Diary of a Dead Man: The final thoughts of Ed Boothe

by Matt Shaw

  In the end I found an apartment not too far from the motel. I purchased the first one I looked at (a similar story to how I purchased my car over here). I didn’t even like it (same with the car). The area wasn’t nice, it wasn’t close to anything useful (like a food store) and it was dirty. On the first night I moved in, I ended up sleeping on the floor. I hadn’t got around to buying furniture yet. Bit of an oversight. I ended up on the uncomfortable, stained floor staring at the ceiling wondering whether I’d chosen the apartment because - on a subconscious level - I was punishing myself for what I’d done in my home country. Looking back at it now - it certainly makes sense.

  But then - looking back at it now - the apartment was a 5-star residency compared to where I find myself now.

  “Hey, yo! You movin’ in?” I remember the man calling out to me from where he was sitting on one of the steps. A black man. Baseball cap, tee shirt and trousers (or ‘pants’ as they call them over here) which looked as though they weren’t even pulled all the way up. Poor fashion sense - another reason to commit murder? “Ain’t y’all the wrong color to be movin’ in round these parts?” I’ll never forget what he said to me as I opened the apartment door. Hadn’t even noticed I was the only white around.

  I’m laughing as I scribble this into my notepad. I remember how awkward I felt when I realised my mistake. Didn’t say anything to him though. Didn’t say anything to my new neighbour as he called out to me. I just stepped into my new home and closed the door. A security chain on the back of the door locking me in. As I moved to America, I had told myself that I needed to make an extra special effort to fit in and here I was - the new kid on the block…The new white kid on the black block. I am the next Slim Shady.

  In here there’s a few white folk on this block with me but - once again - I’m surrounded by a majority of black. As I write in this book I can’t help but wonder how many of them actually committed the crime they’re in here for compared to how many of them are in here just because it’s easier to pin the crime on them than seek the truth. Funny. Similar situation to the outside world (with regards to living arrangements) but I feel more comfortable here. And that’s not me trying to win you over, that’s not me saying I’ve got what I deserved in an effort to give you some peace - it’s just…out there…I was just me. I wasn’t a murderer (other than that one time and I’ve already admitted that was a mistake). These people, from what I’d read in papers and seen on the news, these people on my new street, were potentially murderers and thieves. I know it’s stereotypical to think like that but it’s hard not to form opinions as such. After all - the media rams it down our throats constantly. I digress though. In here I feel more comfortable because I am where I belong. I am with murderers. I am with people who are - supposedly - like me on some level. By taking away my freedom you have inadvertently given me the closest thing I’ve ever had to a real family. I thank you for that. Ironic really considering I took your family from you.

  When I did finally venture out into the world beyond the four walls of my motel room, I found that I was quick to stress. This was for no real reason. All the little things which wound me up - when I was living back in England - such as cutlery scraping plates, people chewing, people not speaking the English language properly (“y’all”) continued to wind me up here. I was going around with a permanent headache; blinded by the irritation I felt towards this and that. I’m not sure how long it was before I started imagining the pain I could inflict on others - should my mood continue to turn. Now you might believe this to be a negative thought process but rest assured it wasn’t. The scenarios I pictured in my head - hurting random people who were pissing me off - actually made me feel better. At this stage of my life they were nothing but dark thoughts. I wasn’t planning to carry them out. Truth be told, not sure why I did finally snap and decide to take them from my imagination and pull them into my reality. Doctors have questioned me upon the subject again and again in order to get insight into my sick mind but… Just can’t answer the question.

  “Why do you think you finally acted upon your impulses?” they asked me.

  I remember my answer:

  “Have you ever lay in the bed and felt an itch tickle your leg? You want to scratch it but - at the same time - you’re comfortable and don’t want to move. You keep telling yourself not to move, keep telling your hand not to reach down and stroke that itch away and for a while you manage to ignore your body’s screaming messages ordering you to reach down…But then you think about something else. Your mind flits to something completely unrelated and then - before you know it - you realise you’re scratching your leg.”

  My progression from ‘quiet person with active imagination’ to murderer happened much the same way; all the time I was thinking about the crimes I wasn’t committing them. As soon as I thought about something else though - the next thing I knew…I was bashing her pretty little head in. The scary thing was - I didn’t even realise what I was doing until I was carrying out the act. One minute I was chatting and the next - smashing her brains in until they were nothing but pulp.

  Whore

  America is massive. The sheer size of the place, compared to United Kingdom, was daunting and I found it hard to make friends. For one I wasn’t working in an office with people (where some people may make friends) and for another - I wasn’t really leaving my room. If I did venture to a bar somewhere, I wasn’t the sort of person who found it easy to strike up conversation with strangers. Even if I did manage it, it was never to the level where we’d then become friends. Nine times out of ten - the whole ‘conversation starter’ was just awkward. With that in mind you can at least understand why I was lonely and - with money still in the bank - it was easy to see why I’d end up utilising the services offered by call girls.

