The Diary of a Serial Killer's Daughter

by L. A. Detwiler

  But I hate concerts. I hate crowds. This is my greatest show, and Daddy is the rockstar I’m waiting to get an autograph from.

  I peeked through the hole as Daddy prepared his area. But I did a doubletake when I looked in. Things were different. Very different indeed.

  Stay Safe,

  Ruby

  October 2, 2017

  8:57 p.m.

  Dear Diary,

  I’m sorry I stopped writing last night—well, actually this morning, to be correct. I just couldn’t quite find the words. My hands were shaking with . . . something. Confusion? Excitement? Anxiety? I’m not sure. But Daddy’s show in the garage was overpowering, something I had to sort through so I could tell it just right. I had to stew over the scenes so I could find the perfect words to describe the utter magnificence.

  He’s back, Diary. He’s back, and he’s better. The killing game has, dare I say, been perfected.

  Last night, when I peered in and saw that for the very first time, the lady Daddy brought home wasn’t dead, I was stunned. What was this? This wasn’t how he did it, was it? He always brought them home dead, quiet, their eyes staring deadpan as he worked. But this was different.

  My heart was jolted as I watched. She had blonde hair. It was pulled back into a messy ponytail. Or maybe the ponytail just got messy from Daddy. She wore a tight, super short metallic dress. It was shining, an olive green color with a fish-scale like texture. It was so short I was sure her private bits were about ready to spill out. Duct tape covered her mouth, the silvery texture a nice accessory to her dress, to her smoked eyeshadow.

  But her blue eyes told a different story. Her blue eyes were ravaged with fear and terror. They didn’t sparkle like her outfit. Her arms and legs were tied, and all I could hear were the mumbled words of the lady silenced by my father. He roughly tossed her on the sofa in the garage’s lounge area. I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t believe I would finally get to see how my father did it. Of course, this was all uncharted territory. Maybe he wasn’t sure how he would do it. Maybe this wasn’t how he used to do it at all. I didn’t move a muscle, rocking gently as I peeked through the hole. Daddy’s fingers caressed her face as he mounted her, straddling her on the sofa.

  “Beautiful skin. Porcelain. So soft,” he whispered, his fingers running over her cheek. His voice was quiet, calm. It sounded like a different voice altogether.

  “Her skin was porcelain and soft, too. But she had a freckle right here,” he added, touching a point on her cheek. I squinted, trying to figure out who Daddy was talking about. His voice didn’t sound like his own. It was smooth and softer than usual. It’s like he wasn’t Daddy at all—except I know the truth. This is the real Daddy. Daytime Daddy is the façade, not this one.

  “But porcelain, beautiful skin doesn’t last forever. Does it?” he continued, and his words turned icier. I could feel the lady’s terror from my spot. I breathed it in, trying to swish it in my mouth, in my lungs. I wanted to feel that intense fear, that intense power my father felt. It was riveting. I kept staring.

  Daddy’s fingers slowly meandered down to the woman’s neck. He reached in the couch with the other hand, pulling out what looked like a rope. The woman’s hushed words became muffled screams. It was odd to hear them like that. Both loud and quiet at the same time. I liked the muted sound, as if we’d taken the world and turned it down a few notches. If only all the world could be like that. Daddy tied the rope around and around her neck, pulling wildly on the ends. The blonde kicked her feet, trying to struggle to get Daddy off, but he was too strong and she didn’t have a chance with her limbs tied. I watched him pull tighter and tighter, staring into her eyes the whole time. Peacefully, calmly, like he didn’t have a care in the world. I watched as her kicks became less, and then finally stopped.

  I watched as he propped her down flat on the couch, her still body not fighting back. I heard him rip the tape off her mouth. He planted a kiss on her lips. It was a long, fervent kiss that made me blush. Thankfully, though, it was over soon. He flopped back and rested on the couch for a moment. His happiness was palpable, contagious even. The darkness had lifted. But now the real work began.

  First, the picture of her dangling body, just like old times.

