A part of me is sort of hoping, I guess, that he continues the garage work. I miss watching him there. For so long now, I’ve had to rely on rereading my Diary entries to get that rush. It never quite compares, though, to witnessing it live. It’s not as passionate and thrilling.
Daddy in the garage was exciting, peaceful. Methodical. Just how I like it. It was more interesting than any other show I could’ve ever watched.
The other night when I’d gone to bed, I heard Daddy watching a show on television. I crept down the steps real quiet, peeking in. The show had lots of blood, lots of red. There was a man holding a saw. I blinked. Was it Daddy? Daddy just shook his head at the screen, not knowing I was there. Like he was judging the guy. Maybe that’s what stirred it all in Daddy again. Maybe he realized he is so much better at the red, at the saw, at the game.
I don’t blame him for thinking that. I watched the show for a minute. The guy had it all wrong. The red doesn’t splash like that. I know what it splatters like, and Daddy sure as heck knows what it splatters like.
I’m going to go down and watch television with Daddy now while I work on my scarf. The school librarian gave me a book on knitting, so Daddy took me out to buy yarn. Not scratchy yarn, yuck. Soft, soft, soft yarn, like a bunny’s fur. I’m going to make Daddy a scarf. Maybe if he has to go into the garage this winter, it’ll keep him warm.
I picked white yarn. The red specks would look so good on it, wouldn’t they?
Stay Safe,
Ruby
March 13, 2012
6:57 p.m.
Dear Diary,
I wish I didn’t have to go to school. I wish I could stay home or help Daddy at work or just stay home and write. It must be wonderful to be a writer because you could just stay in, away from everyone. People reading your words can’t see the faces you make or the way your hand twitches or how you stop to scratch your neck. They just see the true you, what you want to say. Maybe someday that’s what I’ll do.
Today was a really bad day at school. Worse than ever. Some of the girls in my class, Clarissa, Sarah, and Chloe, have been very mean to me. I don’t know why all of a sudden they’ve noticed me. They know I don’t like to talk to anyone. They know I’m different. They usually just leave me alone. But for some reason, it’s become apparent that they really don’t like me.
Yesterday, in art class, I was working on my painting. I was making a picture of our house using red. All red. Just how I like it.
“What a freak,” Clarissa said as she passed by. “Is that period blood?”
The girls snickered.
“No. It’s paint,” I replied because what else could I say? We’d just learned about periods at school. The school nurse had the talk with us while the boys played outside. I’d doodled on my desk trying not to make eye contact while the girls in the class had laughed and whispered. I tried to think about what the appropriate response would be to her question. I decided I should reassure Clarissa that no, it wasn’t period blood. I hadn’t had my period, in fact.
“I heard you’re a Daddy’s girl,” Chloe said. She has long, long black hair that reaches way down her back. It reminds me of the shiny black hair of the lady Daddy once had in the garage. I imagined what it would look like with streaks of red paint in it, but I stopped myself.
“Yes,” I replied as I worked on the door of the house. My neck itched, but I tried to fight the urge to scratch it with red paint on my hands. The teacher, Mrs. Cartwright, was busy helping a table of girls in the other corner work on their perfect flower paintings. She didn’t notice the three around me.
Clarissa laughed, leaning in. "Just how close are you, huh? I mean, you don’t seem to talk to anyone else and I always see him drop you off in the morning. Kind of weird that you don’t have any friends. Daddy’s girl, huh?”
“Yes. I love Daddy.”
“She loves Daddy,” Clarissa repeated. I didn’t know why she was repeating me.
“Daddy’s girl. Daddy’s girl. Do you sleep in his bed with him?” she asked, adjusting her too tight top and hiking up her skirt. It made me uncomfortable. “Does Daddy touch you? Huh?”
The other girls were giggling wildly.
“No. Daddy knows I don’t like touched.”
Sarah, the girl with short, short brown hair snorted. “So he just looks then, huh? Or maybe you touch him? My Mama says your Daddy always was a weirdo.”
