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

  “Y’all moving out?” same black guy from across the street called out to me. I jumped when I heard his voice. There he was, across the street, sitting on that step once more. I wondered whether he ever moved in the first place. He’d caught me with two bags of whore in my hands, a shocked look on my face.

  “Rubbish day,” I called back to him.

  He didn’t say anything else nor did he offer to lend a hand (not that I expected him to). He just sat there, on his step, watching me load the bags into the back of my car. Each time I had to go back in to get another bag (only two trips) I slammed the boot shut and locked the car up. I could tell he was watching and I could tell he was offended by my lack of trust in him not to go near the bags. One man’s trash is another man’s treasure after all and I hadn’t wanted him having a root around to see if there was anything worth stealing. When I returned to the car with the last bags of whore - I was pleased to see he hadn’t moved from his step. He simply raised a bottle of beer towards me as if to say ‘cheers’. I smiled at him. I remember that. Nothing else. Just a smile before jumping into the car and driving off down the road with no idea of my end destination.

  Garbage Day

  I’d left the dead hooker in the house for as long as I dared. I think it had been a couple of days at most, if memory serves. I had to keep spraying the apartment with various ‘scents’. I started with the air freshener I had, then I moved to deodorant and then - when those had run out - I started using cans of furniture spray to hide the stink of rotting woman. It was when the furniture spray ran out that I knew I had to move her.

  I followed the same pattern with the other victims. Made sense to considering I managed to get away with it for the whore. Kill them, keep them in the apartment for two days and then move them from the area.

  The first time (in America) was the hardest to dump them naturally. Finding somewhere ‘safe’ to leave a dead girl wasn’t easy. I ended up driving around for miles and miles looking for a spot which I felt was away from prying eyes. The streets became less dense, the roads between housing areas became quieter and then - eventually - the jungle city turned to woodlands. Just in time too as the fuel tank was starting to run low. I panicked that I’d end up stranded on the side of some road somewhere - trying to thumb a lift with a dead whore in the back.

  At the first opportunity I turned off the beaten road, onto a narrow dirt track. Just because I had found what seemed to be a quieter area to explore, my nerves didn’t dissipate. The area was starting to resemble something from the film ‘Deliverance’. In my quest to find a safe haven to dispose of Honey, was I to end up getting raped up against a tree whilst being ordered to squeal like a pig? But then - had it worked out like that - you’d have most likely been happier? Reading my words now - are you now, for the first time, smiling? I’ll bet you are. Smiling at the thought of me getting raped.

  Human nature.

  Isn’t it funny how you’re all so disgusted by the so-called atrocities that I have carried out and yet you all - on some level - wish nothing but harm onto me?

  And here was me thinking we might have started to bond through the writing of this book.

  Unfortunately (for you) I wasn't brutally raped by some backward hillbilly. The woods were as quiet as I had initially hoped. I have a fondness for those woods. Should that read ‘had’? Been a while since I’ve been there. For all I know they could have been completely uprooted in order to make room for more apartment blocks. Or a single large supermarket of some description. A quiet area in an otherwise busy world. All the times I visited there, each time making a deposit of limbs, I never saw a soul. I nearly felt as much peace there as I felt standing over the warm corpses of the freshly slain, but I doubt someone as perfect as you would understand that. Sometimes I found myself driving to the woods without a body in the boot (or trunk as the Americans call it). I’d park up and I’d just start walking. Often with clear cut path set out. I’d just walk until I was tired and then I’d walk back to the car and go home. But that came later obviously. We’re doing things in order here. I’m putting things down on paper before my time is up and my reasons, and secrets, are buried with my condemned body.

  When I took the whore up there, I parked the car up, when the road ran out and looked around in all directions - including the one I’d traveled from. As far as I could see - trees. Dense woodland. I wasn’t sure whether it would have been a good place to hide the bodies. It was impossible to know for sure. But I knew - given my knowledge of the area - it was the best option I presently had and unduly emptied the car of the dead whore.

  Days that Followed

  I was nervous over the following days. I wasn’t feeling any guilt for my actions but I couldn’t take my eyes from the many news channels. Every time an advert kicked in, I found myself channel hopping through to another channel until I’d stumble across another bulletin. So many channels. I miss the days when I was growing up and there were only four channels. Five channels when I became a teenager and then - a blink of an eye later - satellite television broadcasting hundreds of channels (most of them shit).

  Over the days that followed I didn’t venture from my apartment. Every time I heard footsteps beyond my door my heart raced. Thoughts of the authorities kicking my door in and dragging me off to the courts. Thoughts of them coming for me having found the body…But they never came for me and - better yet - the news bulletins were silent; of my crime at least, it seems there were plenty other crimes to detail.