  I had been thumbing through various publications where these girls had their adverts from - pretty much - the first night in the States, but I never had the nerve to call one of them up. Instead I’d thumb through the magazines and read their adverts before masturbating to their pictures. I think - and I’m not one hundred percent sure - that it was about two months before I dared call one of them. And even then, on the first call, I didn’t manage to actually speak. I went to. I didn’t mean to do a silent call until she hung up on me. I just couldn’t find my voice or the words to use. I never called that particular lady back on the off-chance she’d saved my number under ‘time-waster’ or something similar.

  I know some of you may regard these girls as low-life, dirty skanks who sell their diseased bodies for money. I disagree though. They’re providing a service for gentleman such as myself. The quiet ones who are too nervous to go out into the real world to meet real people. The people who lack the self-confidence to approach strangers and successfully initiate conversations leading to friendships and (possibly) more. Sure there are a couple of bad eggs in the bunch. A few unsavoury types who are infected with various illnesses and diseases, afflicted with addictions, but that doesn’t mean you can tar them all with the same brush. That wouldn’t be fair, or right. It’s like saying all the men who seek these working girls are desperate, overweight and ugly. I am neither ugly nor overweight. I’ll give you ‘desperate’ though. I was desperate. But not for the sex. I could take it or leave it. I was desperate for something else entirely although - from the point of booking the girl to her arriving at my place - I didn’t realise this. I thought I was lonely and in need for a woman’s touch against my bare skin.

  I had no idea what the lady looked like - the one advertised in the back of the magazine I held in my shaking hands as I dialled the number on my phone. The picture showed no face. In its place was a picture of her pert naked ass. At least I presumed it was her ass when I dialled her digits. Looking back, I guess it could have been anyone’s. Perhaps a picture stolen from an adult magazine or even another advert. I’ll never know. By the time I was done with the woman the picture in the advert had entirely slipped my mind. Only just remembered it now that I’m
reminiscing about times gone by. Had I remembered the picture, at the end of our ‘date’, I guess I could have compared the two side by side. Her ass in the flesh and the ass in the picture.

  Not to worry - it’ll hardly bother me for much longer. After all, since starting this book I’ve been given my date of execution. Can’t see the governor calling to save my life somehow. Not that I deserve it to be saved. Everything that comes my way is entirely deserved. That’s not to say I’m looking forward to it - I’m sure you’ll be pleased to know. Had I been longing for my release from this world, you may not have felt as though justice was fairly dished out. Well fret not.

  I don’t want to die.

  I want to live.

  I want to be free.

  I want to finish your family off.

  Sorry - I went off on a tangent. Forgive me. Where were we?

  Ah, yes, the whore.

  Would you think less of me if I admitted to you that I couldn’t recall her face? Her perfume. I can recall that. A sickly sweet smell. I think I liked it. Think. Oh. Her eyes. I remember those too. Sparkling blue. Like a glistening pool into which you could swim - as cliché as it sounds. Perhaps they appeared bluer because the pupils were so dilated. Never did find out what drugs she was on. Again - I did what I did to her. I didn’t think of checking her arms for track marks. Had I done so, though, I’m sure they’d have been there.

  Her name was Honey. I remember that - most likely because I had a hamster by the same name as I was growing up. The only pet I was allowed to keep. I wanted a dog like most kids of a young age and I got a caged rodent. Hardly the same. I did not kill my hamster. Death by natural courses. Wet-tail. Poor bastard.

  Just as my other victims were members of your family, Honey was most likely someone’s daughter. They probably wouldn’t admit it now, though, given what she became. Unlike my other victims’ families - this particular family was probably grateful that I’d stopped her daughter from causing them further embarrassment.

  My heart was racing when she knocked on my door. My hand was trembling as I opened it. I smiled at her in response to her own smile. Teeth stained yellow. That nicotine? She checked my name and stepped into the apartment. I looked around the deserted street and closed the door behind her. By the time I turned to her she was already opening her jacket. She asked for the money. She didn’t even check it as she dropped it into her inner jacket pocket before throwing her jacket to the floor. I suppose she doesn’t care. A glimpse was enough for her to know it would be enough for another hit of whatever drug she preferred. My earlier admission - in this account of my life - explained how not all prostitutes are drug addicts and yet here I am writing as though she were one herself. As mentioned before I have nothing to back this up. Perhaps I am trying to make myself feel slightly better about what I did to her? I doubt it. It’s not as though I’ve grown a conscience since being locked behind these steel bars. Maybe I’m trying to make you feel better for what I did. Perhaps you’re reading this thinking, “It’s okay because she deserved to die”?

  Shame on you.

  We’d barely said ‘hello’ before she was on her knees fumbling at my belt with her eyes fixed upon mine. A cheeky little grin on her face and her tongue sticking from the side of her mouth. I don’t remember the exact details of her face but I do recall thinking she looked cute. Regardless - I didn’t get an erection; something we were both surprised by.

  Sexual Intercourse

  Despite being in my early twenties - I hadn’t had that many sexual partners. I’d had a girlfriend when I was sixteen years old but it was what you’d call ‘puppy-love’. Neither one of us thought about taking things to the next stage; we were just content to go around holding hands and saying we were boyfriend and girlfriend. Until that is, she met someone else and started calling them by the same label after telling me we were no longer a couple. No chance of claiming back the love she once had for me - it was, quite simply, over and we no longer spoke. That hurt. No sense pretending it didn’t. But don’t read too much into it. This was not the reason I ended up killing all of those women. I’m glad I did kill the women - given how things progressed with us after their death - but I never intentionally set out to solely dispose of them. It just seemed to happen that way. I guess it was easier to lure them back to my place than it was to bring back men.

