Dexter knew what he truly was inside. He'd known it since he was a child. But there was a difference between knowing what you were on an intellectual level and knowing it bodily. Feeling it. He'd suppressed himself for a very long time. Kept himself from what he'd really wanted to do. Let himself be guided by a hand that didn't really want him to do these things, but knew he wouldn't be able to stop himself.
Now another hand wanted to guide him.
And that was the path that he most wanted to take.
Dexter looked down at the deformed and now mutilated creature and shook his head. It wasn't fun when they couldn't talk. When they couldn't beg for their lives. When he wasn't even sure if they knew why this was being done to them.
"Not quite as fun as humans are." There was blood all over him. His arms, his face. His clothes. He looked down at it and realized that he didn't hate it right now. Maybe because she'd put it there. She'd wanted to see him dressed up in his kill so it didn't pull on his tendons.