The Diary of a Serial Killer's Daughter

by L. A. Detwiler

  I almost think about turning him in for working out his own demons in the garage. Stupid girl. Stupid Ruby.

  I want to cry or vomit or both. I want to run to Daddy and tell him his secret is safe, that I’ll help him keep it safe. But I can’t do that. I know I need to stay strong. I need to learn a lesson from this. I hate that I’m using Grandma’s phrase. She tells me that when I get frustrated and break a glass or spill something on my shirt or trip over something when I’m not paying attention. Stupid Grandma thinks those are lesson-worthy moments.

  No, Grandma. This is a lesson to learn.

  No one is actually on your side. No one. Most of us go through life alone, not really knowing the people we think we know.

  I’m lucky, though, because I have such a special Daddy who loves me forever. Whom I can trust unconditionally. He’ll never go away—not if I’m careful. I’ll make sure of it. He would never leave me like Mr. Pearson did.

  So I’ll keep writing my poetry—but I’ll write the words I want to write. Who needs inspirational writing when the truth can shine through the darkness just as well if not better?

  I’ll keep an eye on Daddy, too, and make sure he doesn’t make any mistakes. When you’re that close to your work, it’s easy to overlook something. I’ll be his editor of sorts, like Mr. Pearson was for me. I’ll watch his work and improve it when there’s a crack that could get him in trouble. I’ll stay vigilant and keep my focus on Daddy, so that I can help him if I ever need to.

  I’ll stay on the fringes, where I belong, so I don’t risk losing what matters most.

  Stay Safe,

  Ruby

  Her veins were whole

  Her blood stayed in

  The razor blade didn’t cut her tongue

  Until he wanted it to.

  A cold, dark night

  With sludge dripping from the stars

  And black blood tinging the red, cold and thin.

  Her lips bulged and her tongue broke forth

  But no sounds to be heard, no silence either

  Only the spilling of

  Not-so-innocent truth

  Into the red.

  Part VII

  2018

  16 years old

  February 3, 2018

  7:57 p.m.

  Dear Diary,

  We visited Mama’s grave today for her birthday. She’s buried in a little cemetery in town. It’s near the church where Daddy married her. We go every year on her birthday. I think Daddy goes other times, too.

  I used to sit and trace the letters, the numbers on the tiny stone in the ground, wondering where Mama was. Now that I know she’s here, I understand that it’s more than just a stone in the ground with her name on it. It’s where she is, has been, since that October day she killed herself. I wonder what it was like for Daddy to see her coffin lowered into the ground, to see them bury her six feet under. I wonder what it was like from Mama’s perspective, to be lowered into her final spot in the damp, cold earth. Could she see us gathered around? Was she afraid?

  I think back to those diary pages, the ones I came across. I think about the words she wrote and about what a dark place she was in. Most of all, I think about how close I came to being six feet under, too. It’s odd to think about, so I try not to think about it too much.

  What would Daddy have done?

  Would he have hanged himself, too? I don’t know. I wish I could ask him.

  Standing at the grave today, Daddy looked sadder than usual. I thought he was going to cry. I don’t understand why he’s struggling so much again. It’s like things are shifting in him, like the older I get, the more he slips. I’m worried. It makes me angry that Mr. Pearson tried to talk me into going away to college. I could never leave Daddy, that much is obvious now.

  Daddy stood at the grave as the sun was setting. I kicked at a chunk of snow under my boots as Daddy set down the yellow rose he bought at the corner grocery store. One sad rose. That’s all Mama gets now. It’s pitiful, really. The women in the field at least have glorious, rambling trees and beautiful wildflowers in the spring. Mama just gets a sad, dying rose once in a while and all of these gross tombstones for company. I feel sorry for her.

  But I’m also not sad for her. I’m glad she’s here. Because if she hadn’t died when she did, things could have been so, so different. For all of us. And I don’t think it would have been a good different like I used to think when I was young and naïve.

  Daddy and I stood for a long time, the silence dancing between us comfortably like it always does. This time, though, the hairs on my neck prickled. I scratched at them. Something felt different, tenser.

