The Diary of a Serial Killer's Daughter

by L. A. Detwiler

  Yesterday, I got Daddy to drop me off at the library. I had some researching to do. It took me a while, but I dug up the newspapers from the archives from that date. October 10, 2004. A few days after Mama’s death date.

  It was vague, Mama’s obituary. It talked about how she died suddenly. That was code word for suicide, or at least that’s what I’d surmise. It talked about her daughter left behind. Me. Ruby. It didn’t say much else. It made me wonder what my obituary will say someday. What will I have to leave behind?

  But that’s not important now.

  I talked to Aaron today at lunch about it. I told him about how Mama killed herself. He was really sorry. His eyes looked honestly sad. I told him it was okay, that I barely knew her. But the pity on his face lasted throughout lunch. I don’t like to be pitied. I almost told him the truth, told him about what I think Daddy might have done. But I still don’t know that for sure. It doesn’t make sense. Why would Mama write what she did and then not follow through? Why write plans and then ignore them?

  Unless . . .

  No. It couldn’t be. Could it? Would Daddy do it, really? But wouldn’t the police have found out? Why would everyone report it as a suicide or as a “suddenly” kind of death, which is the same thing? Then again, if Daddy did do it, could I blame him? Maybe he found out about Mama’s plans. In that case . . .

  It’s all so confusing, in truth. I’ve been scratching my neck wildly, so much so that it’s raw and bleeding. I had to wear a turtleneck today to cover the wounds.

  I think Daddy’s been thinking about it all lately, too. He’s been muttering strange things. Strange, strange things. I heard him mumbling yesterday when he was making dinner about how sometimes you do what you need to. I heard him chattering about nooses. I heard him whispering that he loved her—but there was no one there.

  Daddy’s still being sloppy. It’s frustrating. I want to yell at him to pay attention. I want to tell him that I still need him, that he can’t get messy. I want to tell him I could do better if he would just let me help.

  Dropped rags.

  Missed splotches of blood in the wheelbarrow.

  Stupid, reckless mistakes. He’s getting too comfortable.

  I’m terrified, Diary. I’m terrified he’s going to get caught any day now. And then what? It would have all been for nothing. He can’t protect me when he’s locked up, after all.

  The sad truth is that if Daddy goes away, there will be no one to write my obituary when I die. There will be no one to love me. No one. Not even Aaron—there’s no way he’d stick around if he found out what Daddy did. Would he? No love is that deep, no love other than Daddy’s love for me. Look what he’s done for me over the years. Look at the lengths he’s gone to for me.

  Without Daddy, it will all fall apart. I’ll be lonely, on-the-fringes Ruby all the time. Sure, there’s Grandma—but that’s no comfort. I might tie my own noose if I’m stuck living with her and her stale cookies, kale, and scratchy sweaters. I can’t even imagine what she’d say if she found out about Daddy. Life would be a constant yammering about repentance and sin and death. In short, that would be no life at all. No life worth living at least.

  Is that what drove Mama to it, if she did kill herself? Did she finally feel like it wasn’t worth it? I can understand that. I can.

  I picture myself swinging in the noose, floating freely. Maybe Mama had the right idea after all.

  Stay Safe,

  Ruby

  October 18, 2018

  9:57 p.m.

  Dear Diary,

  Red. All I can see, taste, feel is red.

  I fucking hate her. She needs to fucking die.

  Die.

  Die.

  Die.

  Die.

  Die.

  Die.

  Die.

  Clarissa IS going to die for what she did today.

  I don’t care why the bitch did what she did. I think it’s because of Aaron. I think she can’t stand that she’s alone and I have someone. I don’t know what goes through her mind, in truth, however. I just know she’s been tense with me, trying to get back at me. Today, she went too far . . .

  Sorry, Diary. I had to take a break. My hands are shaking uncontrollably, a shake like Daddy’s. Is this why he does what he does? Is the rage too much for him?

  Sure, Clarissa’s done horrible things before today. Bloody tampons in my locker. Stolen books, feet tripping me when I walk by. Verbal insults in the locker room when the teachers are gone. Social media taunts that circulate the school calling me a retard and dad fucker.

  The usual. But today, things went too far. Way too far. Today, Clarissa earned herself a spot in the game, if I have my way.

