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September 2, 2017
8:57 p.m.
Dear Diary,
Daddy is Jack. That’s what I’ve come to figure out in Mr. Pearson’s English class. And being Jack isn’t exactly a good thing. I mean, sure we all have a little Jack in us. That was William Golding’s point. We all have that savage side that thirsts for pig’s blood. But I’m beginning to understand that Daddy’s pull towards Jack is stronger than most.
I asked Daddy at the dinner table tonight if he’d ever read Lord of the Flies. He shrugged, said he didn’t remember it. Fascinating. Mr. Pearson’s right, I suppose. We sometimes don’t see ourselves as we really are. If Daddy did read the book, he doesn’t even remember Jack or connect what he does with him.
I stayed after class today to talk to Mr. Pearson. I wanted to discuss my assessment of Daddy. Wouldn’t that be a fascinating essay? I didn’t, of course. I love Mr. Pearson. His slicked back hair, his tie knotted perfectly, every button on his shirt done up. He’s a bit quirky and knows a lot of different facts. He has some interesting ticks, too. Like how he has to tap his hand on the desk after every two sentences—I’ve counted—and how he always has a mint in his mouth. Always.
But he’s smart, he loves literature, and he loves poetry. Best of all, he doesn’t make me present to the class. He seems to understand that I’m on the fringes of the class. He doesn’t try to make it better or force me to socialize. He lets me be, lets me be different on the edges where, in truth, I flourish. Even better, he tells Clarissa off when she smart mouths me. I don’t think he likes Clarissa at all, which is an added bonus if you ask me.
Yes, she’s of course in my class again. You’d think the overtly sexy party girl would be too busy flirting with her football team boy toys to get good enough grades for Honors English. But somehow she pulls it off. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that her Daddy is on the school board. I don’t know. But I never get rid of her and those red lips and nails. I swear, it’s like she knows red is my favorite color so she tries to ruin it by wearing it all the time. I’ve sort of gotten used to her constant antics, I guess. Stealing my stuff. Saying horrible things about me. Calling me retarded. Tripping me, slamming into me, the list goes on and on. I almost don’t notice.
Almost.
Except when she says stuff about Daddy. Then I notice. My hands start to tremble, and I have to chant to myself to stay strong and calm and flexible. Still, there are many days when I picture her, blood trickling down as her eyes stare blankly ahead. I picture what she’d look like in that grassy field, where her lips would be red from blood instead of lipstick.
I’ve had to stay strong and quiet and just deal with her for so many years—but not anymore. Mr. Pearson notices what she does, and he makes sure she gets in trouble. There’s no sweet smile or charming words that get her out of it, either. He’s immune to her in all the best ways, which makes him even more of a favorite teacher to me.
So tenth grade isn’t so bad. I’ve actually started to like school, if only for Mr. Pearson’s fifth period English class. I love hearing his ideas on the works we’re reading. I love hearing his feedback on my poetry. He never says it’s too dark or asks where it comes from. He just tells me what he likes and what could be better. I appreciate that. It feels good to have someone get my work, to get me.
As much as I like Mr. Pearson, though, I know I like Daddy more. I can’t betray his trust, can’t tell Mr. Pearson about him. In truth, there’s not much to tell these days. Daddy seems to be done with the killing game. The last time he brought a lady back to the garage was almost three years ago. Three years. What made him stop? I’m not sure. Maybe he’s just done with it, like how I outgrew my red boots and didn’t want another pair. Sometimes we just change. We stop feeling what we used to feel, stop loving what we used to love, no matter how hard we fight against it. Change is hard, but sometimes staying the same is impossible.
Sometimes I think I imagined it all. Sometimes, I think maybe I hallucinated the whole game, that maybe I am crazy or retarded like so many seem to think. Did it really happen the way I remember?
I know that it did. Deep down, I know. You don’t just make up those images. You also don’t just forget something so epic, so glorious. I don’t know what snapped in Daddy to make him stop. He’s tried to stay away, or at least I thought he did. For three years. I think Belinda Cartright’s news story scared him at first. I thought he was worried about getting caught. Maybe he was. Or maybe it had something to do with Mama, about his promise to not disappear.