  Finally, after a long time, Daddy whispered into the whipping winter wind, barely audible, “I’m sorry.”

  I was confused at first. I thought he was talking to me. But his eyes were lasered in on the gravestone.

  “Why are you sorry? Mama killed herself.” The words spewed out before I could stop them. I wanted to shove them back down my throat, my red mittens actually moving upward to try to do just that. It was too late, though. Sometimes it’s too late.

  Daddy rubbed his hand through his hair before turning to me. I think he had forgotten I was there. He looked embarrassed.

  “It’s complicated Ruby. There’s a lot you don’t know about her. It doesn’t matter now, though. I love you.”

  And yet, there is a lot I know about her, if diaries are to be believed after all.

  I knew the time had passed, nevertheless, to ask Daddy to explain. The case was closed. I needed to let it go. But his words mingled with the icy air, stabbing into me with a newfound clarity and confusion at the same time. Like a paradox, something Mr. Pearson taught us at school before he disappeared.

  Mama was an enigma, a paradox in her own right. I think I’m better off not knowing her. But Daddy is an enigma, too. And even though the diary from the attic painted a clearer picture of Mama than I’d ever had, I still don’t know the woman. I don’t owe her anything.

  Daddy does, though. He loved her unconditionally. Maybe he still does love her. I realize that now. I recognize that when you love someone, you’d give anything for them. Daddy just couldn’t give Mama enough to make her stay. What does that feel like? I hope I never have to find out.

  It still doesn’t quite answer all my questions, though. It doesn’t help me understand how it all played out. How am I still here? Why did Mama leave me behind? Maybe Grandma’s been correct this whole time about who Mama was and who she wasn’t—a sad realization in its own right.

  Could it all be my fault? I complicated things. Mama never wanted to be a mom, not to someone like me. That much is becoming clearer.

  And then a thought struck me.

  Is that why Daddy is sorry? Did he choose me over Mama? And what did that choice mean for her? Questions swirled and zigzagged, mixing in and out with memories, with things that didn’t happen—or things that maybe did. I stared at the stone in the ground, the ice-cold stone, and then turned and walked away. Mama didn’t deserve our warmth. Mr. Pearson didn’t deserve my warmth.

  No one deserves anything except Daddy. That’s become clear now. At least one thing is certain in life. At least one thing.

  Stay Safe,

  Ruby

  March 1, 2018

  7:57 p.m.

  Dear Diary,

  In school today, we learned about the hanging tree, the one in Salem where the witches were executed. Daddy has his own hanging tree at his disposal, right in the field with all of the beautifully dead women.

  Today, I thought he was going to use the hanging tree—on me. But there would be no memorial for me, I realized. There would be no one to miss me or a creepy statue to show the world I had been here. There would just be my little book of poems and you, Diary, to tell my story. What story would that be? Suddenly, today, I realized how little I’ve done. I’m not really leaving my mark in life, not like Daddy. Of course, is he really leaving a mark? Like my poetry, no one recognizes his
masterpieces, his skills. Are talents held in secret really talents at all? Are masterpieces truly magnificent if no one gets to appreciate them? These were the questions I thought about when I locked myself in my room after dinner to escape Daddy’s rage.

  I haven’t seen him this angry, not at me. Not ever—at least not like this. I don’t understand what’s happening. I feel horrible for making him so mad. Did Mama ever make him this mad? I bet she did. I bet those diary pages made him mad when he read them.

  I did something bad tonight, it’s true. Daddy was out in his garage working on something—tidying, he told me. I know the truth. He’s probably preparing it, making sure it’s just right for the next round of the game.

  I was bored and didn’t feel like walking or writing today. So I decided to do something I shouldn’t have. I really shouldn’t have. I went into Daddy’s office. It’s in his bedroom. I don’t usually go in there. Daddy says bedrooms are private. It’s not dangerous or locked like the garage. But it’s private. I respect his privacy just like he respects mine. It’s an unspoken rule between us, one I violated today. Why did I do it? What’s been driving me? It’s like the unspeakable force usurping Daddy is getting its fangs into me as well.