  Then, Daddy carried the lady to the table, as I remembered from before. However, there were some significant differences. For one, the table was bigger, with special holes that dropped into buckets laden with garbage bags. I watched as he worked, the familiar tools and some new ones appearing. Daddy’s new setup was more efficient. There was less mess, less need for bleach to clean the floor. But I missed the splatters. I missed the red paintings that marked each woman as an individual. How would I recall this one? There was no distinct pattern like with Belinda or the black-haired lady or all of the others, each one’s blood splatter like a fingerprint in my mind. I supposed I would have to imagine her face when the life left her.

  Would it be this way every time? Would he always strangle them on the couch?

  If it were me, I’d do it the same every time. I don’t like change, after all. The same would be easier. You could get good at it. But Daddy likes change, at least with some things. Or maybe after all these years, Daddy just forgot how he does things. I don’t know. Other than his job and me and the house, he likes variety. He doesn’t eat the same thing for dinner. He doesn’t watch the same show. He doesn’t even wear the same clothes every day.

  Except for the pictures of the bodies in the same, hanging position. That never changes. I wonder why.

  I’ve heard more rumors that Mama killed herself that way, with a noose. I overheard the school librarian mumbling once to the custodian that yes, I was the girl whose mom hanged herself in the family garage. I’ve heard lunch ladies and the postman and all sorts of people say things when they thought I wasn’t listening. The town likes to whisper about Mama—and it makes me realize that I’m the only one in the dark.

  I wonder if that’s why Daddy does it. I wonder if it’s a way to commemorate Mama, to pay homage. I’d like to think so. I think it’s sweet that he loves her so much, even after all those years. I wish I loved her too, but I didn’t know her like he did.

  I wonder if he’ll eventually move on from this way of doing the killing game, though. Will he have to up the game again? And if so, how? He needs to be careful. I guess that he still takes precautions. He works late at night, when he thinks I’m sleeping. He locks the door. He even has a new door on the garage, one without windows. Plus, we still live so far from anyone; there’s no risk of anyone showing up.

  Still, what could he possibly do next? How could he change it up without getting caught? He’s been telling me for years now that I need to be flexible, that life is about changing and growing. Will he continue to evolve in the game? Will he continue to grow in how he snuffs out lives? Even though it scares me, I’d like to think so. I’d like to see other methods, see which one is my favorite.

  The blonde-haired woman has joined the silent choir of women in the field. I watched Daddy walk off last night to finish the job. I wonder if the squirrel’s skeleton is still out there. Probably not. I doubt I buried it deep enough.

  This evening, I watched the news carefully to see if I saw her, but there was no story. No one’s missed her. Daddy’s smart like that, I’ve come to decide. Other than Belinda, he’s careful to pick women no one would miss. At least that’s what I assume. It would make sense to pick drifters or women who work at night in scandalous clothes, who see lots of men. Daddy’s brilliant that way.

  It makes me think—if I went missing, would anyone miss me? Other than Daddy?

  Mr. Pearson would. I wonder what he’d think of this. He loves Emily Dickinson’s poetry. I wonder if her dad had a similar killing game because she sure knows a lot about Death.

  It makes me feel hopeful. I’ve learned so much out here. I have so much to write about. Maybe Mr. Pearson’s right. Maybe I could be a poet someday.

  Because Emily Dickinson sure
doesn’t go into detail like I could.

  Stay Safe,

  Ruby

  October 9, 2017

  7:57 p.m.

  Dear Diary,

  I stayed after class today to talk to Mr. Pearson. I have lunch after his class, so I stay and talk sometimes. It’s better than eating in the cafeteria where it’s obnoxiously loud and everyone throws things. Plus, I like talking to him because he makes it easy to have a conversation. He cleans the board or his desk while we chat, and it makes me feel safe.

  We talk about the books we’re reading. Mostly, we talk about writing. He’s a writer, too, but he writes political stuff. I think that sounds dull. Not enough room for expression like poetry. He asked me today where I like to write. I told him there’s a field by my house with gorgeous trees, where it’s peaceful. I didn’t tell him about the company I keep there. Even just mentioning the field felt like a betrayal. I don’t know why. It’s not like he could know. No one knows. Just me.