  Anyway - despite what happened between my first girlfriend and I - I did manage to meet some other ladies and even managed to move things to the next ‘stage’ with regards to our sexual conquests. A gentleman never discloses what happens behind closed doors and I take pride in the fact that I am indeed a gent. The point I’m trying to make is that I’d never had any bedroom problems before. At least with regards to getting a hard-on. Sometimes I’d have an issue whereby things were ‘finished’ before I was ready for them to end but that’s another story and one that I shall not be sharing with you. The fact I didn’t get an erection - or even a semi - as this professional was working at the buttons on my trousers… Well, as I said, it surprised me. In previous relationships something would have happened. Even if it had only been the hint of a hardening of the penis; there’d be a sign that I was beginning to get aroused. A twitch, if you like.

  Honey. She looked me in the eye and laughed. I can still hear her voice in my head now, as I type this. She looked to me and jokingly complained that I was obviously going to make her work for her money. She was wrong though. Before I knew what I was doing I was hitting her in the head with both my fists clenched into tight balls. The first punch split her lip and the second split her nose. She fell backwards to the floor in a crumpled heap, screaming, as she tried to get herself back up whilst - at the same time - trying to kick me away with her feet.

  My reaction to seeing her on her knees (hitting her) was as much of a shock to me as my lack of erection. I had initially called her round to have sex. A quick hour long appointment to take the edge off the loneliness I felt and yet there I was, smacking this poor girl repeatedly. When she was on the floor - trying to kick me away - I too turned to using my feet. I kicked her in the stomach; I kicked her in the head… And I didn't stop. A feverish grin on my face as my feet connected blow after blow.

  And this is where I loop back to where I earlier told you how I often thought about killing people but never carried it through. Well - when Honey came through the door - it was the first time I’d not thought about killing someone for as long as I could remember. My brain instead focusing on the sex I was supposedly about to enjoy. But… Soon as my brain stopping thinking about killing… My body took over and actually started to carry out the murderous act.

  I’m not sure when her screams and cries stopped but, as soon as I realised, I too stopped lashing out. I looked down to her face. This is the face that I can remember today. Bloodied and broken, barely a patch of skin to be seen without a splattering of the red. Her mouth was slightly agape and all I could see was broken teeth. I crouched down next to where she lay and placed two digits against her neck in an effort to feel for a pulse. I recall feeling disappointed when I felt one even though it had never been my intention to bring her round to murder her. After my violent outburst - and despite the fact an unconscious girl laid upon my apartment floor - I felt calmer than I had done so for a long time. My mind felt clear and I felt what I believed to be a moment of peace. Not being used to such thoughts (peace) I won’t be sure as to whether this was a genuine feeling or whether I am merely romanticising the moment now I am looking back at it. I believe they call it ‘rose tinted spectacles’.

  I knew I couldn’t let the woman leave my apartment. I couldn’t phone the paramedics to come to her aid. I had started something which needed to be finished. You know what? I wasn’t upset by this. I was more than happy to finish the job. Not just that - I was looking forward to it. All those years spent imagining killing people and here I was about to kill my second ever person. I stayed on my knees as I placed my hands around her throat and started to squeeze as hard as I could.
I was actually disappointed that she didn’t wake up to feel death taking a hold of her. I wanted to see her eyes bulge from the sockets as I applied a crushing pressure. I wanted to hear her gasp and gag for air but there was none of that. My mind already telling me that - the next time I was to do such an act - I should ensure they were awake for the final finishing moves. By making sure the next would be conscious - I’d get to enjoy every second of their suffering.

  I sit here in my cell, pen in hand, with a grin on my face. I know I was captured and I know I am to die but that doesn’t detract from the feelings I get when thinking back to my crimes. My capture doesn’t take away how God-like I felt when committing them. Nothing will take that away. Not even when the needle slips into my vein or the electrodes placed to my head. You took away my freedom but you cannot take away the pleasure I felt. And speaking of pleasure…

  I was standing over her dead body by this stage. The continued feeling of peace and tranquility flowing through my every pore. I felt good. But not just that - I felt a stirring. A twitch from beneath my pants; a twitch she’d not been able to get when struggling with my belt. I couldn’t help but wonder whether this was a delayed response to seeing her on her knees in front of me or whether it was a response to my current situation. The first time I did what I did, I wasn’t sure how I ended up down that route. Every step I took that evening was a surprise. I was surprised when I first attacked her and I was surprised when I found myself pulling at the tight, short skirt she wore. I ripped it clean from her body, down over her legs, and was delighted to see that there was nothing underneath but a shaved pussy. I couldn’t help but to imagine the whore’s cunt talking to me. Its lips moving in perfect sync with the instruction ‘fuck me’. Before I knew what I was doing, I was guiding myself into her slit using blood trickling from her face as a lubricant.