Author's Mumblings: This takes place before Season 1, before Dexter has met Rita. I have only seen the first 2 seasons (I'm waiting for Season 3 to come out on Netflix - I don't have cable), so if there is some kind of flashback episode that shows when they met, I apologize for mucking that up.

Warning! Warning! Warning! Warning! Warning! Warning! Warning! Warning!

This story is extremely graphic. I can only assume you are reading this because you are familiar with the show, but if you've stumbled on this by pure accident, consider yourself warned.

Disclaimer: I do not own Dexter or any of the characters on the show. However, I did write a short story many years before Dexter was made called "A Wolf Amongst Sheep", and yes, it's about a serial killer. Elements of it have been used for this (I found it to be a perfect marriage), but I hold the rights to that original story.

Feedback welcome.

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One of the most amazing things I have ever seen was in the parking lot of a grocery store late at night. A man stood outside of his car, beating his wife with his fists until she fell limp at his feet. Then he picked her up and threw her into the two-in-one dumpster/trash compactor. While it was still crushing her, he dragged their infant daughter out of the car by her feet, raised her over his head, and threw her down on the asphalt with all of his might. The head burst open on impact like a melon. I didn't know whether to feel sick or just amazed by his brutality. He made a charming addition to my collection of slides.

It's my day off. I don't feel like going anywhere because it's pouring rain outside. Instead I'm laying on the floor of my apartment, shirtless, watching the rippling gray light dance on my bare skin. I'm enjoying the grayness of everything, feeling the sensation of gray. I'm told that black is not a color because it represents an absence of color, but I think gray is better suited for that description. Rainy days like this make people dismal and unmotivated. Grayness light makes people feel nothing, just like me.

My sister has been bugging me lately to meet a friend of hers, a woman named Rita. I've finally agreed to meet her for dinner, reluctantly. I've made attempts at having a relationship, before, but I'm not very good at it. It's exhausting putting up a front like that, and Rita's already had a lifetime of pain and suffering. She was beaten and raped by her husband before he finally landed in jail, and now lives alone with their two small children. Deb seems to think I would be a good match for her. She says Rita needs a decent guy. I wonder sometimes about my sister's judgment.

Something else I've seen that was pretty incredible: A woman found buried in a box in her ex-husband's backyard. It quickly became apparent that she was buried alive, because she had scratched at the lid so hard trying to get out that her fingertips were raw and full of splinters. Some of them had actually gone deep enough to hit the bone.

I love the sound of rain. It lets me meditate more clearly on important things, like looking for my next target. I've been without for some time, now, and my thirst is getting stronger. I needed release. I have a few possibilities, but nothing for certain, yet.

It truly amazes me how unaware of things the average person is. They truly are as dumb as sheep, completely oblivious to the wolves vaguely disguised and moving among them. It's easy to spot a predator. I don't understand why so many people can't, or won't, see them.

On the other hand, the wolves can be just as blind. So many of them don't see me for what I am until it's too late for them. I supposed they're just too used to being the hunters. Why would a wolf need to fear one of its own? There are plenty of sheep to share, plenty of prey.

Ah, but why hunt a helpless sheep when the thrill of hunting predators beckons?

It's almost six o'clock. Time to get dressed and meet Rita for dinner. I wish I could come up with a good excuse, but I know Deb would get mad if I don't give it a try. Not to mention it would appear "normal" for me to try dating, again, and I must make every attempt to appear "normal" to everyone. It's what Harry would want.

Normal people don't think about trash compactors and exploding heads at dinner. I wonder what they do think about?