The Diary of a Serial Killer's Daughter

by L. A. Detwiler

  I’ll paint her wonderfully. I’ll paint her skilfully.

  I get to paint her finally.

  Things change in an instant. That’s what Grandma always said when I was younger, when I was stuck in bed with a cold. That’s what she would chant as she brought me tea and soups I didn’t want and tried to placate me with promises of health coming back. I never believed her then, but I do understand the verity in her words.

  Things really can change quickly—and we have to be ready. Because sometimes people need to pay. Sometimes you have to seek your own justice. Sometimes you have to use your own skills and talents to exact the revenge you deserve.

  Stay Safe,

  Ruby

  October 28, 2018

  8:57 p.m.

  Dear Diary,

  It’s become an obsession, waiting, waiting for Clarissa. It makes me feel alive with excitement, the prospect that anytime, the killing game could begin. A different killing game this time—my very own.

  I’ve had dreams the past two nights of how it will work out.

  The knife chomping into her alabaster skin, the sticky red dripping down as her eyes stare at me, begging for a mercy that will not come. The look on her face as she fades away, her last sight me. The power of sucking out her soul and crushing her permanently.

  The way the red will ooze and splatter in the field.

  The way I get to pick her final resting spot in the field, a secret only I’ll get to keep.

  The knowledge that I killed her, finally—and that she deserved the searing, burning pain of the knife chewing her skin.

  I’ve toyed with the details and pictured how it will all play out. I’ve watched the master for long enough. I’ve put in my time. My hands have practically memorized the dance, can perform the act as if on cue. Now I just have to make sure the setup is right so my fingers get the chance to feel the knife usurp Clarissa’s life. I want to paint my own masterpiece. I want to be the master of the game.

  But the thing is—I can’t plan it, not completely. I don’t know when she’ll come back or if Tiffany will be with her. And where will Daddy fit in? I have to keep it secret. Hopefully he’ll be out, and I’ll be able to play at my leisure. I’ll be able to take my time with my masterpiece. He’s taught me well, after all. It’s so complicated, though. I wish I knew more about how Daddy lures in his victims. I wish I could ask him.

  I’ve thought about bringing him into it. I’ve thought about killing her and then letting him help me dispose of her. A true father-daughter team. Would that quiet his shaking hands?

  I wonder what it will feel like, that first kill. I wonder what it will feel like to watch Clarissa bleed out in front of me, to watch her imploring eyes still for the final time. I wonder what it will be like to finally witness her at my mercy—and mercy I will not have.

  She threatened to come back, and I should be nervous. Because at any time, she could show up and see what Daddy is really like. She could ruin it all, blow the whistle on this whole operation. I should be terrified, but I’m not. I’m anxious, thrilled even. My chance will present itself. I just have to be smart. I know I can stop her. I know I can finally show Daddy how much he means by protecting his secret.

  I’ve stocked myself from the few tools Daddy stores in the basement. He went out for a while last night, so I had time to go in and swipe a few tools I’ll be needing. I found a saw, pliers, some gloves, and grabbed two knives from the kitchen—one for under my pillow and one for in my boot. I keep them at the ready. I hope he doesn’t notice they’re missing. But there’s no choice now. I have to be prepared.

  How hard will it be to bury her? I wish I could use the garage like I’ve seen Daddy do. That would be so much simpler. The system is in place. I wish I could just do that. But I’ll have to make my own way. Even the understudy has to add their own flair to the process, to the art. It’s time to add my own style.

  So many questions swirl. I’ve been preparing for this my whole life, but I know I’m still an amateur.

  “You’re very quiet lately,” Daddy mentioned tonight at dinner. “Everything okay? You seem withdrawn, occupied,” he said. “More than usual, I mean.”

  I grinned, offering him my sweet, Ruby smile. “Fine, Daddy. Just tired.”

  I felt bad lying. But sometimes we have to tell small lies to protect relationships. This lie, though was different. I see now why Daddy likes keeping his hobby secret, other than the obvious reasons, of course. I see the exhilaration one gets from always being one step away from being caught. It keeps you on your toes, keeps you at your best. Keeps you thinking and moving and alive. So alive.