  Mr. Pearson said my poetry has the ability to touch people, to wake them up. I’m not sure how or why or what that means, but I like the idea. It’s appealing to think that maybe my words could connect with someone. It makes me think about what I want to do, after I graduate. I don’t often think about that. But Mr. Pearson makes me feel like I could be something, do something. He makes me feel like the rage, the anger I pour into my poetry could do some good in this world. It makes me think about Daddy and his life. What if he had a teacher like Mr. Pearson? Would he do things differently?

  I know that what Daddy is doing isn’t right, not in the eyes of others. It’s why we keep it secret. I know the women must deserve what they get, though. They must. I also know I don’t feel sorry for them. I don’t feel bad for them at all, in reality. And I don’t feel like Daddy is doing something wrong, even if I should or if everyone else would. It’s who he is. It’s what’s always been done. Waffles on Saturday morning, the news at 6—and Daddy’s game in the garage. It’s just a family ritual we have, just like every other family I know. Some Daddys play golf on the weekends or drink with their friends on Fridays. Mine has the garage game. Why would I feel bad about it?

  Then again, I sometimes struggle with what Mr. Pearson calls empathy. I struggle to put myself into another person’s shoes like Atticus says to in To Kill a Mockingbird. How can I really know what’s in their hearts, their heads, unless I’m actually them? It doesn’t make sense. I guess the closest I come is imagining what Daddy is feeling. Because sometimes, if I’m being honest, I feel it too. So I guess that’s sort of cheating—not really empathy.

  Despite all that, Mr. Pearson makes me feel like maybe I can keep it wrapped up. Maybe I won’t need an outlet like Daddy has to keep it calm. Still, the more I watch, the more I wonder, the more I crave to feel those bones beneath my fingers, to pull that rope oh-so-tight. The more I desperately want to make paintings on the garage floor of my very own.

  Would Daddy be proud of me? Of course he would. No matter what path I choose, he’d be proud. I’m his little girl, always will be. They say apples don’t fall far from the tree—which I think is stupid, because yes, sometimes they do. We went apple picking once when I was little, maybe four or five, and I remember how far some of them fell from the tree. Usually the bruised ones that no one wanted.

  I’m glad that even though I’m bruised, Daddy keeps me close. And vice versa. Two bruised apples huddled underneath the tree in the field, keeping each other close and safe while the other apples are preserved. But no one else can pick them. Only us.

  I wonder if Mama knew about the garage game. I wonder if she ever helped. Some of the kids at school work at their families’ businesses. Maybe this is the Marlowe family business. It’s just we can’t tell anyone about it, and we don’t make money.

  I’m off to the tree now, Diary, to write more poetry. Yesterday was the eighth, always a bad day for Daddy. He was sulky and in the bourbon. I suspect he’ll be in the bourbon later today, too. Mr. Pearson wants me to try to write a happy poem for tomorrow, something inspirational. I’ll try, but that’s usually not what’s on my heart . . . and poetry should come from the heart, no matter how blackened or cracked. Right?

  Stay Safe,

  Ruby

  October 30, 2017

  8:57 p.m.

  Dear Diary,

  The rules of the game are changing.

  First, Daddy’s taken another lady into his garage. It usually doesn’t happen this close together. He often spaces them out. Sometimes years apart. Remember how it was three years apart? Now, it’s so close together. It doesn’t usually happen this quick. At least, it hasn’t happened like this for a while.

  Second, he didn’t kill her right away like last time.

  It took much, much longer. Like a cat playing with a fly and slowly pulling off its wings, he played with her for a long, long time. I watched from my spot, the chilly fall wind blowing my red hair out from underneath my hat. I wasn’t sure what I was seeing, what he was doing at first. I don’t always get a perfect view, and the way he positioned her on the couch, it was harder to see. Still, I couldn’t look away.

  Brunette this time. Short, bobbed brunette hair. Dark, dark eye makeup. I think dark eyes. She was wearing very tight jeans and a crop top in pink. And, of course, tape sealed her mouth shut. Rope bound her hands and feet like some crude accessories. Daddy carried her in. This one was a screamer. Even with the duct tape in place, it was shrill and annoying. I wanted Daddy to kill her quickly to shut her up—I couldn’t stand the piercing cries. Once, there was a bird nest outside of my window and the baby birds chirped and squeaked all day until Daddy moved the nest because I couldn’t relax. I wished Daddy could see this was the same, the brunette’s screams relentless.