I didn’t quite understand what she meant, so I just kept painting. Anger started to surge though. They didn’t know Daddy, not like me. It made me upset they would say mean things about him. And how did Sarah’s mom know who he was?
“What’s with all the red anyway?” Chloe added in, as if she had to be a part of the fun too.
“I love red. It’s mine and Daddy’s favorite.”
“What a freak. Truly. Hey, Joey, come here,” Clarissa said to the boy nearby. “Look at this. I think Ruby’s painting with period blood. Pass it on.”
Joey laughed, and I felt my face burn.
“It’s not, it’s just paint,” I screamed. Ignoring the paint on my hands, I reached up to scratch my neck.
“Oh, I think it’s blood,” he said, laughing as he ran over to tell another boy.
Stupid kids. Stupid kids. Stupid kids. The room was swirling, so loud. I needed to leave. I pounded my fist, anger surging within and ready to explode. Why were they so loud? The girls laughed in the circle around me, and it was like a pounding in my brain. It screeched through my head, over and over, and I couldn’t hear anything else. Couldn’t even hear myself think. I was losing myself to them. I covered my ears.
“Stop, stop, stop,” I shouted, squeezing my eyes shut and wanting to disappear. I wished I had a wand, a real spell. I wished I could make myself disappear. The girls were chanting something in my ear, quietly. I shoved past them to run out of the room.
I heard Clarissa shriek as she tumbled to the ground, but I didn’t stop to ask any more questions. I ran straight out of the room, down the hall, away, away, away. I wanted to go home.
The principal found me on the playground, tucked away behind the building in my favorite corner with the purple flowers. I picked them once to bring home. The kids laughed and said they were nothing but weeds, but I loved them.
I sat, gently banging my head against the brick of the school building. Thud. Thud. Thud. Smash away the craziness. Smash away the noise.
Quiet.
Peace.
Just like I liked it.
And then the principal ruined it all wish his graying moustache and his weird haircut, his choking voice. He yelled at me and ruined the quiet. He made me go back inside.
Daddy got called in.
They told him I shoved a girl, that the kids said I was saying weird things about the picture I was painting.
“No, no, no,” I said, my hands trembling. I didn’t want to tell them the truth. I didn’t want to talk to them. I wanted to go home.
“Come on, Ruby,” Daddy had said after some angry exchanges between him and the principal. I got to go home. Daddy didn’t look angry, just worried.
I felt bad for making him upset, but I was glad I got to leave that awful place with those terrible kids. Daddy didn’t talk to me about it on the way home. He let me sit in quiet. He knew me like that. He made me dinner, and he talked about his day and about the weather while I pushed the food in circles on my plate. After a long time, when the pounding in my brain had mostly quieted, he finally spoke.
“Ruby, we have to talk about today. What happened?” he asked calmly, his voice deep and reassuring.
I looked up at him, staring at the dimples on his face. I liked those dimples. Fun little marks on his face. I wished I had dimples.
“The kids were mean. I didn’t push her. I didn’t. I know the rules.” I wanted someone to believe me. I hadn’t meant to hurt her. I hadn’t.
“I know. I believe you. Were they giving you a hard time, Ruby?”
“No. I wasn’t having a hard ti
me. Painting is easy.”
“Okay, Ruby,” he said, and I noticed he was tapping his hands on the table.
“I didn’t use period blood. I didn’t,” I said matter-of-factly.
Daddy sighed.
“Ruby, kids are going to say mean things. That’s how they are. You’re going to just have to learn to toughen up, okay? To not let it get to you.”
“Okay, Daddy,” I said before excusing myself to go on the porch, to sit outside and to just be in the quiet.
It was a bad day today. But Daddy made it better.
There’s something, though, I didn’t tell Daddy, Diary. Something I didn’t tell anyone. But I’ll tell you.
When the girls were talking about Daddy, it made me really mad. I don’t know why. I just don’t like that they talked about him like they know him. I don’t like it at all. And when Clarissa wouldn’t leave me be, when her voice was grating in my head, when she was shrieking in my ear, something bubbled inside of me. It burned in my chest, in my belly, everywhere.
