Maybe I’d ask to leave. Maybe I’d tell him I knew so he’d have no choice but to quit.

  Maybe I could have changed it all.

  Maybe if I wasn’t who I am, Mama could’ve stayed and Daddy would be different.

  So many maybes. But maybes don’t always come true, obviously. Life is what it is. That’s what Grandma always says. She came over tonight. It’s like she can sniff out danger—or maybe she just gets bored and wants to annoy us. But Daddy didn’t throw her out.

  We sat and watched the news. Grandma talked about Lucinda. I saw Daddy’s eye twitch, but Grandma didn’t. She’s clueless. Then again, maybe she’s not. I don’t know what to trust or believe anymore. All I know is I can’t let this all crash around me. I can’t lose him. Because I love him. I do love him.

  And sometimes love makes us do delusional things. Sometimes it makes us go to the extreme. Sometimes it makes us turn a blind eye . . . or blind another’s eye for it.

  Stay Safe,

  Ruby

  November 20, 2017

  7:57 p.m.

  Dear Diary,

  I’ve never thought much about what life after high school will be like. I don’t like change, and in truth, it scares me. But sometimes, Mr. Pearson talks about it with the class and even with me after class. Sometimes, he makes me wonder: could my life be different, and could that be a good thing?

  Of course, Mr. Pearson doesn’t know the truth about my life. He can’t know. I would neve
r betray Daddy like that. Still, I sometimes think about what it might be like if Mr. Pearson was my dad instead.

  Stupid girl. What a horrible person I am. I hate that I even wrote that. I should scratch it out of the paper. How could I ever betray Daddy like that? He’s so good to me. He loves me. I love him.

  Still, if I’m being honest, sometimes I wonder: if Daddy didn’t have his secret life, could things be different? Could I be different? Could the future, my future, be different? And do I even want that? I always have a lot of questions, and Mr. Pearson says it’s good to be inquisitive. He encourages us to be filled with wonder. But these questions, they’re hard and they make me uncomfortable. I don’t like thinking about these kind of what ifs.

  I think sometimes I scare Mr. Pearson. I mean, I think I scare a lot of people. But I think lately, he’s been looking at me a little bit more warily. He talked to me the other day about how my poetry seems to be getting darker, how sometimes he worries about me. He also told me he knows about Mama. He meant the suicide. I think Mr. Pearson worries I might do that, too. But for me, the worries are different. I wanted to tell Mr. Pearson that I would never do that like my Mama did. I could never leave Daddy, not by choice. I know it would kill him.

  I wouldn’t follow in Mama’s footsteps—but I might follow Daddy’s.

  Is that such a bad thing? Daddy is happy and respected. He has a good life, right? And he’s so talented at what he does.

  Nevertheless, it’s also a lonely life, I think. Keeping that secret keeps him alienated, even from me a lot of the time. No one ever completely gets through those walls. I’ve lived my life keeping my own walls up, believing that’s what I want. Sometimes, though, talking to Mr. Pearson about literature and connections in the books we read, I wonder if that’s not quite true. I wonder if we all need to let our walls down completely with at least one other person. We all need to feel accepted and understood. We need to have honesty and openness. And if we don’t have that, what do we really have?

  A tiny piece of me worries that I’ll follow in Daddy’s footsteps and find myself walled off completely, forever, from everyone, even Daddy. Sure, I’m used to being alone. But the killing game is a different, darker kind of alone. It’s more isolating, more permanent. Once you start the game, I know there’s no going back. It’s like a hunger that’s been unleashed and Daddy just can’t seem to fight it, no matter how hard he tries. Look at how hard he tried. Years and years away, yet it still called him back in. It’s like a drug addiction of a deeper variety. It’s like the blackness within him is always wanting more.

  I know what you’re thinking. Why not choose a different life then? We all make choices, that’s what Mr. Pearson says. Do Daddy’s choices have to define mine?

  Mr. Pearson talks to me about so many possibilities. About going to college for writing, about building a poetry career that inspires others. That sounds nice. But I don’t know. I can’t picture leaving Daddy all alone. Who would look out for him? Who would help make sure he doesn’t get caught?

  And there’s something, else.

  Sometimes, when I see the way my hands shake or feel the rage surging within when Clarissa is rude to me, I wonder if it goes beyond just protecting Daddy. I sometimes wonder if it’s in my blood to enjoy the killing game, too. Like that time with Stacie, when I lost all control. Even though it felt like I couldn’t stop even if I wanted to, I knew it was also a desire, a thirst within me that drove me to draw the blood. I enjoyed it. I craved it, even.

  It’s a scary thought to be hungry for something you don’t quite understand—and that society never could. I wonder if someday the urge will be too strong, though, and I will paint my own masterpieces on the floor of the garage.

  I don’t know. It’s so confusing, and it’s been putting me in a bad mood. I’ve been having so many overwhelming moments now. I ran out of the school the other day in the middle of biology, only because the thoughts were pounding into my head. It’s like the Robert Frost poem, where I have two roads to travel down.

  One leads to an unknown destination, one that Mr. Pearson thinks could be great—but also would be a betrayal of Daddy, at least in my mind.

