The Diary of a Serial Killer's Daughter

by L. A. Detwiler

  Here’s what I learned:

  She majored in science in college but ran out of money. She wanted to be a researcher.

  Her parents both died, and she has no family.

  She’s 21.

  She’s planning on travelling the world, place to place. She works odd jobs here and there for now to save money. I guess I’m one of the odd jobs.

  She’s staying at the motel in town, The Hazelside Inn.

  I don’t like her.

  The last one isn’t something I learned, in honesty. It’s something that was just reinforced by spending time with her. At least I could say to Daddy that I had, in fact, tried. I had attempted to be civil and flexible and strong and give her a chance. It’s not my fault she’s such a horrendous woman.

  A part of me knows maybe I’m being irrational, that I just am being possessive of Daddy. I don’t like sharing him or our home or our routine. I don’t like that Daddy doesn’t trust me to be alone. I don’t like that he trusts her to be in our home, so close to everything going on. I don’t like that Daddy’s suddenly gone more often. I don’t like how she’s messing up the routine here.

  Overall, Daddy’s been distracted now. I’m not sure why. Daddy didn’t even notice that I came home with a cut on my arm, for example. Some girl in math class tripped me on my way out, said I was fucking weird. She said she was sick of me staring at her. I wasn’t, actually. I was just trying not to look at Mr. Carson, the math teacher. So I was looking at the girl’s shoes. They were red Converse, pretty red. My favorite. Daddy usually would notice something like a cut on my arm because he’s perceptive. He watches out for me. He didn’t, though. Not this time. I hated that.

  Everything is different now that Stacie is in the house. She’s ruined it all, even if Daddy doesn’t realize it. Stacie needs to leave. She needs to pack up her bag and hike out of here to her next spot. No one will miss her, least of all me. And Daddy might think she’s good for me, with her glistening skin and cutesy accent. But she’s bad for me and him. Only I know who Daddy really is—and I plan on keeping it that way. She doesn’t love him like I do. She wouldn’t protect him, not like me. She’s nothing like me. We don’t need her here.

  Stay Safe,

  Ruby

  October 30, 2014

  6:57 p.m.

  Dear Diary,

  I haven’t told anyone this.

  I used to want a mom. I used to hope and wish for one on my birthday candles, on the stars, every night before bed.

  I was younger, probably five or six. I used to daydream about what it would be like if I had one. I used to see the moms in television shows and at the grocery store, and I wondered why I didn’t have one. I wondered if I would like having someone to bake me cookies and sit beside me, on the other side of me, when Daddy and I watched TV. Not too close, of course, just a few inches between us so the fabric of our shirts kissed. Someone to fill the other chair at our kitchen table and to help Daddy take me to school. Someone to be in our family.

  Things have changed, though. I’ve grown up, and I’ve realized that I don’t need a mom. I don’t even want one.

  I know that should make me feel guilty. I don’t know exactly how Mama died or why, but I know it makes Daddy upset so it must’ve been bad. Really bad. It makes me wonder if it was murder like Clarissa said—or something else.

  He only talks about her if I ask directly, and even that makes him uncomfortable. He clams up on that one day in March, March 12th, and that one day in October, October 8th. And really the whole month of October. Those are the days I see him drinking heavily. In between the garage days during those months, there are other kinds of days, too. Darker days. Bourbon days. Those are days Daddy buries himself in his room, and I am left by myself. Those are the only days that I feel like Orphan Annie, like I’m on my own.

  I’m strong, though. I can handle it. I’m used to being alone, prefer it sometimes. And it makes me feel like I’m helping Daddy.

  Anyway, I used to want a mom, but not now. I see my classmates’ moms and they’re awful. Hugging, kissing, touching. Asking nosy questions. Prancing around in miniskirts that show too much of their flabby, cottage cheese thighs. Hovering around the school like policeman in too much pink.

  When I was young, I had a babysitter sometimes, when Grandma was at Bingo or out of town or busy. She was even worse than Stacie, if you can believe that. She was old, though, and Daddy never blushed at her, that’s for sure. Mrs. Felton was her name. She was actually one of Grandma’s friends—which explains a lot. She had six cats and smelled musty. I always hated the odor in her tiny, cottage-like house, begged her to buy some air freshener. She told me not to be rude. I wasn’t being rude, though. I was being honest. There’s a big difference.