  Clarissa was scowling when I went in the locker room after gym class, angrier than usual. Maybe it was because Aaron asked me to the homecoming dance yesterday—even though I hate dances. Maybe it was because I heard things aren’t going well at home, that they may even be losing their house. Or maybe Clarissa is just finding a darkness within, the kind of darkness Daddy and I know very well.

  I don’t know what happened or why, but she seemed ready to pounce. I ignored her when she called me a retard and told me to stay away from Aaron, insisting that he was too good for me. I meandered back to the bathrooms to change, as is my custom. When I came back to put my clothes in my locker, though, things took a sinister turn.

  Clarissa convinced Tiffany Glasgow, the girl from the rugby team, to be on her side. Maybe this has been planned for a while, or maybe it was spur of the moment. I don’t care. I don’t. Clarissa’s persuasive abilities with our peers are unarguable. When I was tucking my folded clothes away, Tiffany ambushed me. Her behemoth body plowed into me, and I crashed to the ground. The wind knocked out of my lungs, I found myself shocked and confused, crunched on the floor within a few seconds. Her weighty body suffocated me as something sharp scraped against my neck. I kicked and flailed, but I was no match. Tears and shock swirled within my veins as I pleaded with the universe to get me out of this mess, as I cursed the weakness in my limbs, in my body.

  “Scream and you die,” Tiffany warned, spit landing on my face as it escaped through her crooked teeth. I couldn’t even inhale, couldn’t breathe at all. I wanted so desperately to inhale, for my lungs to suck in the heavy locker-room air just for a moment. Pain bit into my chest, into my bones. A few of Clarissa’s cronies crowded around, blocking any view of me from Mrs. Carlisle. There would be no savior. I was on my own, all alone, no one here to save me. Daddy couldn’t save me. Tears welled, blurring my vision.

  Clarissa had her phone aimed at me. She was grinning.

  “Tell us the truth, and we’ll let you go. Tell us your Daddy fucks you.”

  My face burned red, and my hands shook with anger. Why was she so obsessed with Daddy? And why would he ever fuck me? No, no, no, no, no. I wouldn’t lie about Daddy, even if I ended up dying. And right then and there, I thought I was going to die. I choked and sputtered.

  “Say it,” Tiffany ordered, shoving the sharp object deeper into my neck. Her words were a forceful growl, like a sneering dog lunging at your throat. Pain surged within, and flashes of red exploded in my head. “Say he fucks you. We all know he does.”

  I shook my head. She slammed her body down on my chest even harder. My head bobbed back against the cold concrete, and a burning sensation crashed through my skull.

  “Your Daddy’s a fucking psycho, isn’t he? He deserves to be locked up, both of you. He deserves to go away, and then what, Ruby? Then you’ll be all alone, the freak abandoned by the freak.”

  The words sent a shiver through my spine as I stared at the evil glow in Clarissa’s eye. A deep roar was building in my chest, despite the fact that I could barely breath.

  I hated her in that moment, more than any other moment. I could handle the hair incident and the bloody tampons and everything else. But not this.

  Not my biggest fear spoken aloud.

  It didn’t matter if Clarissa co
uld make the threat happen or not. It didn’t matter. Because just her saying the words, just her verbalizing the possibility of Daddy going away—it made me want to kill her. A slow, agonizing death. A red death branded by torture of the darkest kind. I would follow in Daddy’s ways—and then some. I would make sure she paid for the threat. Daddy wouldn’t be going anywhere.

  Clarissa would.

  Tiffany settled harder on my chest, her hand now on my chin, squeezing so hard I thought it might pop. I didn’t have the energy to gasp for breath. Everything was going fuzzy. I was going to die, I felt sure of it. I would die here with Tiffany and Clarissa spewing lies about Daddy, and I couldn’t stop them. I’d vowed to protect Daddy at all costs, but I was too weak, too small, too insignificant to stop them. Tears of frustration rolled down my cheek, jolting me to a reality I wanted to crush. I wanted to shout for help. I wanted to bellow that Daddy would never hurt me. I wanted to protect Daddy. I wanted to breath. I wanted to turn the knife and carve out Tiffany’s eye, pluck it out and hold it up for all to see. I wanted to slit Clarissa’s throat for what she’d said, for what she was doing. For what she’d threatened.