  It’s funny how killing amplifies those feelings. Not that I know yet.

  I’ve been struggling, though, thinking about Aaron. That red hair and those kind eyes that light up at me. It’s so hard to think about him, knowing that life I imagined for a minute can never be. It’s hard to think about what I’m giving up. A piece of me sits here and wonders: is it too late? Could I make another choice?

  I scratch my neck, imagining what it would be like to go for milkshakes with Aaron, to take a walk with him and write poetry while he reads his history books. A part of me wonders what it would be like to have our own house with routines and habits.

  But then the knife feels cold and itchy against my skin as it slides in my boot.

  My neck gets itchy again.

  Some things just can’t be. Some things just cannot be.

  Focus, Ruby. Don’t lose focus. You need to be ready in case she comes tonight. And you need to plan for if she doesn’t . . .because you can’t let her ruin everything. You can’t let her ruin Daddy.

  You owe him that much. You owe Aaron nothing.

  You have to protect the ones you love.

  Daddy protected me from Mama. I know that now. I understand now why the killing game started. It wasn’t a sadistic hunger or a need to kill. It was Daddy looking out for me. He always looked out for me, even when I didn’t know it.

  I owe it to him to carry on that legacy.

  We’re not killers. We’re protectors.

  And I’ll protect him no matter what.

  I need to go now. I have a note to write. The most important note of my life, one that I have to get sent safely on its way. It will be easy, I know. I just need to get off at the first bus stop, drop the note in just the right place.

  It’s risky. I could get caught, I suppose. But it’s worth the risk. And the long, long walk.

  Besides, if she comes for me early—I’ll be ready. I’m always ready now.

  Stay Safe,

  Ruby

  Shining glory,

  Redness drawn.

  Revenge is

  Seeking its

  True victim.

  Savage mercy

  Hear her roar.

  Life’s release

  Is never sure.

  Stupid girl,

  You should’ve known.

  You hurt me,

  But the pain’s your own.

  October 30, 2018

  11:57 p.m.

  Dear Diary,

  I’m sorry, Diary. My hands are shaking this as I write it. I’m so excited. So proud.

  I’m not weak, and Clarissa knows that now. I’m an artist, a brilliant artist.

  Just like Daddy.

  I stayed home from school today. I told a lie—a lie to protect our relationship. I told Daddy I wasn’t feeling well and that I needed to stay home. It was risky. He usually offered to stay. But I thought I could sell it.

  I told him I was tired and needed to sleep and would be fine. I assured him I was too old to need him at home watching over me for a stupid virus and that I was capable. I begged him to trust me. I promised to call him or Grandma—as if—when I needed something. I made him promise not to send her with her disgusting soup. He obliged.

  He came home at lunch to check on me. I stayed in bed, thinking over the plan, over the knife resting in my boot, over what I was about to do. I convi
nced him I was fine, feeling better. He told me the words I was hoping to hear—since I was feeling better, he had to stay late at work for a meeting.

  I didn’t think he had a meeting. I think it was a lie. But I lied too, so I can’t be very mad.

  So Daddy was taken care of and the plan was perfectly in motion. I could barely calm my shaking hands as I observed the minutes tick by on my watch, lighting it up over and over as they dragged on.

  She came for me alone just like last time. It was as if the universe was raining down blessings upon me. It was like the universe was anxious for me to step into my role, like it really was my time. Waiting in the woods, I thought about Aaron. A pang of hunger, of guilt, slapped into me. What would he think?

  There was no time to wonder, though. This was about me and Daddy. Always me and Daddy. There wasn’t room for anyone else, and there wasn’t room to risk a bitch like Clarissa ruining everything Daddy had worked so hard to build.

  Stupid girl. Stupid fool. She came alone because I’d told her to—or, rather, the note she thought Aaron dropped in her mailbox yesterday did. I’d been brilliant, dropping it in the familiar mailbox after the bus was long gone. For once, I was glad she’d ridden my bus so I knew exactly where the note needed to go. I’d addressed the letter, made it look like a formal one. I just hoped she got it in time.