  She would feed me popcorn and cookies and we would watch game shows. It was boring. But the worst part was she talked too much. She thought she could mother me.

  “Poor girl, no mom. What a pity.” She would say that to me, like I was deficient. I would hope she would take those knitting sticks and knit her lips together instead of the scratchy wool scarves she would make for me and force me to wear.

  Even if I was lacking something, she couldn’t fill that hole. I saw my mother in the pictures, the beautiful red hair that cascaded down her back like a mermaid. Mrs. Felton’s hair was wiry and coarse, tight gray curls glued to her head. She was not my mother. I told her this repeatedly. She told me I was rude.

  She told Grandma I was rude. Grandma smacked my mouth.

  She told Daddy I was rude. He just told her I am who I am.

  I think that about him, too. He is who he is. And I love him no matter what.

  That’s why I know I don’t need a mom. I have enough love from Daddy. We understand each other. We support each other. We protect each other. I would do anything for him—even lie.

  And I never used to lie, Diary. Never. But there’s a first time for everything, and I’ve realized the world isn’t black and white like the world in The Giver. A big part of living is figuring out when a lie is necessary and when telling the truth is okay.

  Stacie was over to babysit again, Daddy insisting he had to go out for work. It makes me think of those days with Mrs. Felton, when I was too young to be alone. How ridiculous that now, at my age, I have a babysitter again.

  Daddy slathered on the lies thick, going on and on about some work project and how sorry he was that he had to go out but it was necessary. I saw the way his hands were shaking, though. I don’t think it’s for work. Still, why is he leaving earlier now? Why isn’t he going late at night, when I’m asleep? What’s changed?

  Over dinner, Stacie was being her normal, annoying self. Chitter-chattering at me and attempting to be all cutesy. I was shoving around chicken nuggets on my plate, contemplating ways to get rid of her for good, to scare her away.

  I thought about the crayon drawing I had made yesterday in my room, the one shoved underneath the mattress, waiting for the right time. It was weak, but it was a start. Stacie wasn’t ready to babysit someone like me anymore that I was ready to accept someone like her being around. And even though I told myself I’d try hard to make it work, there came a breaking point tonight.

  After dinner, I decided to sit on the sofa and watch television. The funny videos show was on. It wasn’t the same without Daddy, though. Stacie was chattering on and on and on. I finally yelled at her to stop. She got up and walked across the room.

  And guess what she did then, Diary?

  She picked up the photograph. Off the fireplace. The one of Mama.

  “Pretty hair,” she said, staring at Mama like she knew her. Staring like she knew who Mama and Daddy were together or like they mattered to her.

  I don’t know why, but I just didn’t like it. I hated that she was touching the picture. I hated her. I hated that she was looking at Mama’s hair, studying her, like she knew something I didn’t. Like maybe she knew something about Daddy I didn’t. Something in the look in her eye, in the way she
perused the photo—it bothered me, severely. My neck got itchy and my hands felt hot. I couldn’t help myself, Diary. It just happened.

  Before I knew what was happening, I was tackling the unassuming Stacie to the ground. My nails were scratching, and my screams mixed with her yelps as we rolled on the floor. At one point, I felt my teeth biting into her shoulder, gnawing the flesh like a dog with a bone. After a long moment, Stacie managed to scramble away—but not before I tasted a splash of her blood on my tongue, felt the soft, warm flesh melting between my teeth. Panting, I sat on the floor, and stared straight ahead. I didn’t say a word.

  I know I should’ve felt guilty. But I didn’t. I felt a hunger for revenge, a rage, something dark taking over. Was this how Daddy felt with those ladies? Was there something inexplicable that took over him, too? Stacie backed against the wall in the living room, studying me as if she was afraid. She should’ve been afraid. She had no idea what I was capable of, what we were capable of. I’ve never hated someone so much, not even Clarissa or the girls at school. Something in Stacie just made the dark parts come to life within, wicked parts that must’ve been dormant all this time.

