My jumpsuit is itchy. I try my best to scratch, but the handcuffs make it hard. I try to scratch my forearm, but I have to bend my arms awkwardly. They say I'll get use to them.

'They' being my fellow inmates.

I give up on my jumpsuit. The itch is another thing they say I'll get use to. Just in time to die too. I think they were expecting me to panic when they said it, but I could only feel a mild frustration at not getting a jumpsuit made form better material.

I look around the room again. Only a day after my trial, and I already have a visitor. It's nice to know that even though I'm revealed to be a monster, people still want to see me. They didn't tell me who, but it's nice to know there is someone. Deb most likely, possibly Rita. I wonder if they'll minimize the crying and or screaming so that maybe I could enjoy their company.

The door opens and I look up, trying to see if they are blonde or brunette. I see neither.

Doakes.

Not exactly who I thought, but I don't mind. You would think that I should have some sort of hostility towards him, since he was the one who caught me. But that's a technicality. As is, he is the closest thing to a real friend I have, if only just because he doesn't despise my guts. He seems to be the only one to acknowledges that I turned myself in.

How did things get this messed up?

"Hey", he says, closing the door awkwardly. He looks at the guard in the room, displeased by the lack of privacy.

"Hey, don't mind him", I say, trying to get Doakes' attention off the guard. "He's not allowed to spill any non-vital information", I elaborate. My time in prison has taught me more about my rights. Doakes looks satisfied, and sits down across from me. He places a newspaper down too. There is an awkward silence as I try to find out what it so interesting about it, but I can only see the sports and business sections. He looks at it, turning the front of it to face me.

"What the fuck?", he asks. I made the front page, how nice. Big bold letters spell out 'Bay Harbor Butcher Brought to Justice' across the top. I don't see where the issue is. I, the Bay Harbor Butcher, have legally been 'brought to justice'.

"What?", I ask, leaning in closer to read the article.

Dexter Morgan, also know as the Bay Harbor Butcher, has been tried and found guilty of over forty counts of first degree murder-

"The picture...", he almost growls out. I glance up at my picture.

Oh, right. That. There I am, smiling for the camera. I could have been walking down the red carpet with that grin on my face. I was even to waving to the crowd. It's out of place, I know, but it doesn't really matter anymore. Really, I was just a little thrown off by the amount of people that brought signs with my face, demanding my freedom. One of them even compared me to Batman.

"Excuse me for not having internal cues for when to smile and when to not", I inform Doakes, enjoying my new liberty of saying what I really feel. His angry looks drops, and he looks awkward again. The tension grows thicker and thicker. Maybe I should try to act normal, just for his sake. I'm I trying to come up with something to say, but my mind draws a blank.

"Look, I, uh, just to came to tell you that you did the right thing", he finally says.

"Thanks...", I mutter, unsure of what to think about that. He looks around some more, and the silence becomes all the more thicker. I should say something before he leaves. This'll probably be the last time I ever see him.

"Thanks for making me do the right thing", I finally get out. I'm not sure if it's a good thing to say. After giving up on acting normal, it's hard to get back into it. Either way, it gets his attention. His eyes, previously wandering, now stick to me. He looks at me with a stare becoming more and more familiar. It's him trying to reconcile the real me, with the fake me I've been presenting for years. Or, from their perspective, the old and new Dexter.

"You're a good man Morgan. Most people who are in this much shit wouldn't turn themselves in like you did", he says. It's meant to be a compliment, to tell me that I'm more human than other people. But he's wrong. It's only a reminder that I'm far from normal. Most people wouldn't turn themselves in because they fear death. That is the difference, not some moral integrity. I'm just really fucked up in the head, that's all.

But at the end of the day, aren't we all?

He begins to stands, his hand going for the newspaper.

"Leave it", I command. He stops and looks at me. I smile and say, "I want to know what they wrote about me".

He doesn't say anything else. He just walks out the door, leaving the newspaper behind, and leaving me stripped bare, with my true self showing. The guard moves towards me as I roll up the paper.

Dexter Morgan, also know as the Bay Harbor Butcher, has been tried and found guilty for over forty counts of first degree murder and has been sentenced to Death Row. He is officially the most prolific and gruesome murderer ever to walk Miami streets. Having earned his named by literally butchering his victims and dumping their bodies on the sea floor, he shows no remorse for his crimes.

Close friends and family members have refused to comment, but his coworkers say that he always appeared calm and gentle, with no signs of a violent nature.

With over forty kills it's hard to conceive that Morgan has any sense of morality, but it has been revealed that every one of his victims are murderers themselves. When asked about this as he was being escorted out of the court house, Morgan simply commented, "I have a code." What exactly that means is still unknown.