Maybe Daddy just thought I needed him. And I did. I still do.
The past years haven’t been easy, as you know. Even though Daddy has set aside the garage, there’s been something palpable in him, something scary. It bubbles to the surface once in a while. I see it when he’s sharpening the knife in the kitchen, the metal on metal sound singeing the edges of my awareness. I see it in the way he looks at certain women that pass us in a store, an almost undeniable, uncontrollable surge of hunger that is reflected in his trembling hands. I see it in his months of quietness, of remoteness, of aloofness.
He’s worked so hard to suppress it, but he’s losing the fight. I guess the dark need in Daddy eventually won out.
Maybe, though, in those three years, the thirst for the killing game was just somewhere else. It was in his dreams as he worked on the garage, on making it better, stronger, more intoxicating. Because it’s been quite a remodel. To outsiders, it might not look that different. It looks like the well-oiled garage of a man who works in construction, who loves building.
There are new tables and straps. New saws. And even a lounge area. But the lounge area isn’t for kicking back, for watching television and drinking beer. It’s something much darker, if I know Daddy at all. There’s something else, too. Daddy’s hands have been shaking again, the tell-tale sign that I’m about to see what the garage is really for, what secret weapons he’s stored, and what hidden lusts he’s going to quench. Maybe tonight.
I should be scared or appalled or nervous. But I’m not. If I’m being honest, which I always am with you, Diary, I’m thankful. I need a release for all of this anger, besides my poetry. I need somewhere to let loose, to let go of some of the rage I feel for the girls at school. Daddy’s not the only one with a darkness surging within. Because each year that passes, each month that things are hard at school, my anger intensifies. Each year that passes, I understand more and more what the garage is all about. And each year, I realize more and more that I’m not so different from the man I call Daddy.
Daddy’s killing game helps with the feelings that grow within me, even though I’m just experiencing it from a distance.
I don’t know how he’s stayed away this long, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss it. I can close my eyes and envision the swirls of red, the beautiful paintings I would do anything to mimic, to recreate, to put on display under a spotlight in my room.
But it’s a relief, too. It’s a relief not having to worry about the worst thing—Daddy getting caught. I know what could happen to him. His killing game might be fun to watch, but it’s life or death, too—Daddy’s life or his death. If something happened to him, I don’t think I could go on. I know I couldn’t go on, and even Mr. Pearson’s English class couldn’t give me a reason to stay.
These past years may have been empty of the killing game, but Daddy’s still been going through a lot. There’s a brooding, mysterious quiet surrounding him, even more than usual. He’s not the smiling, social person in public anymore. He’s squirrely, wiry, antsy. He rarely sits still. It’s like this weird force is driving him, like he’s on some kind of mission. Or maybe he thinks if he keeps busy, he won’t have time to play the game. Why is he stopping? Why does he feel the need to quit? Did something happen? Did he almost get caught?
All these years, and I still don’t know the answer.
All these years, and he doesn’t know I know.
Apparently, I’m a good secret keeper. I can even keep secrets from Daddy.
He does spend a lot of time in the garage still, but it’s a different kind of time. He’s always building something in there, organizing, reorganizing. I tried to peek in once. He shuddered when he heard my voice.
“Ruby, what are you doing in here? It’s dirty. You don’t want to get dirty.”
I guess he realizes I’m older now and it’s harder to use the “it’s dangerous” excuse.
“Nothing, Daddy. What are you doing?” I stood at the door, trying to calm the excitement rising within. It felt good to be on the hallowed ground.
“Just tidying. Listen, I love you, but this is my workspace, okay? It’s my sanctuary, just like your room is yours.”
“Okay, Daddy,” I replied soberly, trying not to let the disappointment be too transparent.
When would he let me in? When would he let me be a true part of his life?
