The Diary of a Serial Killer's Daughter by L.A. Detwiler

Author:L.A. Detwiler
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Lindsay Detwiler
Published: 2020-03-11T16:00:00+00:00

Part VII

2018

16 years old

February 3, 2018

7:57 p.m.

Dear Diary,

We visited Mama’s grave today for her birthday. She’s buried in a little cemetery in town. It’s near the church where Daddy married her. We go every year on her birthday. I think Daddy goes other times, too.

I used to sit and trace the letters, the numbers on the tiny stone in the ground, wondering where Mama was. Now that I know she’s here, I understand that it’s more than just a stone in the ground with her name on it. It’s where she is, has been, since that October day she killed herself. I wonder what it was like for Daddy to see her coffin lowered into the ground, to see them bury her six feet under. I wonder what it was like from Mama’s perspective, to be lowered into her final spot in the damp, cold earth. Could she see us gathered around? Was she afraid?

I think back to those diary pages, the ones I came across. I think about the words she wrote and about what a dark place she was in. Most of all, I think about how close I came to being six feet under, too. It’s odd to think about, so I try not to think about it too much.

What would Daddy have done?

Would he have hanged himself, too? I don’t know. I wish I could ask him.

Standing at the grave today, Daddy looked sadder than usual. I thought he was going to cry. I don’t understand why he’s struggling so much again. It’s like things are shifting in him, like the older I get, the more he slips. I’m worried. It makes me angry that Mr. Pearson tried to talk me into going away to college. I could never leave Daddy, that much is obvious now.

Daddy stood at the grave as the sun was setting. I kicked at a chunk of snow under my boots as Daddy set down the yellow rose he bought at the corner grocery store. One sad rose. That’s all Mama gets now. It’s pitiful, really. The women in the field at least have glorious, rambling trees and beautiful wildflowers in the spring. Mama just gets a sad, dying rose once in a while and all of these gross tombstones for company. I feel sorry for her.

But I’m also not sad for her. I’m glad she’s here. Because if she hadn’t died when she did, things could have been so, so different. For all of us. And I don’t think it would have been a good different like I used to think when I was young and naïve.

Daddy and I stood for a long time, the silence dancing between us comfortably like it always does. This time, though, the hairs on my neck prickled. I scratched at them. Something felt different, tenser.

Finally, after a long time, Daddy whispered into the whipping winter wind, barely audible, “I’m sorry.”

I was confused at first. I thought he was talking to me. But his eyes were lasered in on the gravestone.

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