serial killer’s daughter keeps her diary on a post-it
the sounds of dying are back through the house like rats again.
i was holding my breath in the pool, dreaming about what it would be like to have someone who loved or even looked at me. there with the green water the only thing for miles, i could dream the house was flooded. that all the land and things beneath it had been consumed. opened my eyes and for a second i could’ve sworn someone called my name, only when I come up: roaring to the surface, bobbing in the water, no one had.
took all the knives from the dishwasher and buried them in the part of the yard where the bodies aren’t, shovel and everything, put my jeans in the wash after and then did math homework at my desk like I had any right.
in the films there is a lot less waiting around. this is because, in reality, this is the part that will get you. the time before the violence. i jolt awake in the night to the sound of a body being dragged from the car, shoes making a train through the gravel, and i am full of a sick relief. at least now it’s happened. when it’s actually happening, there is no space to worry about when it will happen again.
when he kills me i hope it’s quiet. when he gets caught i hope no one learns my name.
Caroline Shepherd is a student at Victoria University of Wellington who has been published in Mimicry, Starling and Signals. She can wiggle her ears but can’t drive.