  One would lead me down the path towards a life like Daddy’s, which could be fulfilling in its own way. But will I feel that way later? It’s hard to imagine a life different than my own. It’s really hard, and I don’t even know if that’s what I would want. I feel pressure mounting about it all. But the worst of it?

  There’s been another thought creeping in, a tiny little inclination towards another, densely covered path.

  What if I told someone about Daddy?

  I shudder at the mere thought of it. It would be the ultimate disloyalty. My blood runs cold at the thought. I could never do that . . . could I? I could never turn in the man who has stood by me, who has done everything for me. I could never risk losing him. I could never risk going to a foster family or sending him to prison. I could never shred his happiness like that or stop him from doing what he loves. That would be so wrong, even more wrong than what happens in the garage or the lies we tell. Wouldn’t it?

  But a tiny little part of me wonders: If I told on Daddy, would Mr. Pearson step in? Would he take care of me? Would he help me onto a different path? Could Mr. Pearson love me the way Daddy loves me?

  I don’t know. It’s scary to think about. I love Daddy. I love him.

  I do.

  I do.

  I do.

  I do.

  I do.

  I do.

  I do.

  I just don’t know what life holds for me or where I should go next. And I hate that feeling of being lost. I hate it. Hate it. Hate it.

  Stay Safe,

  Ruby

  December 8, 2017

  2:57 p.m.

  Dear Diary,

  It’s been a really bad day. That’s why I’m writing early. I’m in my room, stewing. I thought maybe writing would help calm me down because otherwise, I’m going to snap.

  I almost betrayed him.

  Almost.

  I almost chose Mr. Pearson over Daddy. What was I thinking? I’m so glad I didn’t. Here’s the thing, Diary. Daddy isn’t what he seems, not to other people. They don’t know all his secrets, all his talents, all his darkness like I do. But I’ve learned today that everyone, everyone, everyone has secrets. No one is who they seem. And for all of his dark tendencies, Daddy has one thing they don’t.

  Love. Love for me, above all else. How could I be so stupid to not give that in return? How could I be worrying about Mr. Pearson, wondering what it would be like to be his daughter when I have the perfect dad? To think I almost let his talk about inspirational writing and college get to me. I was a fool. A damn fool.

  I went into school today and there was a substitute in English class. Again. Fifth day. I thought maybe Mr. Pearson was sick or something. But then Clarissa started talking before class started about where Mr. Pearson really is.

  He’s gone. Like gone for good. Word has it he got arrested for doing some pretty bad things, naked things, with a former student. She is in eleventh grade now, but she was in tenth grade when it happened. She liked poetry, just like me.

  Everyone was talking about how Mr. Pearson is a slimy jerk who takes advantage of stupid girls. They talked about how he preys on girls who crave attention, makes them believe they’re special so he can do things with them. I couldn’t take it. I didn’t even tell the sub where I was going. I just ran out of the room, out of the building, out of town. I ran and ran until I got to a tiny café, where I sat until the principal found me.

  Daddy came and picked me up. He didn’t ask questions on the way home. Maybe the principal told him what was going on. I don’t know.

  When we finally pulled into the driveway, though, Daddy looked at me. “Ruby, listen. I know he was your favorite teacher. I’m sorry he’s not what he seemed.” And then he let me stomp up to my room.

  Here’s the thing—I don’t know why I though
t he was different. I know people aren’t what they seem. Not just because of Daddy, but because I’ve always spent my life on the edges. Observing, never a true part of anything. Watching, but never doing. I’ve learned from my position on the outer edges of my peers that everyone is wearing a mask. I guess I just wanted to believe Mr. Pearson when he said he saw something in me, that he thought I had options. Everyone likes to feel like they have options, like they could be something special. He made me believe for the first time in my life that at some point down the road, people might notice me. People might not laugh at Ruby or pity Ruby or talk about how frustrating Ruby is. They’d see me, if not me personally, then my writing.

  But that’s all gone now. Mr. Pearson’s gone. I hate school again. I hate myself. How could I be so stupid?

  I’m mostly frustrated that I fell for Mr. Pearson’s garbage. I thought about turning Daddy in. Just writing that makes me squirm. How could I do that? He is everything to me. Everything. He needs me. How could I abandon him?

  Daddy’s never turned his back on me. Never. Sure, you could argue he leaves me in the evenings. But that’s only because he thinks I’m sleeping safely in my bed, that he won’t be missed. He’s always here when I need him. Like today. He left work to come get me because I just couldn’t be at school. He’s there, patiently waiting for me to cool off, when something triggers me. He listens to me work through my memories that are all jumbled when I’m trying to figure out how to ask him something I can’t quite put into words. He’s there to tell people where to go when they’re rude to me in public. He never runs away when I embarrass him—which I know I do. He never gets mad when I’m going through one of my repetitions or throwing a fit because the chicken tenders aren’t the perfect texture.

  He’s there for me through all of my demons. The older I get, the more I recognize those parts of my personality for what they sometimes are. He loves me unconditionally. There’s nothing I could do that would make him stop.

  And what do I give him in return?