  His bedroom is downstairs, in the back corner of the house. It’s good because sometimes Daddy snores when he sleeps, which would bother me. But I don’t really hear it from my room, so that makes me happy. When the fan isn’t keeping me up or the wind or the crickets, I don’t hear him. I can sleep peacefully.

  I wandered back, though. I don’t know why. Maybe I’ve just been curious if he has more of Mama’s words hidden in there. Maybe I wonder if I can get to know more about her if I find them. But I decided to do some digging, to see what I could find. A girl has a right to know these things, even if her mother was a monster, right? I need to know. I have to figure out if I’m going to become like her, which would be worse than becoming Daddy. At least Daddy has technique, has skill. At least Daddy never left me.

  I was looking at his bookshelves when I saw them. How hadn’t I noticed them? Books on so many interesting things.

  Torture devices.

  Poison.

  Ted Bundy and Gacy and serial killers of all varieties. It was so interesting. I ran my hands over the titles, books we don’t have in our school library. I pulled one down, the one on serial killers. It had a worn cover and looked quite dilapidated, shoved in the far corner of a middle shelf.

  When I went to open the pages, a photograph fell out.

  A picture of the black-bobbed hair woman. A familiar face from the past staring back up at me. I couldn’t stop studying the picture, like it was the Holy Grail.

  Beautiful. Shiny. Stunning. Like no portrait I’ve ever seen. Museum-worthy.

  I’d almost forgotten how beautiful she was. I tucked the picture back in after a long moment, after I’d convinced myself it was now carved in my memory. I thought about taking it, about adding it to my collection. But they are in his collection. I couldn’t take what’s not mine. He might need them.

  I slid the book back, pulling out the poison book instead. I’ve never learned too much about poison. I wonder if Daddy’s ever used it? I glanced through the pages, shaking it. No photographs in this one. I was so caught up in the pages that I must not have heard the door, must not have heard the footsteps. I hear everything. How could I be so careless?

  Before I could even think about what was going on, I was on the ground, the book out of my hands. The wind was knocked out of me as my back hit the ground. One moment I was reading about cyanide, the next I was staring up at Daddy’s red, red face.

  “What the fuck is this, Ruby? What the fuck?” His face was red, but not my favorite color of red. This was an ugly red, an angry red. A deadly red.

  “S-sorry Daddy. S-sorry.” I choked and sputtered on the words, terror causing my stomach to drop. I had to fix it. How could I fix it?

  He slammed the book on the desk, his hands shaking visibly. He paced back and forth.

  “What did you touch? What did you take?” He didn’t offer to help me up. My stomach roiled with tension, with fear. He looked like he was going to snap. I pictured the saw in the garage biting into my flesh. What would it feel like? Would I pass out before the pain became unbearable? Would he paint me beautifully on the floor like the others? Which part of the field would he bury me in? Would he take a museum-worthy photograph of me, too? Which book would he keep mine in?

  “S-sorry, Daddy. Just that one.”

  “Just this one?” he asked, picking it up, shoving it in my face.

  I nodded.

  “You swear to me?”

  “Y-yes.” A lie. A white lie, I told myself. To protect a relationship. If Daddy killed me, who would save him if he needed help, an alibi? I needed to stay where I was. I didn’t care about me. I cared about him.

  “Don’t fucking lie to me, Ruby.”

  “I-I don’t lie,” I lied. Who was I becoming? My head started to spin, my thoughts grabbing onto the lies I just told. I squeezed my fists, trying to sit up. He put a foot on my chest and shoved me back down. I felt myself gasping for breath.

  “Stay the fuck out of my stuff, Ruby. You hear me? It’s important.”

  Tears fell from my eyes. “I’m sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry.” I couldn’t stop the sorries. They poured out like water from a fast-flowing pitcher, like the droplets in our leaky faucet in the upstairs bathroom. Daddy took his foot off my chest, his hands grabbing his hair and pulling like he was going to yank it out. He walked himself to the corner, banging his head on the wall as a guttural scream of agony escaped from his lips. It sounded like a wounded animal, and I hated it more than the words he’d spewed at me. I hated to hear Daddy weak and aggravated and upset. I missed the strong, stoic man I knew and loved. I hated that I’d lied to him. Most of all, I hated myself for causing his anger.

