The Diary of a Serial Killer's Daughter

by L. A. Detwiler

  I waited for what felt like forever, Daddy pushing the wheelbarrow down the path. It bumped along, and I watched from around the garage, wondering if the bags would fly out. They didn’t. Daddy walked slow. It seemed like he knew exactly where he was going.

  When it was safe for me to come out, I crept along the trail. My feet wanted to kick the dirt, but I didn’t. I didn’t want Daddy to hear me. I didn’t think he would like me following him. I was tired when I finally got to the clearing. I had to creep behind trees so he wouldn’t see me. I leaned on the scratchy tree, watching him work in the middle of the field. It was too dark to see the prettiness of the wildflowers. I wished I could see them better.

  Stay quiet, I told myself. I hugged up to the tree, squinting to see Daddy in the dark. I wished he had a light out there. I wanted to see better. He was in the corner of the field, a shovel in his hand. Digging, digging, digging. What was he doing? Was it a treasure hunt? I almost ran to him but stopped myself. This was his game. His alone. I had to just watch.

  It was dark, dark, dark even with the moon, so it was hard to see. I wished I could be closer to learn, to watch. After a long time, Daddy pulled the bags out of the wheelbarrow and plunked them in the Earth. I was amazed. I wanted to watch more. But I knew I had to beat Daddy back. I took one final look at Daddy, smiled at how hard he was working, and ran back to the house.

  I was in my room for a long time. I peeked out the window. He was back in the garage. I heard him come into the house much later.

  It was 6:02 a.m. What a long night. Soon it would be time to get up. We would both have a long day. At least it was Friday and the last day of school.

  The kids would be loud though. I hated the loud. At least I had the fun night in the woods to think about.

  All day at school while the kids played stupid games and screamed about summer, I doodled on a piece of paper. I drew the tree that Daddy was by when he worked in the field. I drew its tall, leafy branches.

  I drew it in red. Red like the woman’s hair from the blood. Dazzling. Beautiful. Daddy is an artist in all ways. I don’t know how I didn’t see it before.

  Stay Safe, Diary, and happy summer,

  Ruby

  June 14, 2010

  6:57 p.m.

  Dear Diary,

  Summer camp started today. It was terrible.

  The kids were loud. We made paintings. I got in trouble. I hope they don’t call Daddy.

  They told us to paint nature. I like nature. It’s peaceful and pretty and the birds never chirp too loud. Well, once there was this bird outside my window driving me crazy. Daddy called it a woodpecker. He said it was visiting. But I hated that bird. Usually, though, nature is pretty and peaceful and I like it. I like it way better than the peopley part of the world.

  The camp counsellors took us outside to some picnic area. The other kids painted sunshine and rainbows and pink grass and purple clouds. It was so dumb. That’s not what the world looks like.

  I tried to go to my happy place, to watching Daddy. So I, of course, made my painting red. Red like my boots. I drew a tree in red, one of the trees from the field to be exact and decided to put that bunny under it from long ago. Then I put a red puddle around the bunny, just like Daddy puts around the women in the garage. When I was done, I was proud. I liked my little painting. But the boy next to me started shrieking.

  “What’s that? Oh my God, look at her! She painted a murdered rabbit!” he screamed.

  The other kids came over. I started scratching my arm, and then my neck. I scratched and scratched. I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want them crowding around.

  They started screaming over my painting and calling me a weirdo. I covered my ears, squeezed my eyes shut. I tried with all my power to disappear. They were so upset. Finally, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I jumped, pulling away, even more anxious.

  “Ruby, it’s okay. But we don’t paint things like this, okay?”

  I looked at the ground as the girl with a brown braid tried to comfort me and explained things about dead bunnies and killing and wrong. I shook my head. Did they know anything? This wasn’t wrong. It was pretty. Pretty like the garage. Pretty like Daddy. I didn’t understand why no one could see that. It was just one more thing to make me not fit in. But that was okay.

