“Get away from there,” Daddy yelled.
“I didn’t go in,” I replied, my lip quivering. I hated it when Daddy yelled.
He scowled. “Stay away from there, do you understand? It’s dangerous in there.”
I wanted to tell Daddy I knew it wasn’t dangerous—it was breath-taking. I wanted to tell him all the details I remembered. The way the blood pooled. The way he cleaned it, so perfectly and completely. The way their long hair cascaded over the back of the table while he worked. But I didn’t. The way his hands shook, the look on his face. It scared me a little. I’ve never been scared of Daddy, never felt like he would hurt me. But something about the way he stared when I got near the garage, it sent a shiver through me. I think maybe, just maybe, there’s a tiny sliver of a chance Daddy would hurt me if he knew I was here. I think it’s possible.
I shoved away the thought. How could I even consider that? He wouldn’t hurt me. He wouldn’t. Daddy would never do anything to hurt me. I believed it with every single cell in my body—didn’t I?
Something told me, though, I needed to be careful. I needed to make sure I didn’t make him mad when it came to the garage. I silently crouched in the chilly night air, waiting and waiting. And waiting some more.
12:36 a.m. Early for Daddy’s work. He pulled up in his clunky truck, and he carried her in. I peeked through as he walked through the garage door, plopping the lady on the table before rushing back to lock the door. I got a good view of her then. Her long, wavy black hair cascading down towards the floor.
It was black. Black like Chloe’s from school. It seemed like Daddy’s favorite was black-haired women. I grinned at the thought. I thought about the red from my painting and how good she would look with red all over her. If only Daddy could bring Chloe here.
I watched, remembering how beautiful the elegant dance was, how perfect Daddy was. He was so careful, following the same steps as always. It was almost exactly how I’d remembered it from the last time. The rope wrapped around her neck. The dangling, swaying motion of her body. The photograph. The solemn moment as Daddy studied her, shaking the photo carefully to reveal the image forever captured. The moment of peace and joy on Daddy’s face, the excitement in his movements. Then the body put on the table. Gloves on his hands. Pulling down each tool from its spot. Standing in just the right places, using the same outlet, using the same downward strokes to complete the task. Stepping around the pools of blood. Smiling as he walked around the table. Bagging up of the parts, each one going into the black garbage bags in a specific order and then into the trustworthy wheelbarrow.
The tidying up. The cleaning, cleaning, cleaning. The smell of bleach wafting through the air, tiny bits escaping through the hole nearby. The tools all in their spot. The gorgeous red painting on the floor wiped away. I was the only viewer of the masterpiece, the only one to remember Daddy’s brushstrokes. I studied like it was my job.
I could help you, Daddy. I’d be a good worker.
Maybe someday, I could help. I’d give anything to be around him when he was like this. This side of Daddy was foreign to the side he showed the world. I enjoyed being privy to it, like a majestic spot in the middle of the rainforest undiscovered by human eyes. Daddy was an unknown enigma walking around town. No one knew exactly how skilled he was—no one but me.
I longed to follow him when he loaded the bags into his truck, but I knew I needed to get back in the house. I was cold, my fingers almost frozen. Wandering inside the house once he was out of sight, I thought about the lady.
Daddy had killed her.
I didn’t know that when I was young. I didn’t understand. But I do now.
He killed her.
Killing is wrong. That’s what my teacher said. That’s what anyone says, really.
We’d learned about killing in history class and in some of the stories we read in English. Killing was an evil thing to do, and there was no coming back from dead. Staying alive was the main goal and getting killed was bad.
You had to be careful. It was like careful was the favorite word in the adult world.
Careful crossing the street so you don’t get killed.
Careful talking to strangers. You could get killed.
Drugs could kill you and alcohol, so you had to be careful about peer pressure. Drinking cleaners and driving without your seatbelt could get you killed. Putting too much information online could lead a predator to your house and get you killed. Grandma is always telling me that strangers could steal me and kill me. She’s always paranoid about that, grabbing my hand in public places so no one can snatch me, telling me to be careful around strange men. I’d rather be snatched than to have to feel her dry, cracked skin touching mine.
Everyone talks about killing and how to avoid it, and how the answer is to just be careful. Careful, careful, everywhere. Even Daddy tells me to be careful and to watch when I cross the road and to not wander too far when I take a walk in the woods.
But no one talks about what happens when your Daddy kills someone. No one talks about that kind of dead, or how to be careful around that situation. Why? Do other kids’ Daddys do this, too? And if killing is wrong, why does Daddy make it seem so right? So pretty? Daddy would never do something wrong. Would he? They must have been bad people.
I sit here now, thinking about it all, Diary. It’s so much more complicated than when I was little and didn’t understand. I do understand, sort of. Daddy is killing people, women. He’s hiding them. But I also know that Daddy’s a good man. He’s a good Daddy. And the killing game in the garage makes him so happy. Ecstatic even—vocab word.
How could it be wrong?
I don’t care what anyone says. Drugs and alcohol and strangers and cars can kill you, and that’s bad. But Daddy’s not bad. I love him. I’ll protect him. I’ll keep him safe.
Always. It’s the least I can do.
I’m off to watch television with Daddy, Diary. I’ll talk to you later.
Stay Safe,
Ruby
They say black is the color of death.
Swirling all around,
The grim reaper’s cloak waiting to snatch you up.
Black like forever when you die.
But I think death is red.
Red like strawberries on the lips
On a hot summer day. Red like the
Mermaid’s hair floating in the sea.
Red like apples and hearts and the lollipop
I ate as a child.
Red like
the warm puddles
in June.
Part IV
2013
11 years old
September 19, 2013
7:57 p.m.
Dear Diary,
I’m still bothered by the time difference. I know it’s been a couple of weeks, but I still want to write 6:57 p.m. It doesn’t feel right. Not. At. All.
But Daddy says chess club has been good for me. He likes that it gets me around the other kids more. He thinks it will help me be more social. I don’t think he realizes that’s not exactly true. Really, I just sit and quietly play. I don’t speak to anyone. But it’s fun beating them. I do like getting to figure out the best moves. It’s all about knowing the rules and having the smarts to put the moves together. I don’t think it’s that hard, but the other kids seem to think it is. It makes me feel good to win, even if they complain that a weird kid beat them. I hate that word. But I’ve grown used to it. Apparently kids think quiet means weird. If only they knew.