Debra Morgan sat on her bed and stared at the pill bottle on her bedside table. Her whole life she had been the fucking good guy. She did the right thing. She defended the weak. She stood up against evil. With one glaring exception.

But now it was all twisted. She had done something so reprehensible there was no going back. There was no being who she was before. She could never be the fucking good guy again. The one thing she valued. The one thing she thought she knew about herself. From here on out she would be no better than anyone else that she had spent all her precious fucking time chasing down.

It would have been bad enough, the deed she did. But the reason she did it…that was worse. That was a fuck lot worse than anything she could imagine. She shouldn't have done it. Especially not to save him. That monster that occupied her brother's body. That's who she saved. Because her brother, that man she had admired and loved her whole life? He never existed. So it's kind of hard to save someone who was never real.

Which meant that she had saved a monster. A serial killer more profound and successful than any she had seen, with the possible exception of Trinity. He could wrap it in a nice package and pretend he was doing good. He could sugar coat all of it, but it still stank of rotten blood.

And now that blood was on her hands. It covered every inch of her. She felt it stain and corrupt every part of her soul. So no, there was no going back.

But what was in front of her? What could she possibly be now? If she couldn't be Debra Morgan, the good cop, the good sister, who the fuck was she? She didn't have any answers to that.

Well, there was one answer. A very simple and elegant answer.

She went out to her kitchen, opening the freezer to retrieve the good vodka that she stored away for really bad days. The bottle was mostly full, only a week old.

Returning to the bedroom she sat down again and twisted open the bottle top. She took a big gulp and again considered the pills. Also a full bottle. How fucking convenient.

But first she had something to take care of. She set the bottle on the table top and went out to the living room. She found what she needed, pondered for a moment and completed her task.

Returning to her bed she took another big gulp of vodka, enjoyed how it felt as it went down. She popped open the pill bottle and systematically swallowed them down with the vodka, two at a time, until it was empty.

Deb wondered briefly if she should be so calm and level headed when undertaking this task. Surely given her temperament she should do this in some heat of the moment compulsion. With her emotional outbursts, she would expect to be more…agitated. But no, she was very certain of this. Really, she wished she had done it sooner. She wished she had done it before.

She didn't have much time to think. Everything was working as it should and she could feel her senses lull and dim. Everything around her faded until she felt like a small, insignificant spec. And then she slipped away in the quiet night.

When Dexter found her later, the note was simple. "You did this."