I didn’t push her on purpose, not really. I didn’t mean to hurt her.
But here’s the thing. I think maybe I wanted to. I think maybe I wanted to shove her down on the table and add her red to my painting.
Is that what Daddy does in the garage? Are those ladies he brings there Clarissas? Are they grating on his nerves? I haven’t really thought about that. Who they are. Who the women of his garage are. I wish I could ask him. But Daddy gets nervous when I’m even near the garage. I don’t know why. He’s beautiful in there.
I just think that like me and the incident at school, Daddy doesn’t want to talk about it. I can’t talk about it. I need to do that for Daddy, just like he does for me.
Maybe Daddy and I aren’t so different. Maybe that’s why he understands me so well. I like thinking that. It makes me feel okay with being so alone at school—because I’m not really alone. I have him. Daddy and Ruby. That’s all we need in the world.
Stay Safe,
Ruby
March 20, 2012
6:57 p.m.
Dear Diary,
It was a big night last night.
Daddy returned to the garage. I thought maybe he was done with it all. How long has it been? A couple of years? I think I was eight last time. At least the last time I saw him in there.
But he’s not done. I found out last night. I heard him pulling out in his truck an hour or so after I fell asleep. I always hear when the truck starts. He doesn’t realize how sensitive to noise I am. I hear every sound, every creak. It’s hard to sleep most nights because of it. It feels like when the truck pulls out, it’s inside my brain.
Last night, I was glad. My heart was racing. I couldn’t believe it. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed watching him in there, seeing his work. The memories were still strong but experiencing the thrill in real time is just so much better. I climbed out of bed, tucked my feet into my boots, and crept down the stairs. I waved hello to Bubbles III—Daddy let me get a new fish and then another new fish when they kept dying. I won Bubbles I at a carnival game. I hate the carnival in town, but last summer, it was good because I won Bubbles. Daddy said I had a good arm. I was proud he noticed.
I walked out back, the grass crunching beneath my feet. It was a bit chilly out, spring not quite breaking through yet. I blew out and smiled as my breath floated upward in a smoky, hazy cloud. It looked like I was smoking, like how Daddy does sometimes when he gets a cigar and puffs it out on the front porch.
I found my old spot, just as it was the last time. The same hole. But things were different. I had to crouch lower now. I was bigger. It wasn’t as comfortable. I wished I had a better view. I realized I wouldn’t be able to see as much as I’d like from here. Too bad I couldn’t make a better spot. Or be in the garage with Daddy.
But I know better than to ask.
A couple of days ago, the sun was shining on Sunday. I was playing in the driveway, hopscotch I’d drawn. I skipped the pebble too hard. It hit the garage. I went to get it, crouching down by the door and then slowly standing up. I peeked in the window.
“Get away from there,” Daddy yelled.
“I didn’t go in,” I replied, my lip quivering. I hated it when Daddy yelled.
He scowled. “Stay away from there, do you understand? It’s dangerous in there.”
I wanted to tell Daddy I knew it wasn’t dangerous—it was breath-taking. I wanted to tell him all the details I remembered. The way the blood pooled. The way he cleaned it, so perfectly and completely. The way their long hair cascaded over the back of the table while he worked. But I didn’t. The way his hands shook, the look on his face. It scared me a little. I’ve never been scared of Daddy, never felt like he would hurt me. But something about the way he stared when I got near the garage, it sent a shiver through me. I think maybe, just maybe, there’s a tiny sliver of a chance Daddy would hurt me if he knew I was here. I think it’s possible.
I shoved away the thought. How could I even consider that? He wouldn’t hurt me. He wouldn’t. Daddy would never do anything to hurt me. I believed it with every single cell in my body—didn’t I?
Something told me, though, I needed to be careful. I needed to make sure I didn’t make him mad when it came to the garage. I silently crouched in the chilly night air, waiting and waiting. And waiting some more.