It’s frustrating. I wish I could talk to Mr. Pearson about it.
I just can’t stop thinking about Jack from the story, and how Daddy is just like Jack. Smooth and cunning when he needs to be but driven by a blackness that the other boys only get a taste of. Jack owns the blackness, though, consumes it. It’s admirable, in a sense, the way he takes on the evil, the Lord of the Flies, and wins, in some ways. But in class, we talked about how Jack is the villain.
Is Daddy the villain in our story? Is his life not what I thought it was?
I’ve been thinking a lot about it lately. I’ve been considering my life, too. What will happen to me when school is over? Will I become like Daddy? Will it be my turn?
I shudder at the thought—but not because it scares me. I shudder because a big piece of me is utterly convinced I would be really good at it.
Maybe even better than Daddy.
Stay Safe,
Ruby
October 2, 2017
1:27 a.m.
Dear Diary,
The killing game drought is over. It’s begun again.
What prompted it? After three years? I don’t know. I don’t know at all. Maybe he couldn’t fight the hunger for the red. I understand that. I’ve missed the pretty patterns, too.
Or maybe the final piece of Daddy snapped in half because he’s started back to the same killing game with a new form of passion. It’s the same as I remember, but it’s also different. Darker. Hungrier. More wickedly wild. And more satisfying to watch.
It felt like old times, hearing the truck pull in, waiting for Daddy to get in position, and then sneaking downstairs. I’m smarter now, though, older. Wiser. I know I can be sneakier. I also know I have to be better. Because I’m older now—there would be no talking my way out of it.
If Daddy caught me, what would he say?
However, it’s worth the risk. It’s definitely worth the risk.
I wandered behind the garage, the familiar hole still in place. Thankfully, Daddy’s remodelling of the garage left it for me. It’s like fate, or like maybe, just maybe, Daddy subconsciously wants me to have a window into his world. I’d like to think that in my naïve mind even though I know it’s not the case. More likely, it’s just an oversight. Regardless, I’m thankful. It gives me a viewpoint into his inferno of rage, one that bubbles faintly within me. My heart beats wildly in anticipation, as if I’m at a concert waiting for the main act to come on stage.
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.
I went in the attic.
The attic doesn’t have rules like the garage, but mostly because Daddy knows I won’t go up there. Too claustrophobic up there. Too tight. The stairs are creepy, and I hate the dusty smell. But I’ve seen some movies where the attic is where people store all their memory books and mementos. I thought maybe I could find something of Mama’s. I don’t know why I didn’t think about it before. I thought, though, that maybe up there, I could find something of Mama’s that could prove Clarissa wrong, that could teach me about the red-haired woman who is a complete stranger to me.
I crawled up, shoving down the fear and the feeling screaming at me to turn around because I hoped that I would find something to answer the burning questions within me.
And boy did I.
Daddy has a box. I found it way, way, way in the back corner, underneath an old tablecloth. I don’t even really know how I came across it, but I did. Maybe Mama wanted me to find it. Then again, I don’t believe in ghosts and all that nonsense. It must have just been dumb luck. I never understood how luck could be smart or dumb, but that’s how the saying goes as Grandma likes to remind me. I scavenged through the box hurriedly, knowing I didn’t have much time. The store is a bit of a drive since we live so far out, but Daddy wouldn’t be gone long. He liked to get in and out of the store, just grab what he needed. I flipped through some items, my fingers feeling all of the textures and assessing them. There was a slippery silk dress in there, the fabric cool to the touch. A metal jewelry box cradled a few rings, its design making it prickly and cold. At the bottom were some photos, scattered about. My eyes danced over images of Mama and Daddy, and even a few of me as a little girl.
Then, Diary, at the very bottom, there was a black leather book.
And guess what? It was a Diary, just like you. My heart pounded at the sight. It was like spotting a familiar friend out in public. There was one difference between Mama’s Diary and you. Mama only wrote two pages. I wonder if she didn’t like writing after all. And I know diaries are secret, but I couldn’t help myself. It was like a window into Mama I’d been searching for.