  For the rest of the day, the kids pointed and called me rabbit killer. Some stayed away. That made me sad but also a little happy. It was better to be alone than to be making people upset. If it made them stay away, I’d paint dead rabbits all day. Why were they so upset, though, Diary? Dead isn’t so bad. It’s peaceful. And Daddy gets happy when the girls are dead—is that what they are? Dead?

  But when Daddy picked me up and I looked out the window, I started to worry. The kids thought the dead rabbit was wrong. Did that make what Daddy was doing wrong, too? Was he doing something bad?

  No. I was mad at myself for even thinking it. Daddy wouldn’t do something wrong. Daddy was nice. He fed me and bought me red boots and read to me. He helped a little baby bird just last weekend who had a broken leg. Bad dads didn’t do that.

  I heard kids talking sometimes at school about their dads hitting and punching walls. Daddy didn’t do that.

  Those kids were just dumb.

  I looked over at Daddy and smiled.

  Everything is okay now. As much as I hate to admit it, Grandma is right. We all have bad days. We just have to learn to cope with them. Although Grandma’s bad days usually involve losing at Bingo or her neighbor Cindy coming over to gossip—she hates Cindy. Of course, Grandma hates a lot of things. I’m pretty sure she hates me. It’s okay. I hate her, too. She came over tonight to make sure things were okay at camp. She offered to watch me if Daddy thought camp was too stressful.

  Thankfully, Daddy said no. He loves me too much to torture me with another summer at Grandma’s. Plus, he’s been trying to distance us from her. I guess it’s because she’s so annoying. Her voice is like a whining mosquito in your ear that you just can’t ever kill.

  I’ll make it through camp, even if I hate it. Because that’s what Daddy would want.

  Stay Safe,

  Ruby

  June 21, 2010

  6:57 p.m.

  Dear Diary,

  I’ve made a deal with the camp counsellors. I write poetry in the corner, alone, and they let me. I don’t have to play any of the annoying games or do any of the sports. I get to just be alone with my words.

  I did do one of the activities today in art. They made bracelets. Friendship bracelets, the girl with brown braids said. There was pink and red and orange and green string and beads.

  But my eyes caught sight of the red. Perfect, bright red.

  I made two bracelets, no beads. Just red, one for Daddy and one for me. Our favorite colors. I put mine on right away.

  The counsellors were happy I made bracelets but they seemed even happier when I went back to writing in my corner after it was done. I think they worry after my painting. At least if they’re nervous about me, they leave me alone. I like that. I’m happy, sitting and writing instead of playing basketball or making birdhouses or whatever the kids do. I like just sitting in the quiet. It’s nice. I don’t have to worry about scratching my neck too much or if the kids are going to think I’m weird or if I want to count out the time out loud. I can do it all and no one is upset or making fun of me.

  There’s another little girl who sits by me sometimes. I don’t know her but I like her because we don’t talk when she sits with me. She sits and draws. Sometimes she hums, which bugs me a little bit especially since it’s always off tune. But I tell myself to ignore it like Daddy and me talk about sometimes. We all have to endure annoyances sometimes. That’s what he tells me. I wonder if I ever annoy Daddy.

  So camp is going okay. It’s fine. I write. It’s good like that.

  Daddy told me once that Mama liked poetry. She did English in college. Mama must have been smart to go to college. Daddy didn’t go. He said that she liked some man named Shake
speare. I asked Daddy how to spell the word so I could get it right in here. Daddy says I’m too young to read Shakespeare. I’ll have to see if they have him in the library when school starts again. It would be neat to read the books Mama liked.

  I don’t want to ask Daddy to go to the library because he seems busy. I’ve noticed he’s been in the garage a lot. Even during the day on the weekends, no ladies or anything. He just goes in there and cleans and organizes. He tells me to play in the yard, not to come in. I wonder what he’s doing in there. I saw him bring a couple new tools in once. Sometimes, he just paces in there, back and forth. Back and forth, wringing his hands. Once I even heard him slam his fists on the table. I kept my head down and kept drawing with my chalk. I didn’t want to make him mad.

  Tonight, Daddy is watching TV downstairs. He’s watching a Western. I like those.