  A week later, nervously pacing the floorboards of my apartment much to the annoyance of the people living below me, and I finally started to relax. They hadn’t found the whore. They couldn’t have done. Even if they didn’t know who committed the crime, they would have still mentioned it on the news - no doubt hoping witnesses would step forward to help solve the crime, if they could.

  When I realised that I was safe, I found myself walking around the apartment as though I were a God amongst men. For the second time in my life I had managed to get away with murder but it was different this time. This time I had a taste for it. This time I knew I wanted to kill again but - the third time - I wanted to really savour it. Within the week, I was making the plans.

  Everywhere I went, when out and about exploring the local area, I was looking at people as though they were not humans but rather victims. Once again my mind was playing through the possible scenarios of how I’d go about ending their miserable lives. Each dark thought passing me by bringing a smile to my otherwise expressionless face.

  For a while I used to enjoy sitting in a small coffee house - like a psychotic member of the ‘Friends’ sitcom. I’d sit there watching the world pass me by with a twinkle in my eye. Each time I’d take a sip from my latte, I’d cast my eye around the fellow patrons and pick out those who I believed deserved to die. In the split second I had, to look at them, I’d come up with a whole backstory to their life; a reason why they were worthy of my attention. Occasionally I’d see someone, though, and I wouldn’t be able to think of a story which deserved their premature death. Instead I’d see something in their eyes which made me feel guilty for having such negative thoughts. A shine in their eyes which told me that all life was beautiful and that these people deserved not only to live but also all the good fortune I could wish upon them. The backstory in my head being one of tragedy for them; they’d lost their mum and dad at a young age, they were bankrupt, working hard but with minimal rewards and even the centre of attention for a group who liked nothing more than to torment them with unkind words and hatred. I guess you could say that I saw something of me in these people. A certain level of pathetic-ness - exactly how I felt when I was growing up; teased at school, picked upon for being different, hated for daring to go against the flow of what people believed to be the ‘correct’ way of doing things. Unhappy life at home ever since my asshole father walked out on us, the fact mum blamed me for it too…When I saw these people - the ones who reminded me of myself - I used to down the latte an
d storm from the coffee shop underneath a dark cloud. A heavy depression would follow me for a couple of days after such an incident as I’d feel an intolerable amount of guilt weighing down upon me. Not for the crimes I had committed, you understand, but for the ones I had dreamed of seeing through. Pretty messed up, huh?

  I’m just like any other person when I’m hit by a depression. I tend to lock myself away in the comfort of my own place. I close the curtains, I turn the lights out and I sit there - in silence - wallowing in my own self-pity. But I’m not like other people when it comes to ridding myself from the black dog. They tend to fall upon medication freely offered by doctors. At least it was in the United Kingdom - I have no idea how it works here as Health Insurance was never high on my list of priorities. Even today I’m not quite sure how it all works. Back home I never believed in the medications distributed. Half the time I felt as though they were nothing but Smarties (a great sweet - one I sorely miss as I feed upon prison slop). I believed they were given out to people complaining of feeling down as a way of shutting them up. The patient goes away, takes the pill and then feels happy - conned into thinking the pill is doing them a great service when - in fact - they’re only experiencing a sugar rush. Well I wasn’t going to be as easily conned by the doctors; not that I saw them very often for the depressions I felt. I saw them once, I believe, when I was in my teenage years and never went back. The mere sound of his voice, as he tried telling me what to do to help myself, irritated me more than words can describe. Want to know how I got myself out of my black moods? Want to know the secret to the way out? I’ll give you a hint: I’ve already mentioned it before.

  Still need more?

  How about - the peace I felt when I murdered the hooker?

  The calm.

  The tranquility.

  The clear head.

  Everything was better after I killed the whore. And everything would be better again - when I next killed someone.

  Hat-trick

  Not sure how many days I wallowed in my apartment after the first coffee-shop guilt-trip. When you’re sitting on the sofa and staring at the walls the minutes blend together. Then the hours blend into one and soon after - the days too. Same story as when I’d been staying in the motel, hiding away from the outside world. The amount of days isn’t important though. I’m sure, in the great scheme of things, you do not care about numbers such as that. Well, that is, unless we’re discussing my execution. I’m guessing the amount of days until that comes to be is important to you. The day I get put down like a rabid animal. The day you all become hypocritical assholes by celebrating the death of another human.

  I don’t recall what the time was. I just remember leaning down to the magazine I’d previously found the whore’s advert in. I sat there, on that sofa, idly thumbing the pages. I wasn’t looking for anything in particular. I was merely passing the time as there was nothing better to do. At least - nothing better to do without leaving the apartment and I didn’t feel ready for that. Not yet. It was towards the back of the magazine that my mind started to remember the previous appointment I had with the prostitute. More to the point I started to remember the moment of clarity and peace I felt once she was dead. I remember clearly thinking - clearly wondering - whether it was possible to experience the same moment of peace if I were to kill again. Would that be enough to beat away the Black dog of depression? I hoped so. Besides - the way I saw it - I really didn't have anything to lose. The girl, the one I chose next, she would have everything to lose. Not me. I flicked through to the back of the magazine where the adverts started and started to look at them more carefully in the hope of finding another potential date for the night. I already knew in my mind that I did not want sex with this girl just as I have not had sex with the other, at least not whilst she was alive. For me this appointment was all about the murder. Although there was a part of me which knew a form of sexual intercourse would occur once she was dead.