  I heard her wander into the kitchen and pull out her cell phone. She called Daddy.

  She didn’t say another word to me. I sat still, rocking in the corner.

  When Daddy got home, I rushed to the door, past a still-shaking and paler Stacie. It took him a long time to return. He must have been far away. Looking at my watch, it took him an hour and a half to get home after Stacie called.

  It was a long hour and a half for Stacie, I bet. It flew by for me. I couldn’t contain myself. I felt alive and giddy with what I’d accomplished. This would be it, I knew. Stacie was done here, and I couldn’t be happier. It was worth the taste of blood in my mouth to get rid of her for good. Even if Daddy was mad, someday he’d see I did a good thing for us. Daddy asked what happened. I didn’t speak. Just shook my head, rocking myself with my arms wrapped around me.

  “Ruby, go upstairs. I’ll be up soon, okay?” he asked, his voice soft.

  I went to my room and paced as I listened to Stacie’s muffled, sobbing voice. I heard her explain what happened in accurate detail. I heard Daddy apologizing. I wanted to stand still so I didn’t have to strain to hear, but I couldn’t stop my feet. I literally couldn’t stop them from wearing a path in the carpet. I strained my ears, though, thankful my hearing was sensitive.

  Daddy sighed when she was done telling her side of things. “I’m so sorry. It’s who she is, you know? I should’ve known she wouldn’t react well to change. I thought it might be good for her, but I was wrong. I don’t think she can handle it. She’s never been an easy child, but I love her. I’m sorry she hurt you. She’s never done something like this before.”

  Stacie sighed. I could tell Daddy’s charm was working on her. He had a way with words, no matter what was happening.

  “I’m okay. I got some peroxide from the bathroom cabinet. It’ll be fine. It just scared me.” Her voice was an irritating chirp I wanted to suffocate.

  “I appreciate you being so understanding.”

  “I think it’s sweet you’re so patient with her. She’s definitely difficult. I’m sorry I couldn’t make it work.” Stacie’s voice calmed, the shakiness ebbing.

  But in me, emotion quaked. Rage festered instead of relief, threatening to ooze out every single pore. Who did she think she was, talking about me like that? Tears welled. I’m not difficult. I’m not. I’m not. The mantra got stuck on repeat, cycling through my head as I tried to rise above it and listen to the rest of the conversation, trying not to hear the words all of my teachers and the kids and the principals use to describe me. I’m not difficult . . . am I? The question assaulted my brain with confusion tinged with guilt. I shoved it aside, though. There wasn’t time to worry about it. I had bigger concerns. Like what Daddy was going to do to Stacie.

  “She’s the one who’s patient, dealing with just me as her parent. Trust me when I say that I appreciate all you’ve done for Ruby. Or tried to do,” Daddy replied.

  Fury surged up again. I wrung out my hands as I listened to Daddy continue on.

  “But, well, my focus needs to be Ruby right now. I don’t think it’s good to bring someone else into her bubble. She’s at a difficult age, and I know these next few years will be tough for her. She’s going through changes, changes that are tricky for any girl, but especially for Ruby. I need to be here for her, 100%. I just don’t think this is going to work, not after tonight. I don’t think you babysitting her is a good idea. I’m sorry I promised you a job and now it’s not working.”

  “I agree. I’m so sorry, but I can’t do this either. Thank you for the opportunity, though.”

  I breathed in. I could hardly believe it. I didn’t need that drawing from under my mattress, the one with the knives and Stacie and the twisted limbs. I spent all those hours perfecting the curve of her jaw, the color of her eyes, the red of the blood pooling beneath her for nothing.

  But I didn’t care. The wench was gone, and things could go back to normal. I liked that my teeth helped Daddy see the dangers of having Stacie around. I liked that I freaked her out, even if just for a minute. I liked that Daddy told her it wasn’t going to work. I smirked to myself, scratching my neck as I thought about how good it felt to know she was gone for good.

  When Daddy came up to my room after she’d gone, he apologized.