  Eventually, he must’ve gotten worried. I saw him looking towards the house. Maybe he was afraid I would hear. Finally, mercifully, he whacked her in the head with something and her cries stopped. But I don’t think she was dead. Maybe she was. I don’t know.

  Daddy whistled now, something he rarely did. His horrid melody echoed in an off-tune cacophony that could make Beethoven roll in his grave. He sauntered about, a lift in his step as he gathered the necessary tools. He hanged her and took his photograph. Her neck lolled, the hallmark of death. I was sure of it.

  Daddy got the saw from the wall after he moved her to the chopping table. The saw took her hand off, blood spewing as her delicate fingers, what I imagined to be soft hands, fell into the bucket. Her nails had been long and shiny red. They mixed wonderfully with the red spewing from her arm.

  I wondered what it would’ve been like if she hadn’t been dead yet, if Daddy had been able to wait until this moment. I chilled at the thought, but the kind of chills that one simultaneously dreads and enjoys. I wondered if Daddy was thinking about that too. When he walked to get a new tool, I could see him smiling. Daddy took the saw to her other arm. He was facing me. It made me sad I couldn’t see her face, but it was okay because I could see his.

  His face was alive and dancing. Enthusiasm painted itself in the deep lines that had grown on his forehead. Softness curled his lips into a slight smile, like the time I had made him a Father’s Day card in kindergarten with a pizza on the front even though I hated pizza then. I could see that this game, that his killing game, brought joy to him in a way that I both couldn’t understand but also could.

  You see, I think for him, the act of deconstructing the women, of taking the life from them, it’s his version of what I do here. It’s an outpouring of emotions—of darkness, of anger, of hurt, of regret. While I pour out in words, in black and white, he pours out in flesh and red. He pours out in borrowing emotions from others and seeing them through, in suffocating the feelings right out of them and, in turn, in himself.

  It’s not that different, when you think of it that way.

  The red dripped everywhere. It even splattered a little as Daddy wildly worked. I engrained the splotches in my mind, indelibly sealing them in my mental
scrapbook of Daddy’s works. It’s too bad no one gets to see this side of him. He is a prodigy in his own right. Which makes me wonder: was he always good at this? When did he start his training? Was it before me? Before Mama? I wish I could ask.

  For as much as I know about him, there are still so many mysteries to my father as well. I watched my favorite part, the dessert to my main entrée—the cleaning. I breathed in deeply, trying to waft the bleach smell over to where I was. It would never, ever get old. I could watch him every single night if he played. I closed my eyes, intoxicated by the scent, as I wrapped my jacket tighter around me to fight out the cold air.

  When Daddy loaded her up, ready to add her to the collection in the field, I smiled.

  I’ll be near you again soon, nameless lady, I thought. Maybe I’ll write a poem about her and the shiny nails. Or maybe I’ll write about the annoying, muffled screams.

  Or maybe I’ll just write about the red. I never get sick of that, either, after all.

  Stay Safe,

  Ruby

  November 5, 2017

  7:57 p.m.

  Dear Diary,

  I didn’t mean to find it, Diary. I think Daddy would be mad I have it. I’m so scared. But I’m going to tuck it away with you and all my other diaries for safekeeping.

  It’s really all Clarissa and Chloe’s fault. I know, it’s been a while since you’ve heard about them. I got stuck working with them in history class for a stupid group project. Mr. Denson made us work in groups, and he assigned me to work with them. I almost cried. But then I remembered to be flexible like Daddy told me to. So I tried to breathe and just make the best of it.

  However, in the middle of it, Clarissa started running her big fat mouth about Mama again. Telling me how sad it is that I don’t know anything about her. And I got to thinking that Clarissa was right. I hated to admit it, but she was spot on. There’s so much I don’t know. So while Daddy made a quick errand to the store for some milk, I stayed home. And I did something I shouldn’t have.