by Matt Shaw
Copyright©2014 by Matt Shaw
Matt Shaw Publications
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
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except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
The characters in this book are purely fictitious.
Any likeness to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
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The private words of Ed Boothe. Released Posthumously.
The Diary
of a Dead Man
Introduction (I guess)
My mother. Eyes cloudy. Skin pale. Waxy in complexion. Cold to the touch. Still. Peaceful. A touch of beauty in the death, not seen in the life. I remember leaning forward and kissing her on the (slightly open) mouth. A little kiss goodbye. There’s nothing sexual in this encounter. A tear rolls from my cheek and splashes onto hers. I clearly remember wanting to express my love for her. Let her know that, despite everything, she’s the most important woman in my life. I didn’t though. I could have done. It’s not as though the words were stuck in my throat. I just knew she wouldn’t believe them. After all, I had just killed her.
Despite the monster I became, years after this incident, I didn’t mean to kill her. My first kill. An accident. I don’t expect you to believe me. Why would you? What with the terrible crimes I committed through the years before my eventual capture. But you have to ask yourself this - what could I possibly hope to achieve in lying at this late stage of the game? There is nothing I could gain from it. Not now. Too little, too late.
I’m not sure why I am writing all of this down. If I’m going to be honest I never gave it much consideration until a guard questioned me on my motives.
“You seeking forgiveness?” they asked as they watched me frantically scribbling my thoughts in a notepad from the doorway of my small room.
I didn’t answer them. I just carried on writing. Head down. Didn’t have an answer. Would I like forgiveness? I guess. With the end in sight and the uncertainty of what waits for us when we’re finished with our lives it is always nice to get forgiveness. Start the next chapter of what happens to us with a clean soul but I know it is not going to happen. It does not matter how many times I say I am sorry. People will never believe me and even if they did they wouldn’t care. They will all think I will be getting what I deserve. Even the most die-hard activists (fighting the Death Penalty) haven’t been picketing outside on my behalf. But then maybe they have? Maybe the guard was just teasing me and the streets are lined for me as they have been for others facing death by electric chair? No sense thinking about it. I’ll never know.
Anyway. I’m not sorry. Not now. Not ever. The ones who met their fate by my hand; they deserved it.
With regards to my writing - for all I know I won’t have the time to finish my book. Not before they pull the switch. Could just suddenly stop mid-paragraph. I wonder, instead of a last meal, would they permit me the opportunity to finish the paragraph I’d be working on at least? Keep the filet steak I was planning on ordering and just give me a little more typing time.
And then of course there’s the belief that no one will want to read what I have to say. The twisted words of a psychopath (I think that was the last label the media slapped me with). I don’t care though. The thought that no one will read my words - it’s not important to me. It’s just nice to pass the time, waiting around, with something to do other than watching the small clock in my cell tick away each lingering second of my ugly life. In fact, there’s the answer I should have given the guard when he questioned me about it; I’m writing to pass the time. It just so happens I’m writing about my life and my crimes. A confessional because, at this point, I have nothing better to do.
Mother (Number 1)
I already wrote, in a poor excuse of an introduction, that what happened to my mother was an accident. Was I sorry? Well, maybe. For five minutes anyway. Maybe four. Maybe. You see, it wasn’t my fault. Sure I was the one who ended her life, I’ll admit to that much, but she knew of my temper problems. She knew I was easy to wind up. One minute I could be relatively happy - at least as happy as someone such as myself could be - but in the next instant I could fly into a rage. Usually the rages involved much shouting. Possibly I’d throw things, maybe even hit a wall (or two) but that day was different. And it all started with a cup.
I don’t remember why I was in a bad mood. Something that day had irked me to the point of being in a foul mood. I was sitting at the dinner table with mother (father had long since left us). I was watching her eat. In awe (and disgust) at how one person could make so much noise. The chewing, the sound of the food rolling around in her mouth, the sound of her lips smacking together and even the sound of her knife and fork scraping the plate clean. Every little sound, every little clink from the knife and fork against the porcelain plate - every sound went straight through me as though it were an arrow. It wasn’t long before I was dreaming up mental sequences of hitting her upside the head. A closed fist, a scream, a swing and - thwack - straight to the side of the head. I could even picture the expression on her face. Her eyes would be wide, her mouth open (food disgustingly on display) in shock.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” she’d spray her food at me when the power of speech returned to her. She’d noticed the look on my face; judging her and disgusted at her.
What’s wrong with me? I’d point out that at the beginning of the meal the plate actually had a pattern on it. Not now though. Not now that she’d noisily scratched it off as though her actions were perfectly normal. I’d eventually apologise. She’d forgive me. She always did if I had an outburst towards her. She’d always forgive her only son. Her weakness. One I often played on for no other reason than I could. Always have been an asshole.
Didn’t play out like that though; the situation I pictured in my wound up imagination.