  But as it got harder and harder to breathe, as the girls kept laughing and chanting about Daddy being disgusting, a rapist, a freak, I wanted to die. Maybe this was my way out, my way to the peaceful field. Maybe I could let the red spill, let the breath stop all together. Maybe I could just disappear into the solitude of the wildflowers, the trees, of the red that Daddy had made.

  But then I thought of Daddy and how hard it would be for him, losing Mama and me.

  I thought of all that he’d done to save me, protect me over the years.

  I thought about how I needed to protect him from the ugly, filthy lies the girls were saying.

  I needed to protect myself.

  So I reached over and did the only thing I could. I bit Tiffany’s arm, hard and fast. Blood squirted out, dribbling on my face. It was beautiful. I could taste red, feel the stickiness on my tongue. Red. Red. Red.

  The bell rang. The girls scattered as Mrs. Carlisle’s voice echoed for the locker room to clear out. Tiffany kicked me in the ribs and then walked on. I scurried away, gasping for breath but relieved the girls’ plan wasn’t very well thought out—this time. But what would be next? Clarissa wasn’t one to back down. She was a rabid dog lunging for the throat, hungry for it. If she didn’t get what she wanted, she’d come back for seconds.

  And I was terrified that even though her claims were ridiculous, she’d stir just enough drama to potentially ruin it all for Daddy. Daddy had secrets he didn’t need uncovered, and Clarissa’s stupid threats were hitting way, way, way too close to the field for my comfort.

  I wouldn’t let her take Daddy away. I wouldn’t let her risk it all.

  Mrs. Carlisle asked if I was okay, her face alarmed. I didn’t stop to answer questions. I ran past her. I didn’t want to explain. I didn’t want her hearing about Clarissa’s dirty question, about what she said about Daddy. I didn’t want to utter the threats she made about Daddy disappearing. I didn’t want to talk to anyone, not even Aaron. I was terrified of what he would think if he heard what Clarissa said. Would he believe it? And if he kept talking to me, would she hurt him next?

  I need to protect Daddy, Diary. From Clarissa’s disgusting words. I need to protect myself. I keep thinking about how it felt, being crushed by Tiffany, being asked those questions that made me squirm, that made me enraged, that made me want to hurt them all.

  I think about what it felt like to hear Clarissa threaten to take away the one thing I can’t live without—him.

  They made me want to splatter red all about the locker room, a masterpiece tinged by the bitch’s blood, the shadows created from my deep need for revenge.

  My head is still pounding, the memories of Tiffany crushing my chest obliterating my spirit. No wonder Daddy keeps the killing game a secret. People are too anxious to ruin everything good. Well, I won’t let it happen. I won’t. You see, I have a little secret, Diary, one Daddy wouldn’t even like.

  I know what I need to do. My hands are shaking, quaking with the knowledge.

  She’ll pay. She’ll suffer for what she did. More than that, she’ll suffer for what she said.

  All afternoon, the ideas, the images, the red swirled in my head.

  So when Daddy stepped out, I knew I had to act fast.

  We have a lot of knives in the utensil drawer, Diary. A lot of very sharp knives. Daddy hasn’t been cooking much, and even if he does cook, he’s too tired to notice the lovely, silver knife I’ve stolen. I’ve tucked it inside my boot. Daddy bought me new red boots at my request a few weeks ago. What perfect luck. What solid timing. The old red boots are back but with a new twist.

  I reach down now, touching the cool, crisp handle. I swear, the knife is just waiting to kiss Clarissa’s skin, to dig deep into her flesh and splatter the red all about.

  I grasp the handle, imagining what it will feel like when it dives into her stomach, across her throat. My hands are shaking, but I picture the steady strokes, the heavy cuts I’ll make as I watch her shriek and squirm and beg for mercy.

  But there won’t be mercy. She doesn’t deserve it. The bitch doesn’t deserve it at all.

  I stroke the handle seven times. Wait your turn, I silently implore it. Wait until the time is just right. It wouldn’t do to rush. It needs to be beautiful, a splendid masterpiece. Just like Daddy’s taught me, even though he doesn’t know it.

  I’ve learned from the master. Soon, it will be my time to work.

  I’m ready to let my own brilliance shine—and ready to make her fucking pay.