  When looking at the various adverts in this particular magazine, all the dirty little prostitutes, I often found my heart beating harder than if I had just been sitting there motionless. I guess it was the anticipation of what I was planning to do which caused that. There were many different types of adverts in this paper. Some of them offered what was known as the girlfriend experience, some of them offered role-play, some were for fetishes and some seem to cater for people looking for BDSM. I was often tempted by the latter, just to see what it was like but I knew that for what I had in mind I needed a weaker girl, not one who was used to beating up on men for a living. For my little hobby I opted to choose the girls who offered the true girlfriend experience for they were the ones who would show up expecting nothing more than a lonely old man in need of some female company. They did not show up expecting to find someone such as myself. Bad for them, good for me.

  The second hooker I chose seemed to be a skinny brunette going by the picture in the advert. This didn't necessarily mean a skinny brunette would show up, let's be honest - there was no guarantees that the girl in the picture was the one offering the services - as I previously mentioned to you. The danger was they had just chosen a picture which made them look sexy. Something to lure the customers in. You only truly know what they look like when they are knocking on your front door and by then it's too late. The telephone voice does not give anything away either. Some of them may sound slightly rougher on the phone but still be pretty whereas some of the uglier looking girls may have a decent telephone voice.

  It is hard judging someone by their telephone voice when in another country because it takes a little while to get used to the accents. Truth be told even at this late stage of my life, I do not think I will ever get used to the accents. They say the Americans love the English accent, this I believe to be true because their own accents are irritating as hell. At least, some of the accents anyway. The voice of the second hooker was no exception to the other irritating accents I’d heard but that was good, that was fine; it just made me want to kill her that little bit more.

  Despite the nervousness I felt when I met the first prostitute, the second time I ordered someone round to my house I didn't feel nervous. I felt excited. Both mentally and physically. I remember opening the door with a beaming smile on my face, not because of how she looked (accurate to the picture in the advert) but because I knew what I had up my sleeve for her. She smiled to, more so when I handed her a handful of dollars. Had she known what I wanted with our appointment, she would have probably asked for more. Unlike the first girl I remember this one's face; red glossy lipstick, full lips, kissable, deep brown eyes and her hair was shiny as though recently washed. Unlike the first girl, this one looks as though she may have been from the higher end of the market. Certainly not a cheap one plucked from the back of a magazine. I remember worrying momentarily whether she had security waiting for her outside. I had requested an hour on the telephone, would they have come knocking on my door once the hour had passed and she had failed to return to the car? I offered her a drink, something hot, not because I was thirsty and not because I was being polite but because I was not ready to hurt her yet. The time taken for the kettle to brew was time taken for me to question her in an effort to find out if she had anyone waiting for her.

  You'll have to forgive me but I cannot remember the whole of the conversation we had. It is the little things like that which I tend to forget. I was always content just to keep track of the things important to me. I guess that's why I ended up keeping some keepsakes from my victims. Just a little something to ensure I never forget. I have not kept anything from the first girl I had murdered and I had not kept anything from my mother’s rotting corpse but that was fine. I made up for my lack of keepsakes with the second girl and what I took from her.

  Keepsakes

  “Where are you from?” I remember that much of the conversation. It was one of the first things she said to me; confused by my accent. Of course I told her I was from the United Kingdom. Didn’t hurt to be polite, for now. Besides
- if I engaged in seemingly normal conversation there was more chance of her telling me about herself. More to the point there's more chance of me finding out whether there was anyone outside waiting for her. She seemed suitably impressed when I told her I was from the United Kingdom, another example of the Yankees liking the Brits. At least liking the British accent. I think there is enough friendly fire in the world to prove they don't like us as a nation.

  “Whoops, sorry. He accidentally ran into my line of fire when I was shooting at the bad guy.”

  I wonder how many times that has been uttered. Still, in war, I guess accidents happen.

  I remember asking the girl whether she was local. It had taken her 45 minutes to get to my apartment so I'm guessing she wasn't. Unless of course she had to finish off with another client before she came out to see me. I never did find out whether I was sloppy seconds. She told me that she wasn't local but at the same time she wasn't too far either so it was no hardship coming round to see me at this time of night. I thanked her although truth be told, I couldn't really care less. If she hadn't answered the telephone then I'm sure someone else would have.