  “Daddy, please,” I said. He turned and looked at me. And it’s like the words triggered him, incited him to return to the Daddy I always knew.

  “Jesus, Ruby, I’m sorry. Fuck. I’m such a fuck-up. I’m sorry.” He held out his hand, and my eyes landed on his wrist. The red bracelet, dirty and faded now, still sat on his wrist. All these years later, he still had that bracelet. He wears it often, even though it’s fraying and ready to fall apart. I should make him a new one.

  I took Daddy’s hand, my racing heartbeat calming at the touch of his fingers on mine. Warm. Strong. Daddy’s hands, for once, were a comfort.

  I wanted him to pull me into him, something I never liked. I yearned for him to assure me it was okay, that he loved me. I wanted to tell him that I knew what the books were actually for, that it was fine. He didn’t need to protect me. I knew everything there was to know, and I loved him for it.

  I didn’t want him to worry. Clearly, he was fretting about protecting me from the garage game. I’d let him feel like he was doing his job. I would let Daddy be the strong one keeping me safe. Like he couldn’t keep Mama safe. He always, though, kept me safe. He always does. I’ll return the favor. Always. No matter what it costs.

  “You need to ask before you take my stuff, okay? It’s just, this stuff is dark.”

  I nodded.

  “I wanted to go into criminal law once,” Daddy said. I wondered if it was true, or if he was trying to save our relationship. I just nodded, the white lie a wispy cloud fogging up the space between us. I could almost see it floating in the air, becoming thicker and thicker as it shoved us apart.

  “That’s why I have them. But they’re gory and full of monsters, Ruby. The world is full of evil. You shouldn’t face it if you don’t need to. You’re safe here. Always safe.”

  “I know, Daddy.” And I did. I knew I was safe with him, safest of all.

  “I’d do anything to protect you.”

  “I know, Daddy.” And I’d do anything to protect you, I thought.

  He walked me out of the bedroom, and I announced I was going to go write. Daddy nodded. I’ve bee
n up here since then. Daddy seems to have calmed down, but there’s still a detectable, malicious friction brewing. I can sense it like a smog in the air. I can almost see its blackness oozing on his skin, floating out of the pupils in his mystifying eyes.

  I brought him back today. He didn’t hurt me. What happens, however, if I can’t bring him back? What happens if the monster inside of him wins?

  I’ll be in the field. That’s what. If he knows what I know, he’ll have no choice in his mind. He’ll have to protect me from the monster in my world—himself.

  Daddy’s a complicated man. That’s what Mr. Pearson would say. But we’ve all got our troubles, our quirks, and our needs. I just need to be more careful. I need to help Daddy more with his.

  Stay Safe,

  Ruby

  March 20, 2018

  7:57 p.m.

  Dear Diary,

  I wish I’d read all of Daddy’s poison book. I wish I’d told him what I know—so he could help me start my own game. Daddy’s not the monster in my world. Nor am I.

  It’s Clarissa. She’s the monster.

  Daddy said my hair looks fine. He says it makes me look older. But I hate it. Mama’s hair was long and flowing like a mermaid. So was mine. Now it’s just a hacked-off boy haircut because of that bitch. And Mr. Pearson’s substitute watched it all. She did nothing about it.

  She watched Clarissa spit her gum into my hair. She watched her collect Paul’s gum and Chloe’s gum and Sarah’s gum in our row and stick it in my long, red locks. She watched me yell at Clarissa and cry and slam my fists on the desk.

  Mr. Pearson would have put Clarissa in her place. He would have kicked her out and told her to never come back after the first wad. But the substitute just kept her huge, ugly plane window glasses on the seating chart and mumbled all nervous-like about Chaucer. She pretended she had no idea what was going on while Clarissa giggled wildly and told me Daddy would never want to sleep with me now that I looked like a boy—or maybe he would. And the substitute did something even worse—she kicked me out of the class for swearing and yelling at Clarissa.

  Daddy’s furious. He’s threatening a lawsuit.