I read the words. My hands started shaking.
I read them again, and again, and again.
I felt the sobs coming. I was shocked by what she wrote. Mostly, though, I was devastated by the fact that even after reading them, after uncovering the window into Mama . . . I realized that I understood even less than before.
I read the words again. I read them one more time. Then, with shaking hands, I closed the box. I worked really hard to make it look like I wasn’t there, but I took the diary. I had to take it with me. Those words, Diary, they’re lodged in my head. They’re swirling over and over and over until I’m dizzy. A part of me wishes I could forget them. A part of me hates Clarissa even more. If she hadn’t said that today, I wouldn’t have gone up in the attic. And maybe then I wouldn’t have these complex, horrid words pounding in my head.
Daddy came home and I was in my room. He asked what was wrong. I shook my head. He must’ve assumed I was having a bad day. But he has no idea.
Actually, he does have an idea. He does. He’s known all along.
I love Daddy still. I’ll do anything for him. But suddenly, I realize that Mama’s not the only one I know so little about. Because all this time, Daddy’s been keeping more secrets than I could’ve ever imagined. He’s been keeping Mama’s secrets. And that hurts worse than anything. Worse than anything.
Stay Safe,
Ruby
November 16, 2017
7:57 p.m.
Dear Diary,
I don’t know if it’s Mama’s writing that’s done it or if I’m just tired, but I almost messed up. In Daddy’s words when he’s really mad, I almost fucked up today.
It could’ve been so bad.
Mr. Pearson was talking in class today about the horrible news. Apparently, a lady named Lucinda Barley went missing last month, around October 28th. It turns out, she’s his neighbor’s cousin, and Mr. Pearson said his neighbor is really upset. Lucinda was a bartender working about forty minutes from here in a town called West Hill. She lived alone and didn’t check in much with family. I guess she had a reputation for picking up and going on adventures. The bar didn’t even report her missing until last week.
Mr. Pearson was talking about how awful it was, how distraught his neighbor is. It made me feel really bad. Super bad. Mr. Pearson recently taught Crime and Punishment, and we talked about the idea of guilt in the book. It’s been a hard concept for me to understand, but now I think I get it. Because here’s the thing, Diary. Mr. Pearson showed us the news story today. He likes to talk about current events. He likes to build what he calls empathy. Plus, he says everything relates to English and he hopes by sharing Lucinda’s picture, maybe she can be found.
My classmates were sleepy, only half paying attention as the brunette’s picture flashed on the screen. But I jolted right up in my seat. My hands were shaking, and I couldn’t look for very long.
Because I’ve seen Lucinda before, Diary.
In the garage.
And now I feel guilty. Because I want to tell Mr. Pearson so his neighbor doesn’t have to worry. But then I feel guilty for wanting to tell—because what would happen to Daddy?
Mr. Pearson says if something happened, the person will get caught. I had to fight the urge to run out of the room. I don’t want to look guilty. I don’t want Mr. Pearson knowing I have any connection. Because if anyone figures it out, Daddy will be taken away. He will suffer. I can’t let that happen. I have to stay strong in order for us to stay safe. I know that, Diary. But it was so hard.
Lately, I’ve been wondering if the killing game is worth it. Is it worth risking our family for? Does Daddy think about that, about how much he is risking? Does he even care?
I wonder if Mama would be upset if she could see us now. I bet she would be. Her diary still keeps playing on repeat in my head if I let it. I push the words aside. I don’t want to think about them or Lucinda or Mr. Pearson’s neighbor or Daddy going away. I don’t. I just want to put on my red boots and splash in puddles like when I was little. I want to be young again. I want to do it all over. I want to go back to when the garage felt like just a fun game. I want to go back to when I thought the women were just sleeping and Daddy was invincible, could never be taken away from me. I want to go back to before the Diary I found, back to when Mama was just a giant, peaceful mystery.