The cup was the final straw. Some cold drink poured into a pint glass. She picked it up and drank it in such a way she slurped. Chewing, clinking, clanking, and now slurping. That was it. I snapped. Looking back now I realise my actions may have been over the top. I realise that I was the one in the wrong for the way I reacted. After all, most normal people wouldn’t react in such a way. But I think it’s fair to say I’m not like most normal people. Thank God. Hey, imagine if there were others out there like me. Others capable of doing what I have done with my darkened life.
I remember yanking my plate up with such force. The food went everywhere - onto the table and the floor. Somehow even managed to send the pot of gravy mother had brought out with her flying over to its side too. Damned stuff went everywhere. All happened so fast but I swung the plate as hard as I could towards the side of her head. Of course it smashed on impact - a surprise to me, didn’t think it would do that. Her head lulled to the side immediately and her eyes went wide, non-blinking. I was so angry when I hit her with that damned plate. So angry. And then just like that - when the plate shattered - all the anger flooded from my system. I was calm. Not just calm either but - for the first time that I could remember - I was worried. She wasn’t moving. I knew she’d never move again too. I knew I’d hit her too hard. Must have caught her temple, or something. Must have done. Didn’t even think that was possible - to kill someone with a plate and a single hit.
I’m not ashamed to admit that I cried. I know you probably don’t believe me and I don’t care but I did. I actually cried. I tried to remember the last time tear
s had spilled from my eyes but I couldn’t recall such an incident - not since hitting my teenage years. Sure there were tears of rage (and they were frequent) but they’re not the same. Tears of sadness are completely different. They come from an emotion I lack.
I dropped to my knees next to the table and wept like a little baby. And you know what - it actually felt good. It felt as though years of poison and aggression were spilling from me. I knew it wasn’t the case and I’d still be the same person I was after I finished but it felt really, really good at the time.
I tried to cry after I hurt the other people in my - what was it the press called it – ‘reign of terror’ but I never managed to, much to my disappointment. That’s why I did what I did, to the bodies, after they were dead. The release I felt in those actions was the same release I felt when I cried over the body of my mother. Same feeling, different path.
And thinking about the body - of course I couldn’t tell anyone what’d happened. I couldn’t. Had I told someone, had I confessed at the time, I’d have been locked away. Getting rid of the body was the only thing I could think to do and - bit by bit - that’s what I did. An arm in these woods, a leg in this woodland, a head in the garden - right up until there was nothing left to get rid of. Breaks my heart those pieces were never found. Would’ve been nice to have them put back together, like a demented rotten jigsaw, and buried properly. The majority of my other victims got a proper burial. Would’ve been nice for mum to get the same treatment. She deserved that much despite the annoying eating habits that tested me so.
I was eighteen when I killed my mother and I didn’t kill again until my mid-twenties. Sure I thought about it from time to time but the occasion never really presented itself. Besides - people were watching me fairly closely after I’d told them mother had simply disappeared during the night. I’d told them she’d taken a bag of clothes and just left a note which said ‘sorry’ (one I had much difficulty in forging to ensure it was realistic despite it being only one word). I know some people didn’t believe me (people who knew the family) but the police had no reason to doubt me. I didn’t have any previous convictions and I pretty much kept myself to myself despite family friends (whom I didn’t really care for) trying to get involved in my life.
In fact it was because of them that I moved to America in my twenties. Wasn’t a hard process considering I was a skilled electrician. Easier to emigrate when you have a skill. People tend to foolishly think you’re worth more. I wonder, as I sit here reflecting on my life from the relative comfort of my little cell, does America wish they’d never let me come into their precious country? Or are they happy because they get to kill me? Had I carried on living in the United Kingdom (London, where I grew up) then I’d have simply been left to rot in my cell. No one would have got to flip a switch or inject me with a poison. No one would have got the justice they felt they deserved.
It’s weird. I’m a murderer - yes - but so are these people. The ones who condemn the killers to death, the ones who hook you up to whatever device they’re using to end your life, the ones who pull the lever or press the buttons. They’re all a part of your murder and yet they not only get away with it but are - on occasion - celebrated.
Double standards.
A Gap In Killing
Despite what happened to my mother I didn’t plan on becoming a killer. Especially a serial killer. It wasn’t as though something clicked in my brain telling me to go on killing. I’m not sure why I took things further; made it a little hobby. Before I moved to America I even tried harder to fit in with the people around me. I tried to socialise more with colleagues and so-called friends and family members. I was going from job to job and even that was bothering me; a growing frustration that I couldn’t stick it out. People said it was because I did not respect authority. Authority had nothing to do with it. I couldn’t stick the jobs because I didn’t enjoy them; I didn’t like the people I was surrounded by (customers or colleagues) and I didn’t like what I was doing. I always felt as though I had a greater purpose. I always believed I wasn’t doing what I was supposed to be doing.
