All right, I added a bit to this, edited it a bit more, clarified exactly the length of time this takes place over (breakfast to bedtime) and finally submitted it. This being my first-ever piece of Dexterfic, I could really use some feedback. Does it sound like Dexter's thoughts? Someone said the first version of this was too rambly -- I strongly suspect that was retaliatory sour grapes on their part. And I find it hard to understand how a piece that's barely 800 words long can be rambly. Nevertheless, it's certainly possible, and I'd much rather be wrong and know it than dismiss a valid critique just because it happens to *sound* like sour grapes. Hence, I took it somewhere totally unbiased. I like detailed concrit if you have the time, and as always, I reciprocate. Thanks in advance. :)
Frustration sometimes reaches a keening fever pitch, like some black demon chained at the base of my chest, the back of my skull, screaming bloody murder 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. Hell with that.
Eventually, the trail will go cold, and we'll be able to resume.
Resume ... the word alone sends a crawling up my spine.
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. If he ever does. On nights like this, it seems like all that matters is steamy Miami, how it all builds up. Glimpses out the window of people I could be 'visiting' right now ... even the petty ones start to look tempting. Drug dealers and watch hockers. Pathetic.
The addict analogy is tired, beginning to creak and wheeze, but it still fits well enough, like a shirt from college you want any excuse to throw away. I remember having rarefied taste in victims at one point ... but when the Miami heat builds up inside, I start thinking things like ... why didn't I kill that domineering waste of skin Rita calls an ex when I had the chance? He deserves it, too, doesn't he?
But of course he doesn't. Not by the Code.
I have to learn to stop thinking someday. Sure, it's a necessary skill, but usually not worth the effort. It leads me to places like this, staring at myself in the mirror when I really should just be brushing my teeth and going to bed. I'd say 'he's taken over my life', but the truth is, Harry has taken over my life. Until he found me out (animal bones ... ) my demon was my life.
Not anymore. Now I have two lives. Lucky me!
I should be sleeping, but I'm staring into my demon's eyes instead, listening to his ideas about what we should do tomorrow. They're good ideas. Not going to prison is still a better idea. But the ratio has gone down... Will he convice me tonight? Tomorrow night?
It's funny, how I make this sound like something wholly alien and other, imposed upon me from the outside. I guess it was -- monstrous Dexter was born in murdered mommy's blood, after all. He didn't murder Mommy. But there are no demons here, staring through my all-American eyes into the smoking, billowing Miami night outside my bedroom window. Nothing nearly that interesting or unusual. No demons. Only me.