Maybe I would do it differently if I went back. Maybe I’d ask Daddy to stop. Maybe I’d ask to leave. Maybe I’d tell him I knew so he’d have no choice but to quit.
Maybe I could have changed it all.
Maybe if I wasn’t who I am, Mama could’ve stayed and Daddy would be different.
So many maybes. But maybes don’t always come true, obviously. Life is what it is. That’s what Grandma always says. She came over tonight. It’s like she can sniff out danger—or maybe she just gets bored and wants to annoy us. But Daddy didn’t throw her out.
We sat and watched the news. Grandma talked about Lucinda. I saw Daddy’s eye twitch, but Grandma didn’t. She’s clueless. Then again, maybe she’s not. I don’t know what to trust or believe anymore. All I know is I can’t let this all crash around me. I can’t lose him. Because I love him. I do love him.
And sometimes love makes us do delusional things. Sometimes it makes us go to the extreme. Sometimes it makes us turn a blind eye . . . or blind another’s eye for it.
Stay Safe,
Ruby
November 20, 2017
7:57 p.m.
Dear Diary,
I’ve never thought much about what life after high school will be like. I don’t like change, and in truth, it scares me. But sometimes, Mr. Pearson talks about it with the class and even with me after class. Sometimes, he makes me wonder: could my life be different, and could that be a good thing?
Of course, Mr. Pearson doesn’t know the truth about my life. He can’t know. I would never betray Daddy like that. Still, I sometimes think about what it might be like if Mr. Pearson was my dad instead.
Stupid girl. What a horrible person I am. I hate that I even wrote that. I should scratch it out of the paper. How could I ever betray Daddy like that? He’s so good to me. He loves me. I love him.
Still, if I’m being honest, sometimes I wonder: if Daddy didn’t have his secret life, could things be different? Could I be different? Could the future, my future, be different? And do I even want that? I always have a lot of questions, and Mr. Pearson says it’s good to be inquisitive. He encourages us to be filled with wonder. But these questions, they’re hard and they make me uncomfortable. I don’t like thinking about these kind of what ifs.
I think sometimes I scare Mr. Pearson. I mean, I think I scare a lot of people. But I think lately, he’s been looking at me a little bit more warily. He talked to me the other day about how my poetry seems to be getting darker, how sometimes he worries about me. He also told me he knows about Mama. He meant the suicide. I think Mr. Pearson worries I might do that, too. But for me, the worries are different. I wanted to tell Mr. Pearson that I would never do that like my Mama did. I could never leave Daddy, not by choice. I know it would kill him.
I wouldn’t follow in Mama’s footsteps—but I might follow Daddy’s.
Is that such a bad thing? Daddy is happy and respected. He has a good life, right? And he’s so talented at what he does.
Nevertheless, it’s also a lonely life, I think. Keeping that secret keeps him alienated, even from me a lot of the time. No one ever completely gets through those walls. I’ve lived my life keeping my own walls up, believing that’s what I want. Sometimes, though, talking to Mr. Pearson about literature and connections in the books we read, I wonder if that’s not quite true. I wonder if we all need to let our walls down completely with at least one other person. We all need to feel accepted and understood. We need to have honesty and openness. And if we don’t have that, what do we really have?
A tiny piece of me worries that I’ll follow in Daddy’s footsteps and find myself walled off completely, forever, from everyone, even Daddy. Sure, I’m used to being alone. But the killing game is a different, darker kind of alone. It’s more isolating, more permanent. Once you start the game, I know there’s no going back. It’s like a hunger that’s been unleashed and Daddy just can’t seem to fight it, no matter how hard he tries. Look at how hard he tried. Years and years away, yet it still called him back in. It’s like a drug addiction of a deeper variety. It’s like the blackness within him is always wanting more.
I know what you’re thinking. Why not choose a different life then? We all make choices, that’s what Mr. Pearson says. Do Daddy’s choices have to define mine?
Mr. Pearson talks to me about so many possibilities. About going to college for writing, about building a poetry career that inspires others. That sounds nice. But I don’t know. I can’t picture leaving Daddy all alone. Who would look out for him? Who would help make sure he doesn’t get caught?