  “I’m sorry, Ruby. I shouldn’t have brought her here. I don’t know what I was thinking. But no more. Just you and me, Ruby. Just you and me.”

  And the garage women. But they were quiet, just like I like them, I thought as he came closer for a fist bump, his cologne wrapping around me. It was too strong. I wanted the non-cologne Daddy back.

  I thought about telling Daddy that Stacie had thrown me to the ground, had hurt me. Just to ensure he didn’t try anything like this babysitting business again. I decided I didn’t need to, though. It sounded like Daddy had learned his lesson.

  I did have one question, though. I wondered if Daddy was going to eventually add her to his collection now that he was done using her. Or was that against his rules? How did he pick the women of the garage? So many questions. So much time to figure it out now.

  Just Ruby and Daddy.

  I know, Diary, that it won’t be long now. His hands were shaking when he left me go. The hunger for the killing game is strong, I can see it in his eyes. I can almost smell it on him, if my nose works past the awful cologne. Maybe Stacie stirred something in him, or maybe Stacie was just a distraction from his October self all along.

  Stacie’s lucky she left when she did, or she would’ve been painted up by Daddy in red, red, red. Or, who knows, maybe she would’ve looked amazing in my shed. I picture the squirrel hanging from the ceiling. I wonder if the noose I made could’ve held her.

  If she’s smart, she’ll leave town and never come back. If she’s stupid, she’ll stick around, and Daddy will add her to the women in the field. My thirst to watch it all, to live vicariously—one of our vocabulary words this week—through Daddy is pulsing.

  Let the game begin again. Thanks for nothing, Stacie.

  Stay Safe,

  Ruby

  November 1, 2014

  6:57 p.m.

  Dear Diary,

  Someone really needs to get rid of the old hag.

  Daddy says I can’t call her that. But really, someone does. Apparently, Grandma heard about what happened with Stacie. I don’t know how. Stacie must have been running her flabby mouth in town the next day, and Grandma has spies everywhere, I swear. That woman knows everyone and everything, even when we don’t want her to—which is all the time.

  She showed up today with some disgusting healthy salad that I would never eat. She shooed me to my bedroom while she talked to Daddy. Grandma doesn’t know I have super hearing. However, she really doesn’t know much about me or Daddy at all, even though she thinks she does.

  “Honestly, I�
��m worried. If you need help with Ruby, you should’ve told me. She’s at such an impressionable age. And with her condition . . . ”

  “Mother, stop. Right now. Ruby’s fine. I’m fine. It was just a misunderstanding.”

  “She bit a woman. That’s not a misunderstanding. Where is this violence coming from? I don’t understand it. You know, Misty Johannsen, my old neighbor, was at Bingo last week. She said her daughter who has a son with the same tendencies as Ruby, well, she decided it was best to send him to a boarding school where he could be under surveillance. Sometimes it’s just for their own good.”

  A hand slapped the table.

  “Shut the hell up. Don’t you ever tell me what to do with my daughter. I take good care of her. I do.”

  I imagined Daddy wringing his hands. I wished he’d wring Grandma’s neck.

  “I know. I’m not saying that. The girl, she’s just different. She needs help. I just worry. Especially since you’re doing this alone. And with her mother’s tendencies . . .”

  “Stop right there. Stop butting in. Stop worrying. We’re fine, Mother. I think I can handle my own daughter.”

  “I’m your mother. It’s my job to worry. I know you still miss Caroline, but it’s been so many years. Have you ever thought about dating? Trying to find someone? I just worry about you being all alone, doing it all by yourself.”

  Silence. Then, after a long moment, Daddy’s angry voice bellowed. “Don’t fucking talk about her like you cared for her.”

  “I care about you,” Grandma replied. “That woman was nothing but trouble from the moment you met her. She wasn’t cut out to be a mother, let alone to a daughter . . .”

  “Get out,” Daddy responded. “I mean it. Don’t come into my home saying horrid things about my daughter, your granddaughter. I won’t have it, Mother. I dealt with it with Caroline.”

  “And I was right about her. Look what she left you with. She was weak. She was selfish, the way she ended it all . . .”