I’d go home and shut myself in. The curtains were always closed and people locked out. People (mostly ‘family’) tried to visit after mum’s supposed disappearance. For a while I let them in. Not because I wanted to but because I had to. I needed to pretend everything was okay. I needed them to believe mother had simply left and wasn’t coming back. As soon as the police shut the case, as soon as I knew I was in the clear, I didn’t have to let anyone through the front door again. It was mine to keep locked. It was not long before they stopped coming round entirely; much to my relief.
I spent a lot of nights lying awake in bed, staring up at the ceiling. I was replaying the plate hitting mother again and again; the sound it made as it cracked against her skull, the look on her face, her dead eyes. I don’t know why the thoughts haunted me as much as they did. It wasn’t as though I got any satisfaction from them and yet - at the same time - I felt no guilt either. She was dead and that was that. Casting my mind back to those quieter days and it’s hard to truly understand what was going on in my head. With no guilt and no pleasure in the replays - there was no reason why I couldn’t let it go. Had there been some kind of guilt, or some pleasure, I would have been able to understand it. But the thoughts - playing through with no feelings attached - they were like staring at a television without really watching what was on. Even if I had felt something, the first time the memory plagued me, the more it played - the less I felt. Maybe it was my brain working on a subconscious level; preparing me for what I’d become within a couple of years. I don’t know and it’s not as though there’s many people to talk to in here. Not about things like this anyway. Even if there was someone - I wouldn’t talk about it regardless. I don’t want to be viewed as weak. What I do know is that - trying to figure it out - gives me a headache. I tried to block them from my mind as I concentrated on a new venture; learning a skill. Again it is hard to say what moved me to take this up but if I had to guess I’d say it was because I was trying to block what I’d done from my life. Looking back now - I can see how stupid I was. For all I know - I took up learning a skill because I was just bored. Nothing more and nothing less.
Back when I was living in England, by the time I had my qualification I had turned twenty and the thoughts of my mother were nothing but a distant (rarely played) memory. I felt good. I felt - for the first time in my life - I had accomplished something. I had made something of myself. Not just that either, but for the first time in as long as I could remember, I actually felt normal.
The feeling of normality did not last long though. Thoughts of my mother returned to me soon after I had finished my training and various courses - almost as though a lack of things to do let the memories snake their way back into my thoughts - and no matter what I did, I couldn’t seem to shake them. Of course it didn’t help that I was living in the very same house I had committed the crime in. It wasn’t around this time I thought about emigrating.
At the time I thought the move to America would be good. A fresh start away from anything that could remind me of what had happened. Looking back I see it for what it was though - I was running away. I wonder - had I not run - would my life have continued down the same path? I expect so. Shame we can’t turn the clock back to see for sure though, hey? No? Just me. Okay - picture this - if we could turn the clock back, if we could start over to see what happens, your family members would still be alive. Now do you want to turn the clock back? Now do you want to give me the chance for a second life? I gain my freedom and you gain your family member back.
A fair trade off.
Organising the move was easy enough. After a little legal to and fro I managed to sell the house along with most of the possessions contained within. I could have probably got more for what was sold off but I just wanted an easy out and the money received - when all of the sales were finally complete - well - it was enough to line my bank account. Certainly enough t
o get myself a small apartment stateside along with a plane ticket (one way). Of course that was after the paperwork was completed for my visa and it had been approved.
Fitting In
I stayed in a motel for about a month when I first got to the States. It wasn’t the nicest of places if I am going to be honest but it is still nicer than where I find myself as I write this. At least the motel bed had springs in the mattress. The one here is solid. No springs here. Both rooms - here and there - had nutters in the room next door though. At the motel someone lived next door to me who couldn’t keep their mouth shut. They just kept screaming and screaming all night long. Not sure what it was about. Never felt the need to ask them. Same story here - someone living next door who enjoys screaming through the night. I can hear what they say. I know what they’re screaming about. They’re protesting their innocence. They aren’t the first to do so and they certainly won’t be the last.
During the first month in America I didn't really do much socialising. I certainly didn’t start to seek employment. I just laid back - in my motel room - listening to the mad man next door. I’m not sure why. You’d have thought I would have been out there exploring, looking for a nice place to live and meeting new people but - I don’t know - I just felt off. I felt like I did not belong there. Couldn’t even find any comfort in the television. All the shows were alien to me. And filled with non-stop ad breaks advertising the weirdest of products or hinting at new shows to be airing soon. If anything has the potential to drive someone to murder - it’s the television over here.
I never intended to waste the month. It was supposed to be a couple of days. My excuse - at the time - was that I was getting over the jet-lag. The travel took it out of me. Two days turned to three, three to four, and four to five. A blink and the month more or less vanished. I only left the room to get food from the vending machines next to the check-in desk and even that was enough for me; the sound of the desk clerk’s voice when he asked me “how y’all doing?” The accent was grating. Another reason to commit murder?