And there’s something, else.
Sometimes, when I see the way my hands shake or feel the rage surging within when Clarissa is rude to me, I wonder if it goes beyond just protecting Daddy. I sometimes wonder if it’s in my blood to enjoy the killing game, too. Like that time with Stacie, when I lost all control. Even though it felt like I couldn’t stop even if I wanted to, I knew it was also a desire, a thirst within me that drove me to draw the blood. I enjoyed it. I craved it, even.
It’s a scary thought to be hungry for something you don’t quite understand—and that society never could. I wonder if someday the urge will be too strong, though, and I will paint my own masterpieces on the floor of the garage.
I don’t know. It’s so confusing, and it’s been putting me in a bad mood. I’ve been having so many overwhelming moments now. I ran out of the school the other day in the middle of biology, only because the thoughts were pounding into my head. It’s like the Robert Frost poem, where I have two roads to travel down.
One leads to an unknown destination, one that Mr. Pearson thinks could be great—but also would be a betrayal of Daddy, at least in my mind.
One would lead me down the path towards a life like Daddy’s, which could be fulfilling in its own way. But will I feel that way later? It’s hard to imagine a life different than my own. It’s really hard, and I don’t even know if that’s what I would want. I feel pressure mounting about it all. But the worst of it?
There’s been another thought creeping in, a tiny little inclination towards another, densely covered path.
What if I told someone about Daddy?
I shudder at the mere thought of it. It would be the ultimate disloyalty. My blood runs cold at the thought. I could never do that . . . could I? I could never turn in the man who has stood by me, who has done everything for me. I could never risk losing him. I could never risk going to a foster family or sending him to prison. I could never shred his happiness like that or stop him from doing what he loves. That would be so wrong, even more wrong than what happens in the garage or the lies we tell. Wouldn’t it?
But a tiny little part of me wonders: If I told on Daddy, would Mr. Pearson step in? Would he take care of me? Would he help me onto a different path? Could Mr. Pearson love me the way Daddy loves me?
I don’t know. It’s scary to think about. I love Daddy. I love him.
I do.
I do.
I do.
I do.
I do.
I do.
I do.
I just don’t know what life holds for me or where I should go next. And I hate that feeling of being lost. I hate it. Hate it. Hate it.
Stay Safe,
Ruby
December 8, 2017
2:57 p.m.
Dear Diary,
It’s been a really bad day. That’s why I’m writing early. I’m in my room, stewing. I thought maybe writing would help calm me down because otherwise, I’m going to snap.
I almost betrayed him.
Almost.
I almost chose Mr. Pearson over Daddy. What was I thinking? I’m so glad I didn’t. Here’s the thing, Diary. Daddy isn’t what he seems, not to other people. They don’t know all his secrets, all his talents, all his darkness like I do. But I’ve learned today that everyone, everyone, everyone has secrets. No one is who they seem. And for all of his dark tendencies, Daddy has one thing they don’t.
Love. Love for me, above all else. How could I be so stupid to not give that in return? How could I be worrying about Mr. Pearson, wondering what it would be like to be his daughter when I have the perfect dad? To think I almost let his talk about inspirational writing and college get to me. I was a fool. A damn fool.
I went into school today and there was a substitute in English class. Again. Fifth day. I thought maybe Mr. Pearson was sick or something. But then Clarissa started talking before class started about where Mr. Pearson really is.
He’s gone. Like gone for good. Word has it he got arrested for doing some pretty bad things, naked things, with a former student. She is in eleventh grade now, but she was in tenth grade when it happened. She liked poetry, just like me.
Everyone was talking about how Mr. Pearson is a slimy jerk who takes advantage of stupid girls. They talked about how he preys on girls who crave attention, makes them believe they’re special so he can do things with them. I couldn’t take it. I didn’t even tell the sub where I was going. I just ran out of the room, out of the building, out of town. I ran and ran until I got to a tiny café, where I sat until the principal found me.
