Momma: Diary of a Serial Killer

By Erin Lee

Prequel to Erin Lee's bestselling DIARY OF A SERIAL KILLER series. 

Let’s get THINGS straight:

You made up your mind about me and my son the day some prude, who got what she deserved, told you to.

Silly you. Cause I’m not Beverly. And I’m not my son either. I’m Momma.

And that’s just gonna have to be good enough for you.  

Cause serial killers don’t grow on trees, you know. 
You have to plant them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Crazy Ink
• Release date: Nov 2, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386042860

Erin Lee

Erin Lee lives in Queensland, Australia and has been working with children for over 25 years. She has worked in both long day care and primary school settings and has a passion for inclusive education and helping all children find joy in learning. Erin has three children of her own and says they have helped contribute ideas and themes towards her quirky writing style. Her experience working in the classroom has motivated her to write books that bring joy to little readers, but also resource educators to help teach fundamental skills to children, such as being safe, respectful learners.

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Copyright © 2017 by Erin Lee

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

Crazy Ink

www.authorerinlee.com

Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

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Momma/Erin Lee.—1st ed.

Warning:

This book is dark fiction dealing with disturbing, undiagnosed psychological issues. It dives into the mind of a twisted serial killer and his bat-shit crazy mother and includes violent, graphic material only suited for adults. It is not suitable for minor children.

This novel is intended for entertainment purposes only, not for clinical research, case study or diagnosis. The DIARY OF A SERIAL KILLER SERIES was born as the result of multiple interviews with men convicted of murder in three states, combined with years of graduate level research on the pathologies that contribute to violent acts of murder and their architects.

Interviews, correspondences, and all research—including clinical case reviews and professional journal articles—for this project were conducted in the author’s capacity as a novelist, not a psychologist.

This book is a work of fiction and is not based on one particular man’s story alone. Instead, it is a combination of stories fictionalized to give one portrayal of what may (or may not) go on in the mind of an odd serial killer during active killing periods.

Important Note:

While ‘Momma’ is a fictional character, her voice is written as would be spoken by a real-life person with her clinical mental health issues. As this author imagines her as a sociopath with a severe not otherwise specified narcissist borderline personality disorder and multiple other axis two diagnoses, Momma’s thought and speech patterns are disturbed, unfocused, scattered, rambling, and sometimes contradictory by nature.

She also suffers from a severe sexual and mental abuse trauma history, PTSD, and not otherwise specified learning and cognitive disorders. Using her authentic voice is intentional in the author’s attempt to recreate voices, experiences, and family of origin cycles as relayed to this author during interviews for the DIARY OF A SERIAL KILLER SERIES. Open your mind and prepare to go on a wild ride of emotion, twisting of events, and excuses that only Momma could truly make sense of.

Just remember, some things aren’t worth the argument.

For Jimmie.

CHAPTER ONE

First THINGS First

Regret. It’s a funny thing. And once you’re gone and pushin’ up daisies like me, there ain’t a lot you can do about it. It’s like some big joke ya caught on to too slow. You laugh, driving away from whoever told it, and feel stupid for not getting it the first time. You can even try to pull an illegal U-Turn. You can fix to hunt the guy who told it down and tell him you finally get it now. If you catch up to him, he just stares at you—like you’re too late for the party and the keg’s run dry. That’s kind of how I feel about my life. But not really. Ain’t nobody got that kind of time. Especially not when you’re being haunted by a twat like Beverly.

You see, the hilarious thing about regret is that it is funny that you caught on too late. That shit happened right before your very eyes and you had no idea what would come about. There’s something comical about the idea that a freezer you brought home for your kid to hide from the world would be the very tool he’d use to hide his secrets. At least, I think it is, but I’ve got a weird sense of humor. I see punch lines in the shit that sneaks up on you. And that’s just the way it was with my son, Jimmie. Couldn’t turn your back on him—you’d regret it. Imagine that. And no take-backs. Momma ain’t no Indian giver. So now, even in this hell, I’m stuck with it.

