Title: Hope
Summary: In the darkness of his apartment, Dexter feels… hope. 555 word drabble.
Word Count: 555
A/N: A quick drabble. This is just a little piece to blow off steam whilst I work on Predator and Prey (a much longer Dexter story). This fic is based on the book more than the show, but it's coherent with both. My first foray into this fandom. Speaking of this fandom- I'm a betareader also, so check it out if you're interested.
Disclaimer: I am not Jeff Lindsay, nor do I own Showtime or anything affiliated with Dexter. Sniff. If I did, Michael C. Hall would be forced to narrate my life (ah, that sexy voice!).
Deborah likes to take out our old year books and picture albums to examine them carefully. Don't ask me why. I'm always the last one to know. But I think she does it to remember our parents, though it is fun to watch her gasp when she sees, as she calls it, "what we wore". She always says it as though it's in its own separate phrase, something vitally important. I don't even pretend understand women.
That's a funny expression, though, her sour cop face warring with the reaction of I-wore-that? Years ago, she thought her ensembles were the best thing in town.
I take out my glass slides and do the same. Time does not fade these cherished memories in the least. I polish the glass-coated trophies to a shine.
But, unlike Deb, I don't regret a thing. If I could do it all over, surprisingly, I would. I helped out the good resident of Miami and sated my hunger. Two birds with one stone. Harry always did like that phrase.
I look at them one by one. How many people can say they've held over forty murderers in one hand? Not many.
In truth, these tiny red dots are more than enough to remember my moonlit escapades by. More than enough to convict me by, too, but nobody's perfect.
My phone rings, jolting me out of my reverie. It's Rita- the kids need someone to pick them up. I tell her yes, it's okay; no, I wasn't in the middle of anything; yes, I can go out tonight. I would rather go out doing something a little more… gratifying tonight, but for some reason I doubt she will want to join me in my bloodthirsty hobby.
I hang up and stare at the box for one more moment. I smile at least; there's not much that can make me do that. I again hope I can add another slide to my collection soon.
Hope. It's another one of those human mysteries that I can begin to grasp the meaning of.
I'm not quite as human as I pretend to be, expressing sympathy and joy with all mankind. But I do have emotions, and I can definitely feel all the feelings that appear as soon as I slip into the role of predator.
Excitement. Anticipation. Release. And the unbelievably melodic siren call of the moon as danger rushes around my quick-moving feet.
Sometimes I wonder if my victims have hope. Not hope that they'll change, become better people, but hope that they'll escape. A feeling that maybe, just maybe, they can get away from my hold and slip back into the shadows. I know I wouldn't feel hope if I was strapped to a table and on my deathbed.
Sighing, I put my rosewood box safely back in its hiding place. The air conditioner makes a ratting noise as if it wants to share my secrets with the world.
I flick off the light and sit in the reassuring darkness for a couple more minutes. The air is cool- comforting to me- and I would rather sit here all day and reminisce. But I head out to face the light of day. Who knows? Perhaps I might find new prey on the way to pick up Astor and Cody. Perhaps. One can always hope.