  Indeed, she did. Thank goodness, she did.

  For all of Clarissa’s looks and charisma, she was also very dumb. She was easy to manipulate, to trick. She came to the bus stop and walked down the lane, lured by the promise that Aaron was pissed off at me and wanted to get revenge. I’m a good writer, after all, Diary. I know Aaron’s voice. I know what it would look like in print. I also know how stupid desperate girls are, how their bleeding hearts will believe anything at all, especially when they’re longing to cause someone else pain.

  She turned off our lane and walked towards the field, where I wrote was our place, mine and Aaron’s. Waiting to exact her revenge on the girl she thought was weak. Waiting to finish me once and for all, to claim the boy she thought I’d tried to steal from her. I stood and watched from behind the tree, savoring how Clarissa was standing the place that she would unknowingly remain forever.

  Diary, it was wonderful. I came out from behind the tree with a quiet confidence.

  “Who are you waiting for?” I asked, my voice sugary sweet with a touch of the menacing quality I couldn’t manage to cover.

  She was stunned for a moment as I stood, staring at the shocked look on her face. I saw that she was afraid, that she was weak. I studied the girl who would soon be mine to claim.

  Clarissa charged at me, anger seething as she realized she’d been fooled. But I was ready. I was strong. I’d already grabbed the knife from my boot. It was new and sharp. It was perfect as it hadn’t yet been used, and it was in my excited hands. I looked into her eyes as my hand swiped masterfully, the knife performing the beautiful brushstroke it was made for.

  And the red spilled. Oh, did the red spill as the knife bit into the delicate skin of her throat, slicing it as the shock on her face registered in my mind.

  I was strong. She was weak.

  She was dying.

  She knew it.

  She sunk to the ground, and euphoria took over. It was addicting, enthralling, a rush. Over and over, the knife plunged and sliced, bit and chomped. Each cut was more perfect than the last, each swipe a masterful addition to the beautiful painting I created right there in the field.

  Right there, in the field where Daddy works, the blood spilled and splashed. I concentrated, searing every second in my memory so I could immortalize it forever.

  I stabbed over and over and over. Seven times. Then seventeen times. And then, even I lost count. My hand grew tired, so I stabbed with two. The knife plunged deeper and deeper. I looked down to see that my hands were trembling, but not from fear or rage. From sheer elation. I looked at my watch. 3:47 p.m.

  I understand why Daddy plays the game now.

  It felt wonderful to know I sucked that life energy from her and made the world a better place. That must be what Daddy’s doing, too. It was amazing that I was there the moment it faded away, when she faded away. It was gorgeous to see the red, all the red flowing against her pale, perfect skin.

  And the blood. Oh, the blood didn’t disappoint.

  I sank to the ground, onto my knees, staring up at the cloudy sky as Clarissa lay on her back in the field, her body limp and mangled. The ugliness on her inside was now visible on the outside. She didn’t look so beautiful now. She didn’t look so scary now.

  I needed to sit with her, to languish in the moment. I sat and stared and memorized and studied. I wanted to relish in my work longer, but I knew I had to move fast. Daddy would be home, and I didn’t want him knowing what had happened. This was for him, but I didn’t want him knowing I had to protect him. Clarissa was a problem I solved. I needed to handle it. It wasn’t his problem to fix. And, I suppose I realized how amazing it was to have a secret, a dark, heavy secret. There was power in that. There was also safety. Because if anyone found out . . .

  I longed to use the garage, to use the tools I had watched the master use year after year. But I knew I didn’t have time. Daddy would be home in exactly one hour and four minutes. That wouldn’t be enough time to make my masterpiece in privacy. I wanted to take my time, after all. I was just an observer. I knew I wasn’t as adept as Daddy yet. I needed practice, after all.

  Hauling Clarissa’s dead body to the shed for later was the best option. I’d hidden some tools in there that I’d need later. It wasn’t ideal, but it was private. With any luck, Daddy would go out, giving me time to work. If not, my plan was to slip outside while he was sleeping and finish the job then. I’d get it done, enjoy the task, and then bury Clarissa. She’d never be found. I’d never be found. Daddy and I will live out our legacy, our dark, dark legacy, and no one will be any wiser. Clarissa will just be added to the list of girls who disappear, who vanish, who run away. No one will find her—and maybe, in truth, no one will miss her. That’s a sad thought, but I don’t linger on it.

