He plunged the knife swiftly into his chest, feeling the strength of his shoulder muscles pushing it to the target. Time had slowed down, adrenaline pouring into his bloodstream as the knife sliced easily through the thin skin and the intercostal muscles between his ribs. Deeper it went, nicking the left lung as it reach its target- the heart. Thick-walled, so very alive, the queen of the bloodstream, in charge, in control even without the brain. Automated, strong, and completely necessary for life.
The release was incredible, the blood flowing out of the wound under the wrap, sticky and red where it travelled in its prison. He hated it, loved it. Blood, so messy and beautiful.
The man on the table had raged, yelled at him, screamed and begged. But he was deaf to his words, just waiting for that knife to slice through all the precious layers which protected his vital internal organs from the dangers of the world. No matter now. None of it mattered now.
Death. It came all too soon.
Dexter savoured his moment, felt all of the tension released from his muscles. He rolled his head on his neck and smiled the smile of a man satisfied. And he was. If only it weren't for such a small moment. Less than a minute and he was back, feeling that tension beginning to mount again, waiting and watching for the next opportunity. The next chance to kill.
He didn't care that he'd rid the city of another miscreant. That was important, for the guilt if it were ever to catch up with him. Scratch that... Once, with the photographer, he wasn't guilty of murder. There was guilt, or what he'd imagine guilt to be.
Sighing, he cleaned up his kill. Meticulous. Careful.
He dissected the body and wrapped the pieces.
He discarded the dismembered corpse in the ocean, at the mercy of the currents below. Spreading him from coast to coast.
"I wonder if you ever travelled so far in life." He mused to the black waters of night.
His smile faded. Collapsed.
Rita. The blood everywhere. Bath full of blood. He covered his face with his hands and dropped to his knees. Why? Sweet sweet Rita.
Trinity won. He murdered her, made her last moment of life like her own personal hell. Bled her dry. Stripped her naked, alone with him, bled her to death. Harrison... Harrison screaming on the floor. Tear-streaked.
Born in blood.
Bath full of blood. Rita's cold, she's so cold now.