  She’ll fucking pay.

  Stay Safe,

  Ruby

  October 19, 2018

  6:57 p.m.

  Dear Diary,

  I’m a good secret keeper . . . but today, I’ve learned Aaron isn’t.

  Daddy came to get me from school today. Really early, almost as soon as I got there. He found out about what happened yesterday in the locker room.

  At first, I was confused. How did Daddy find out? I hadn’t told anyone, not a teacher or principal or Daddy. I didn’t need to. I wasn’t afraid of Clarissa anymore. I had my plan, the knife in my right boot. Loaded and ready for anytime I needed it. I felt safer. I wished I had done that earlier. But I hadn’t needed to use them today. Daddy had come to my rescue before I’d even known I’d needed rescued, like he always does.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked as he drove me home. The knife felt hot and cold at the same time, making its presence known in my boot. My heart raced as I thought about how mad Daddy would be if he knew.

  “What?” I asked, playing dumb. I thought it must be about the knife in my boot. How did he find out? Why was he acting so calm? The calmness scared me even more. Daddy always looked subdued and peaceful in the garage, too. It wasn’t a good sign.

  “About Clarissa. About everything that happened. Ruby, you need to tell me these things.”

  I almost sighed audibly. The knife felt safe again.

  But then I realized that he knew what happened. How did he find out? I hadn’t told anyone. How did he know? I felt my cheeks warm with embarrassment. I didn’t want Daddy knowing what Clarissa had said.

  “Sorry, Daddy. Sorry.”

  “Ruby, it’s okay. You didn’t do anything wrong. But those bitches did. Those bitches are going to pay. I’m making sure of it. If I have to get a lawyer and sue, I will. I’m not letting you in that school until that principal sorts this out and punishes those two. Until he kicks them out, you’re not going back.”

  “Sorry,” I said again, not sure what to say. I knew Daddy was lying. He didn’t handle things with lawyers. He handled them with saws and trash bags and wheelbarrows.

  My mind whirled. Clarissa and Tiffany were going to be in trouble. They wouldn’t be at school anymore if Daddy could make it happen—and he never broke promises. This would be good . . . wouldn’t it? My stomach c
hurned. I could put back the knife if they were gone. I could stop worrying about protecting myself. Couldn’t I?

  Something told me that Clarissa wouldn’t give up that easily. In truth, I liked the feeling of the knife in my boot, ready at a moment’s notice.

  “How did you find out?” I asked, curiosity getting to me.

  “That boy from school turned them in, that Aaron kid. I guess he saw some videos they posted on social media. But don’t worry about it. It’s being taken care of. I just didn’t want to risk leaving you there with those incompetent teachers until they straightened this all out. We’re going to take a couple of days off, you know? Let this all cool down.”

  “Okay,” I said, scratching my neck.

  Aaron did this. If he saw the video—what would he think? Would he stop talking to me?

  I scratched and scratched, feeling skin flakes loosen and float into the air. I shook my head, squeezing my eyes shut. It doesn’t matter, I told myself. I don’t need him. Aaron’s too nosy. And he’s probably what started this whole mess anyway.

  But now it’s early evening, and I’m sitting here writing in you to try to get my thoughts straight, Diary. Here’s the thing though—I can’t stop worrying.

  Worrying about what Clarissa will do if she gets expelled.

  Worrying about Aaron getting hurt.

  Worrying that Daddy heard the awful things those kids said.

  Worrying that Daddy will end up being taken away from me.

  And most of all? I can’t admit this to anyone, but I’m really worried that Aaron is going to stop talking to me. Because now that I have someone at school, now that I have someone to sit with and listen to at lunch, I’ve realized how nice it is. How good it is to have someone by your side. The way his eyes light up when he talks about presidents or about law. The way his red hair falls in his face and he swoops it back with a confident hand. The way he walks close enough for me to feel his presence but far enough away that our skin isn’t kissing. It’s like someone finally gets me, understands what I need—someone besides just Daddy. How can I lose that?

  I’m thankful that Daddy is fighting for me and that it’s the weekend. I don’t want to hear the kids’ comments about the video or have people harass me. I want peace and quiet, time to write poetry and just think. But I also hate that for the next few days, I have to wonder where things with Aaron stand.