Fanlib.com is having a Dexter writing contest. I've been thinking of picking up darkly dreaming Dexter as a character, if only because we have so very, very much in common ... so I decided to give it a shot. This is the very first bit of Dexterfic I've ever written, based on the challenge prompt for the contest. If I submit it for the contest I'm probably going to expand it, of course, but I want to know how well I've captured the character first, in the opinion of other fans of the show. This matters to me perhaps more than it should. :p
Frustration sometimes reaches a keening fever pitch, like some black demon chained at the base of my chest, the back of my skull, screaming for its pound of flesh. And do I ever want to feed it, if only to shut it up. And it feels, after a while, like there's no possible way I can hold any more, like I'm filled to the brim with this crazy vibrating energy and I have to move, I won't be able to stop myself...
And then I get in the car, and buy doughnuts on the way to work. I eat a doughnut. I get out of the car, smile, distribute doughnuts, wisecrack. Eat another doughnut. Banter with my sister -- hi, Deb! Want a bear claw? Make her feel loved, make sure her need for attention is satiated. I sit down at my desk, and, surrounded by blood I didn't shed, I go to work.
And I continue with my day until I get to the night time, and I go home ... and the frustration hits a fever pitch again, and I wonder if I can do it again tomorrow. Even though I always do.
Harry taught me well.
/Trained/ me well. Emphasis on trained. It was necessary, of course.
But sometimes I wonder.
Is this bitterness, this oily gnawing feeling? I know I should be grateful. He taught me to survive. He taught me to master my inner Beast, to be what I am without compromising the values and rules Harry believed in.
Harry's morals. Harry's rules.
Why do they matter to me?
"Why do I let him turn me into a stuffed alligator?" I can almost hear my dearly departed brother's voice rebuking me for my vestigal humanity.
It's a good question. Why do I?
The answer, of course, comes to mind as quickly and matter-of-factly as did the question: Rules may not be important, inherently, not to my inner demon, but survival is. Survival matters more than everything to the Dark Passenger. He doesn't want to be here, washing dishes. He wants to be out on the street, doing his work. It's not for lack of prey that the hunter refrains from his business.
But when that black plastic bag washed ashore, my demon and I both knew exactly what the consequences of reckless behavior would be.
No more hunting. Ever.
Death or prison. To hell with that.
Eventually, the trail will go cold, and we'll be able to resume.
I can only hope they give up on finding me before my demon decides to reassess its priorities. I don't know how long I can control him when he has no vested interest in controlling himself.
It's funny, how I make this sound like something imposed upon me from the outside. I guess it was -- monstrous Dexter was born in murdered mommy's blood, after all. But there are no demons here, staring through my all-American eyes into the Miama night. No demons, only me.