Remorse. That’s another one, too. People seem to think I should feel it about my kid. I don’t. Not really. Sure, it probably wasn’t the best idea to have him help me move those bodies. Yeah, I probably could have protected him better: Came up with my own stutter for a check, bought my own box wine, turned the TV off when he came home from school to give him a snack and listen to what the little shits at school had been up to. Maybe even told him the truth about his dad before he was old enough to start asking questions. I feel bad about that. But not the rest. It’s not like I knew what the kid would get up to. Frankly, I didn’t think he’d have it in him. Jimmie was a coward.

Blame. It’s what they do to me now. They figure it’s all my fault. Didn’t even get a headstone. Not that Jimmie’d even been caught by the time I croaked. (Or cared all that much, either.) But still, even now my grave’s marked only with a P. People come to the cemetery to stare at it, piss on it, and shake their heads. Others bring cameras. They want some souvenir of the bitch that raised the shit kid with a fetish for ice cream and cherries. Whelp. There you have it. I ain’t got time for that crap either. Blame me. Blame the Momma. Does it ever work any other way? Sorry. Not sorry. I barely even liked ice cream. I ate it for time with Poppa. Poppa loved banana splits, and I don’t blame him for an ounce of this.

***

Momma

Go ahead. Hate me. I know you do. Everyone does. I’m used to it—being judged. Jimmie and me both are. Or were. It doesn’t really matter now, does it? Most certainly not. You made up your minds about me and my son the day some prude, who got what she deserved, told you to. Well, I’m not Beverly. And I’m not my son, either. I’m Momma. And that’s just gonna have to be good enough for you. Got it? Good. I truly hope you do. ’Cause serial killers don’t grow like weeds, you know. You have to plant them.

I’m just gonna assume you know, or think you do, everything there is to know about my son. You’d have to live in a commercial freezer or something to have missed all the newspaper articles about the guy who owned the ice cream shop who kept his frozen victims in his barn and shop. That was my boy, my Jimmie. And I’m here to tell you the rest of the story. You can’t believe everything you read, you know. Not even when it comes straight from the killer’s mouth. Jimmie ain’t perfect. He fibs, too.

Some of it is true, of course. But they, and him in his pathetic whiney journals, took it all out of context, too. So I’m gonna start from the very beginning. Ain’t nobody gonna interrupt me. Even with that nut Beverly, I stand my ground and like to get the record straight for real. I’m not like Jimmie—which is something you’ll soon see.

And another thing? I don’t really care what you think of me. So if you can’t handle the truth, get the hell away from me. I don’t do weak, and I don’t do pansy. Those are Jimmie’s things. His and Beverly’s.

It must have been a miracle or something, with all the drugs I did to forget about Poppa being angry with me, but when Jimmie came out, he sure was something. Labor with Jimmie was torture. I guess that shouldn’t surprise nobody. There’s not a lot about that kid ever since that wasn’t painful. Hell, trying to get him to learn to tie his own shoes took me years, and that kid’s still gonna say he didn’t have some kind of a learning disability. Whatever. Look at him tie a knot now. You think I’ll get a thank-you note for that? No way. Not from Jimmie. Not for Momma. No appreciation. None what-so-ever.

Thirty-three hours of hard labor and the kid comes out punching the world, left arm first. If the doctor had pulled on that arm, or I hadn’t had the nerve to stop pushing, that thing would have been yanked off, too. Then he never woulda had to have a stutter. Could have gotten him on disability that way: the gimp with the dead arm. Probably woulda been happier and wouldn’t have taken such a liking to blaming his mother for every single thing that happened since the day he was born.

It ain’t my fault the kid came out striking the world. Punching his way outta me was the bravest thing that kid ever had the guts to do ’til he started with his Things. So don’t you dare blame me. Not for any of it. Blame Jimmie. He had free will you know. And at some point, a man’s gotta recognize that.

I’ll