Daddy came and picked me up. He didn’t ask questions on the way home. Maybe the principal told him what was going on. I don’t know.
When we finally pulled into the driveway, though, Daddy looked at me. “Ruby, listen. I know he was your favorite teacher. I’m sorry he’s not what he seemed.” And then he let me stomp up to my room.
Here’s the thing—I don’t know why I thought he was different. I know people aren’t what they seem. Not just because of Daddy, but because I’ve always spent my life on the edges. Observing, never a true part of anything. Watching, but never doing. I’ve learned from my position on the outer edges of my peers that everyone is wearing a mask. I guess I just wanted to believe Mr. Pearson when he said he saw something in me, that he thought I had options. Everyone likes to feel like they have options, like they could be something special. He made me believe for the first time in my life that at some point down the road, people might notice me. People might not laugh at Ruby or pity Ruby or talk about how frustrating Ruby is. They’d see me, if not me personally, then my writing.
But that’s all gone now. Mr. Pearson’s gone. I hate school again. I hate myself. How could I be so stupid?
I’m mostly frustrated that I fell for Mr. Pearson’s garbage. I thought about turning Daddy in. Just writing that makes me squirm. How could I do that? He is everything to me. Everything. He needs me. How could I abandon him?
Daddy’s never turned his back on me. Never. Sure, you could argue he leaves me in the evenings. But that’s only because he thinks I’m sleeping safely in my bed, that he won’t be missed. He’s always here when I need him. Like today. He left work to come get me because I just couldn’t be at school. He’s there, patiently waiting for me to cool off, when something triggers me. He listens to me work through my memories that are all jumbled when I’m trying to figure out how to ask him something I can’t quite put into words. He’s there to tell people where to go when they’re rude to me in public. He never runs away when I embarrass him—which I know I do. He never gets mad when I’m going through one of my repetitions or throwing a fit because the chicken tenders aren’t the perfect texture.
He’s there for me through all of my demons. The older I get, the more I recognize those parts of my personality for what they sometimes are. He loves me unconditionally. There’s nothing I could do that would make him stop.
And what do I give him in return?
I almost think about turning him in for working out his own demons in the garage. Stupid girl. Stupid Ruby.
I want to cry or vomit or both. I want to run to Daddy and tell him his secret is safe, that I’ll help him keep it safe. But I can’t do that. I know I need to stay strong. I need to learn a lesson from this. I hate that I’m using Grandma’s phrase. She tells me that when I get frustrated and break a glass or spill something on my shirt or trip over something when I’m not paying attention. Stupid Grandma thinks those are lesson-worthy moments.
No, Grandma. This is a lesson to learn.
No one is actually on your side. No one. Most of us go through life alone, not really knowing the people we think we know.
I’m lucky, though, because I have such a special Daddy who loves me forever. Whom I can trust unconditionally. He’ll never go away—not if I’m careful. I’ll make sure of it. He would never leave me like Mr. Pearson did.
So I’ll keep writing my poetry—but I’ll write the words I want to write. Who needs inspirational writing when the truth can shine through the darkness just as well if not better?
I’ll keep an eye on Daddy, too, and make sure he doesn’t make any mistakes. When you’re that close to your work, it’s easy to overlook something. I’ll be his editor of sorts, like Mr. Pearson was for me. I’ll watch his work and improve it when there’s a crack that could get him in trouble. I’ll stay vigilant and keep my focus on Daddy, so that I can help him if I ever need to.
I’ll stay on the fringes, where I belong, so I don’t risk losing what matters most.
Stay Safe,
Ruby
Her veins were whole
Her blood stayed in
The razor blade didn’t cut her tongue
Until he wanted it to.
A cold, dark night
With sludge dripping from the stars
And black blood tinging the red, cold and thin.
Her lips bulged and her tongue broke forth
But no sounds to be heard, no silence either
Only the spilling of
Not-so-innocent truth
Into the red.