Before Debra gives them a chance to escape, Lumen briefly ponders the possibility of prison. Could she survive it? (She has undoubtedly endured worse.) But could she bear to wear the label of 'murderer'? Could she live with the fact that she is now a reflection of the ones she had set out to destroy?
And the answer is the same.
She would do it again.
She watches as the ocean embraces the garbage bags containing Jordan's body, arms wide open to engulf evidence of her darkness into its own.
A bag is released. A splash forms. A drop hits her cool skin.
Then nothing.
There are no more men left to hunt, and she feels no less calm now than when she had shot Dan Mandell.
She was never naive enough to believe that she would suddenly find the peace she had been searching for after killing Jordan, but she had hoped (with all the humanity she's convinced herself she has left) that killing him would lessen the bloodlust that has become as much a part of her as the man with whom she shares the same ravenous hunger.
Though his touch makes it easier for her to ignore the bellows inside her, she knows with all the certainty in the world:
The beast remains.
When they reach his apartment, they strip themselves of their clothes. He instructs her to put her soiled garments into a garbage bag, to take a shower while he disposes of it. The adrenaline driving earlier has finally reached its end point, so she wordlessly complies. He takes one lingering look at her before he leaves her to cleanse herself.
Of her demons? The blood?
She can't stop the mirthless laugh that escapes her.
Because she knows now, as scalding hot water beats down on her back, it will take more than a shower to wash away the stain of her memories, the knowledge that she would have never been what she is without the oh-so-gracious assistance of one Jordan Chase.
She isn't ashamed of what she has become; only that she's become this woman because of him. From the nothingness they had stripped her down to, she'd evolved into a stronger, colder woman who would stop at nothing in her quest for vengeance.
He had been so disgustingly pleased, here she was: living, breathing proof that in the face of tragedy, in the wake of ruin, she had found the strength that would have previously gone untouched, to rise above her destruction.
She had transformed. Just as he had.
She has to swallow the bile that forms in her throat at being likened to him, a reaction she'd felt no need to suppress even at the grisly sight of newly-dismembered bodies.
And she hates him. So fucking much.
Because he wrenched from the darkness (her darkness), the ugly truth she hadn't even known she was hiding, casting it into the light, stark and blinding.
She is what she is because of him.
But damned if she'll thank him for anything, damned that she was (is still) too much of a coward that she needed him to show her how much more she could be.
She quickly finishes showering, drying herself. She doesn't bother with clothes as she slips into bed, looking over at empty space beside her.
Dexter.
Her light in the shadows that has now consumed her life.
And she knows that as long as she stays, she will draw him even deeper, she will extinguish the humanity she has no doubt resides within him, if only he weren't too afraid to confront it.
She runs a hand over the sheets, closing her eyes.
You deserve more.
She doesn't sleep that night.
TBC
