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Dexter went to bed an hour ago and I'm still laying here in the dark, wide awake and wired as hell.
A month ago, a week ago even, I would've been so fucking happy just to go grab lunch with Dexter, just spend time with him for once without getting blown off by Mr. Socially Incompetent for no fucking reason. Just to sit with him and bitch about how fucking hard it is to be Lieutenant while we shove Cubans drowned in coffee down our throats, before rushing out on some other blood-spattered freak show of a murder case. Would've loved it even.
Now I'm glued to his side like a badge-wearing barnacle. Now he's sleeping in my bed, and we're fucking shacked up in my little house on the beach like two fucking newlyweds, except I'm sleeping on this piece of thrift store shit couch so my brother can't sneak out and make fucking surimi out of someone.
Fuck.
I may be the worst fucking detective ever but I don't lie to myself anymore. I can't. I know there's about as much chance of me "fixing" Dexter as there is of Masuka joining a fucking monastery and setting his porno collection on fire. But what am I supposed to do? Turn my back and stick my fingers in my ears as Dexter cuts up some shitstain lowlife murdering child molester and adds another... fuck, adds another fucking blood slide to his sick little collection?
My brother, God, that's my brother whose apartment I tore up, my little brother who was hiding pretty much the most damning evidence possible in his rattly old window unit, tucked away like a morbid little coin collection. My brother, who fucking saved my life at least a half dozen times, my brother who I...
No. I can't deal with that shit right now. Fucking enough that my baby brother is the Bay Harbor Butcher, God, how the fuck did I not know?
Is that why I fell so hard for Rudy — Brian — fuck, my fiance the Ice Truck Killer? Why I didn't see? Was there some little half-awake part of me that was paying attention, only instead of seeing a serial killing sociopath it went yes, good, he's perfect, he's safe because Dexter = serial killer and Dexter = brother and Dexter = safe and love and family and everything good? God, no wonder I'm such a terrible cop.
What I'm doing here... it's wrong.
I could turn in my own fucking brother and let him spend the rest of his life in a gray little four-by-five cell, letting that big messed-up brain of his go haywire and turn to mush. Let him take the rap for Travis and keep the rest of it to myself, know that a serial killer's off the street. Keep him away from ol' Sparky, but give all those murdered bastards some kind of justice. I could. But I won't.
I told Dexter I know the difference between what I'm doing and the right thing, and I do. I fucking do. And I know that what I'm doing isn't saving him or protecting our careers or making the best of a bad situation.
I'm doing this for myself. I don't want him in prison, I don't want him dead, I need him here with me and I don't care about a bunch of criminal fucks he left floating down in the Florida Straits somewhere. He's my fucking brother, the last fucking person on earth that gives a shit about me. He's mine. My serial killing, Guayaberas-wearing fucked up little brother.
God.
I'm staring at the ceiling and it's like time is standing still. Orange light from the kitchen nightlight is exposing the whole room and making it literally fucking impossible to get to sleep, as if that was likely anyway. It's quiet I guess, as quiet as it ever is with the beach noise outside, but the low buzzing noise from the refrigerator is loud as shit out here and every other noise seems louder too, I can even hear the clock from the bathroom, tick tick tick tick tick. It's fucking torture. And this couch is too short, I'm all pretzeled up here, and I really just want to be in my own bed burrowed into the covers dead to the world sleeping off this whole fucked-up week, and I'm in love with my brother who's a serial killer.
Blue light is coming from under the bedroom door, and if I listen hard I can hear the sound of clicking keys; Dexter is awake, tap-tapping on his laptop. Probably work. Or not, I'm sure I really don't actually want to know. God, he's probably in there planning his next little messy excursion while I sit here in the dark screwing my spine up. I should really get up and stop him, encourage him to go to bed. Keep him from feeding his addiction, like a good little sponsor. Serial Killers Anonymous, fucking hilarious. I don't know what I was thinking.
But I have to try. I have to. I have to at least make some effort at helping him, at mashing the pieces of my life back together until I can fucking recognize it again. Dexter is a good person, he is, sort of at least. Better than some, like I told him. Maybe better than a lot. Maybe that's sad, that a serial killer is a better friend, a better husband and brother and Dad than a lot of people out there. Maybe it's not even that unusual. My perspective is probably pretty fucked up, I'm realizing.
Sitting up, I just stare at the crack of light under the door. What am I gonna do if this doesn't work? If Dexter is un-fixable, or if this actually makes him worse...will he just snap and go on a murderous rampage? Just go back to his daily routine of regularly scheduled serial homicide — go to work, tuck Harrison in, stab someone before wrapping them up like a pork loin and tossing their body off his boat? God, the name of the boat, I am so fucking stupid.
But will I turn him in then? Arrest him like a good officer? Be forced to shoot him? What? I can't stop staring at the door like it's got the answer to the fucking meaning of life.
The answer is probably "I will leave him alone until he fucks up and either gets himself caught or killed." And I don't know what kind of cop that makes me, or what kind of human being. And it scares me that I can't swear to myself that I won't do something else. That I won't...help him. Cover up for him. Protect him. I just don't know.
But I guess I know what to do now. There's no point in lying here feeling fucking sorry for myself. I'm gonna invade the bedroom and make sure he's not breaking our little curfew. I'm gonna try and be there for him. If he wants to talk. Even if he doesn't. I will be fucking omnipresent. For now I will handle now and worry about all that other shit later.
I roll off the couch, stalk into the hallway, hit my shin on the corner of the doorframe and push into the bedroom.
. . .
Dexter goes to bed after I talk to him, and I'm actually feeling kinda like a big sister again. It's nice. I go to bed and fall asleep on the couch from hell like it's a big ol' feather pillow.
. . .
That night I have the dream again, except this time it doesn't end when he kisses me.
Fuck.