  I dragged Clarissa, finding a strength within. I’m no weak girl. I knew I could handle the task. Plus, Clarissa’s habit of barely eating anything to stay skinny is helpful. Thank goodness she was so vain. Her head flopped on the ground as I dragged her through the field, over rocks, past the trees. I kept peeking back, making sure none of her pieces were left behind. When I got to the end of the tree line, I paused, making sure Daddy’s truck wasn’t home. Making sure stupid Grandma hasn’t shown up. Wouldn’t that be just my luck? And her body is much fatter than Clarissa’s. It wouldn’t do to have to drag her dead heap of skin to the shed, too.

  The coast was clear. I was safe. Sweating, I stopped to itch my neck before sliding her towards the shed.

  Once inside, I checked my watch. 4:16 p.m. I examined the limp body. That’s when I saw them. Her signature red nails. Ruby red nails. Gorgeous. I knew then what I’d have to do. It wouldn’t be pretty, but it was necessary, I knew. It would be my photograph, my ritual.

  My ritual. I was already thinking as if I’d . . .

  No. I couldn’t think about that. One step at a time. I’d done what I needed to do. I could stop now.

  Couldn’t I?

  I took off my clothes that were spattered with blood, masterpieces in their own right. I wished I could frame them. They were artwork, after all. But I knew I couldn’t. I left them with Clarissa, to be taken care of later. Naked, I shut the shed door, wandering back to the house to clean up, to get rid of the dirt and red on my own skin, and to steady my shaking, hungry hands.

  When Daddy came home, I made my way through dinner. Glancing over my plate of chicken nuggets, I noticed Daddy’s hands were shaking, too. Something must’ve been in the air. It was like he could sense what had been done, could taste the killing game floating about. After dinner, he said the words I’d longed to hear.

  “Ruby, I have to go ou
t again. I’ll be gone for a while because we have to go to a site pretty far away. Will you be okay?”

  “Fine, Daddy,” I reassured, holding back the smirk that was spreading to my face.

  “Okay, then. Stay safe,” he said.

  “I will,” I promised, as I scratched my neck, waiting to hear the truck pull away so I could finish my work.

  I started with the nails, thankful I’d put pliers in the shed. It was almost like a higher power was at work in the universe. Daddy never really uses pliers. But I had an itchy feeling when I saw them in the basement the other day. I had to grab them. Once the nails were safely removed, I began my real work. I was clumsy. It was different doing than watching. I liked watching Daddy’s graceful movements. I knew I wasn’t as good, as pretty, or as skilled. It was painful to admit maybe I wasn’t quite a prodigy.

  Still, I’d learned so much from watching. I’d learned from the best teacher. I made quick work of the body, an insatiable appetite stirring within as I sawed and chopped and watched the blood spray. It was beautiful in its own right. I wondered if Daddy felt this way when he worked on his first killing game.

  I bagged and bleached and sweated. I cleaned and scrubbed and scrubbed and scoured. I ensured that no traces of her were left, other than the nails that had been set to the side.

  I dragged the garbage bags through the woods.

  But when I got to the woods, I realized I didn’t have a shovel. I didn’t have the energy to dig, and in truth, I wasn’t crazy about burying her with Daddy’s women. She didn’t deserve that kind of treatment. She didn’t deserve to be there with his masterpieces.

  Looking around, I debated. I couldn’t have Daddy find her. I couldn’t risk him knowing because I needed to protect him. I needed to be careful.

  So I dragged the bags farther, farther into the woods. Past the point I’d ever seen Daddy work. I found some leaves and some branches and some tall, tall weeds. I threw her bags there, covering them with brush and branches, scattering them about. No one would be the wiser. No one came out here. No one would find her here. She’d decompose like the rotten wench she was, alone and forgotten like she deserved to be.