12:36 a.m. Early for Daddy’s work. He pulled up in his clunky truck, and he carried her in. I peeked through as he walked through the garage door, plopping the lady on the table before rushing back to lock the door. I got a good view of her then. Her long, wavy black hair cascading down towards the floor.
It was black. Black like Chloe’s from school. It seemed like Daddy’s favorite was black-haired women. I grinned at the thought. I thought about the red from my painting and how good she would look with red all over her. If only Daddy could bring Chloe here.
I watched, remembering how beautiful the elegant dance was, how perfect Daddy was. He was so careful, following the same steps as always. It was almost exactly how I’d remembered it from the last time. The rope wrapped around her neck. The dangling, swaying motion of her body. The photograph. The solemn moment as Daddy studied her, shaking the photo carefully to reveal the image forever captured. The moment of peace and joy on Daddy’s face, the excitement in his movements. Then the body put on the table. Gloves on his hands. Pulling down each tool from its spot. Standing in just the right places, using the same outlet, using the same downward strokes to complete the task. Stepping around the pools of blood. Smiling as he walked around the table. Bagging up of the parts, each one going into the black garbage bags in a specific order and then into the trustworthy wheelbarrow.
The tidying up. The cleaning, cleaning, cleaning. The smell of bleach wafting through the air, tiny bits escaping through the hole nearby. The tools all in their spot. The gorgeous red painting on the floor wiped away. I was the only viewer of the masterpiece, the only one to remember Daddy’s brushstrokes. I studied like it was my job.
I could help you, Daddy. I’d be a good worker.
Maybe someday, I could help. I’d give anything to be around him when he was like this. This side of Daddy was foreign to the side he showed the world. I enjoyed being privy to it, like a majestic spot in the middle of the rainforest undiscovered by human eyes. Daddy was an unknown enigma walking around town. No one knew exactly how skilled he was—no one but me.
I longed to follow him when he loaded the bags into his truck, but I knew I needed to get back in the house. I was cold, my fingers almost frozen. Wandering inside the house once he was out of sight, I thought about the lady.
Daddy had killed her.
I didn’t know that when I was young. I didn’t understand. But I do now.
He killed her.
Killing is wrong. That’s what my teacher said. That’s what anyone says, really.
We’d learned about killing in history class and in some of the stories we read in English. Killing was an evil
thing to do, and there was no coming back from dead. Staying alive was the main goal and getting killed was bad.
You had to be careful. It was like careful was the favorite word in the adult world.
Careful crossing the street so you don’t get killed.
Careful talking to strangers. You could get killed.
Drugs could kill you and alcohol, so you had to be careful about peer pressure. Drinking cleaners and driving without your seatbelt could get you killed. Putting too much information online could lead a predator to your house and get you killed. Grandma is always telling me that strangers could steal me and kill me. She’s always paranoid about that, grabbing my hand in public places so no one can snatch me, telling me to be careful around strange men. I’d rather be snatched than to have to feel her dry, cracked skin touching mine.
Everyone talks about killing and how to avoid it, and how the answer is to just be careful. Careful, careful, everywhere. Even Daddy tells me to be careful and to watch when I cross the road and to not wander too far when I take a walk in the woods.
But no one talks about what happens when your Daddy kills someone. No one talks about that kind of dead, or how to be careful around that situation. Why? Do other kids’ Daddys do this, too? And if killing is wrong, why does Daddy make it seem so right? So pretty? Daddy would never do something wrong. Would he? They must have been bad people.
I sit here now, thinking about it all, Diary. It’s so much more complicated than when I was little and didn’t understand. I do understand, sort of. Daddy is killing people, women. He’s hiding them. But I also know that Daddy’s a good man. He’s a good Daddy. And the killing game in the garage makes him so happy. Ecstatic even—vocab word.
How could it be wrong?
I don’t care what anyone says. Drugs and alcohol and strangers and cars can kill you, and that’s bad. But Daddy’s not bad. I love him. I’ll protect him. I’ll keep him safe.
Always. It’s the least I can do.
I’m off to watch television with Daddy, Diary. I’ll talk to you later.
The Diary of a Serial Killer's Daughter Page 5