A/N: I've only seen up to the middle of season three. Please: no spoilers in the reviews and remember that I know almost nothing about the rest of the series. This is from pure imagination and may not follow the preceding story line. Sorry, but I'm not spoiling the series just to write a short narrative that follows the timeline exactly. Thank you for understanding.
Also, watching the series as religiously as I have (I'm an addict and have watched the three seasons in less than two days), I like to think the Dexter enjoys his kills just a bit more than he lets on. If you know what I mean. c;
He stood overlooking the destruction he had created. The scene filled him with grotesque euphoria; he couldn't help but smirk at his gorgeous handiwork. He hadn't seen anything more magnificent, more grandiose, and he was proud.
The body of his victim was sliced, bleeding. The blood pumped from his neck in a rush of wild red, and Dexter couldn't help but roll his eyes at the multiple clichéd metaphors that coursed through his mind. He bit his lip in passion; these kills always sexually excited him. There was just something about the way his victims begged him to spare their lives, informing him of their 'justifications' for their actions. He was in control for once, instead of that incessant need to please the world by faking his emotions and fitting in. He could be who he really was.
The victim that was laid in front of him killed his entire family - a beautiful wife and three darling children - but was acquitted from the crime because of a fuck-up caused by the lead forensics expert. That would never happen in his precinct. He enjoyed listening to the man's excuses (he was "framed," like that wasn't a common objection Dexter heard), and had even more-so enjoyed the feel of the knife cutting through his victim's skin. That last exhale of breath, that finality of inevitable death, was madly brilliant and aroused him in ways not understood by the general population.
The veins in his victim's body were bright blue as he struggled for breath. Dexter usually preferred to kill his prey quickly, but this time was different. The man who laid in front of him was special - he was like himself, a monster - and Dexter was enjoying watching him cleanse himself of his gross desires. He deserved that, Dexter thought, the chance to come to terms with what was happening. Not because he felt connected with his victim, but because he knew how torturous it was to remember the surreality of every kill.
Blood pooled beneath the table his victim was on. It formed some sort of picture for him and forced him to remember the painful memories of his mother's murder that sometimes overtook him. But he expertly pushed them away and looked up into the eyes of his victim. He could see the life draining from them as he silently begged for help and forgiveness. He wouldn't give him any.
Finally he took his chainsaw and cut open his victim's chest, the thrill of the blood splattering across the protected walls and ceiling flooding his veins. He took a deep breath and grimaced at the irony of the action.
He loved cutting his victims into pieces. Their identity no longer mattered and they were just another murderer finally convicted of their crimes. No one would care that they were gone; he was in complete control of their fate and destiny and it always ended with their burial in an underwater grave.
Sometimes he felt bad about the pleasure he gained from his kills; however, in most cases he just let the irrational passion take over. The passion fueled him. He loved the power and control he held over his victims. He loved the freedom he had to let himself truly live.
And when he went home after a kill, after putting his trophy in his little wooden box, he couldn't help but show up on Rita's doorstep, ready to use his high to control her body too.