  He seemed upset at dinner. Usually, once he plays the game in the garage, he’s happy for a long time. A long, long time. But not this time. Maybe the game didn’t end right. I don’t know. But his hands were shaking last night when he read Green Eggs and Ham. And Sam’s voice just wasn’t as happy.

  I’m worried. I hope he can win the game so he can be happy. Maybe he’ll go out again tonight. It would be good to see him happy again. I’ll let you know tomorrow.

  But Diary, he did love the friendship bracelet. He said it was his favorite color when he put it on. You already know that, though. It’s my favorite, too. But at least now we have matching bracelets in our favorite colors so even when he’s working and I’m at dumb camp, we can remember each other. I like that. I’m never taking mine off.

  Stay Safe,

  Ruby

  June 22, 2010

  6:57 p.m.

  There was red last night.

  Lots of red.

  Her hair was even red.

  It made me look at my hair.

  Would Daddy ever put me in the game? I imagined myself swinging from the rope, dangling and staring as Daddy took my picture. I wondered what it would be like to look up at the garage ceiling while Daddy worked, my eyes bulgy and my neck purple like hers. Her red hair was short in a bob. I liked that it wasn’t touching her neck. I wonder if she hated hair on her neck like me. I bet she did.

  He worked hard, smiling and peaceful, but the saw seemed angrier than usual. It bit into her faster and harder and there was more red spraying every which way. It took him longer to clean up. He was a little sloppy. I wanted to tell him a couple of times that he wasn’t doing it right. But I reminded myself it was a secret, he didn’t know I was out there.

  He dropped a rag when he was heading to finish the game in the field. He pushed the wheelbarrow away. I waited until he was gone. I picked up the rag. It smelled bleachy, but it was stained. Red, red, red. I could barely contain my smile.

  What should I do? Daddy never dropped the rag. It seemed wrong to leave it there. Stealing is bad, I know. But I wanted to help Daddy, and I finally had my chance. I snatched it off the ground, looking left and right as if someone might see me. Which was silly because there’s no one out here on our lane to see. We’re out here all alone, just the way we like it. That’s what Daddy always says when Grandma says we should move in town so I can be by the normal kids. Whatever normal means.

  I wanted to take the rag with me to my room and put it in the perfect hiding place. With you of course. Right with you. I bet you like red, after all. But I was too scared Daddy might find it there. I had to think fast, so I put it in the next best spot.

  The shed. Where my bike lives. I snuck over to the shed, creeping along like a quiet little cat. I searched behind the shed, trying to think of where to hide the rag so Daddy didn’t find it. I didn’t want him feeling bad about making a mistake. We all make mistakes.

  I found a rock, a big rock behind the shed. I folded up the rag real small and covered it with the rock. Behind the shed there are tall weeds. It’s overgrown. Daddy doesn’t bother cutting weeds back there because it’s right along the trees. Perfect. A perfect spot for the rag. Not as perfect as with you, Diary. Of course not. But it will have to do.

  The rag would be like a soft blanket for you if you could have it. It could keep you company—maybe someday. But for now, it’s keeping rock company. And it will keep the red memories alive.

  Stay Safe,

  Ruby

  Back and forth,

  Back and forth,

  He marches in anger.

  It’s not red.

  He’s not smiling.

  It’s not right.

  The sun is out,

  But he doesn’t notice.

  The lightening bug burns me.

  I want to twist its neck.

  Will it scream?

  Part III

  2012

  10 years old

  March 6, 2012

  6:57 p.m.

  Dear Diary,

  I think Daddy’s upset again, just like he used to get a couple of years ago. It’s been so long since I’ve seen him in the garage. I’ve been pretty sure he was done with that. I thought maybe he’d won his game or the switch in him turned off completely. The past couple of years have been—ordinary. Quiet. Good. However, things seem to have changed. Things aren’t so quiet and good and peaceful with him anymore.

  Something’s sparked the game in him again. I can feel it, can sense that he’s different. Just like the last time he was different. I don’t understand what triggers the game or what keeps it at bay. It must be one of the things that only grownups understand, like love and grocery shopping and bills.

  All I know is, I think things are changing.

  For one thing, I notice his hands are shaking again. It’s not a little bit of a shake like when someone gives a speech and is nervous or when my teacher claims she has caffeine withdrawal and needs more coffee—ew, coffee. I hate the smell of coffee. Thank goodness Daddy doesn’t drink it.

  These are wild shakes. It seems like he can’t control them or doesn’t notice. I wonder if it’s like me with my neck, when I scratch, scratch, scratch until it bleeds but don’t even realize it happens.

  We still read together every night. I can read by myself, but sometimes the sentences are so long and hard to focus on. I pay attention better when Daddy reads. Plus, I like the routine of Daddy reading to me. We’re in the second book in the Harry Potter series. Daddy says he doesn’t really like wizards and fantasy, but he reads it with me anyway. I think he truly does like it because sometimes, he keeps reading past the chapter’s end. I like the spells. I memorize them and at school I shout them out. The kids laugh at me, and the teacher yells. I try to stop, but I can’t sometimes. They just comes out because they just fit.

  Last night, when we were reading, I noticed Daddy’s hands were shaking wildly when he was reading. And there’s something else, something I didn’t notice when I was young. He rubs his ring finger on his left hand a lot. There’s a pained look on his face when he does.

  He told me more about Mama last week. He talks about her more lately. Maybe because I’m older, or maybe it’s because time has passed. Grandma says enough time has gone that he could move on. Grandma’s always pushing, pushing, pushing. Like how she insisted on taking me shopping last weekend for appropriate clothing for a young lady. She tried to get me to buy a lacy dress. It’s like she’s trying to make me hate her.

  Daddy isn’t completely comfortable talking about Mama, though. He still gets clammy, cold when I mention her or ask a question. Still, it’s progress because at least now I get some answers. Just a few tiny snippets here and there. It feels good to get to know my Mama, even just a little bit. It’s weird to think she lived in this house and spent time with me—but I don’t even know her at all.

  I think she might be why he’s sad sometimes. I still see the tattooed wedding ring on his finger, the way he rubs it with a faraway look. Mama must have hurt him badly. It makes me angry at her. Who could hurt Daddy? And how could I have ever loved a person who would hurt him? It makes
me not want to miss her or be sad that she’s not here.

  Someone at school lost their mom a few weeks ago. Her name is Anna. She’s been crying a lot. I hate it when people cry. Mrs. Hollenberry told me I should talk to her, maybe because she knows I lost my mom when I was young. But I don’t want to talk to Anna.

  I told Daddy about it at dinner. Usually, I like when we sit in silence at the table. I eat my chicken tenders and fries, just like every night. Dad eats pizza or eggs or whatever he feels like making himself. Sometimes he eats cereal. But tonight, I told him about Anna and her mother and the car accident.

  Dad stiffened. It was a long moment of him slowly chewing on his scrambled eggs before he said, “The world’s unfair, sometimes, Ruby.”

  I wanted to ask what he meant, what rules the world isn’t following. But I knew he was talking about Mama. I wonder if Mama died in a car accident like Anna’s Mom. I’ve never asked.

  I know some things about Mama even though I don’t remember her. I know:

  She died when I was 2.

  She had red hair.

  She loved poetry, especially Shakespeare.

  Her favorite food was Chinese food, which I’ve never tried.

  She wanted a cat in the worst way, but I’m allergic to cats so she couldn’t have one.

  Her favorite color was blue. Not red. That’s unfortunate (vocabulary word. I can spell it perfectly. Easy).

  Looking back at the list, I know six things. Six things about Mama. I wonder if that’s normal. How many things do other kids know about their moms?

  It’s okay. Don’t feel sorry for me. People are complicated, but paper and pen are not. Daddy is not.

  I worry about him, though. I can sense he is agitated. I wonder what about. I keep thinking that maybe I did something wrong. Last week, I dropped a glass and it shattered everywhere. But Daddy just helped clean it up, said not to dwell on it. I did think about it, though. All night. All the next day. I cried a few times, and my teacher didn’t understand. But Daddy did clean it up and I realized that you couldn’t even tell it happened. He’s so good at cleaning.