I do not own Bates Motel.
But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.
Yeah, Whatever
Mother-Son Relationship
It wasn't the first time Norma had whaled on him.
And it probably wouldn't be the last.
Dylan Massett had been taught from a very early age not to hurt girls.
He remembered it clearly.
Six years old.
Playing outside with the neighbor kids.
Warm, sunny day.
Having fun.
Tag or some shit.
And one of the girls, because she was cute and he liked the way she giggled, he pulled one of her pigtails.
"Ouch!"
And she had turned to him and he had grinned.
She had stuck out her tongue.
He had reached out and pulled the other tail of braided hair.
And from out of nowhere . . .
"Dylan, you stop that!"
. . . his mother had appeared.
"Don't you dare do that!"
Screaming and grabbing him by the back of his shirt.
"Don't you ever, ever hurt girls!"
Yanking him nearly off his feet and dragging him away.
Swinging wildly and with heavy hand a wire hairbrush with half the bristles gone.
"Don't you dare do that!"
Trying to defend himself, yelling incoherently in terror.
Hands instinctually up in front of his face so his fingers took most of the blows.
The girl and the other kids standing still in a state of agape shock.
As Norma Bates dragged her towed headed, writhing son, into the house.
Where she slammed the door.
Drug him into his room, the smaller of the two because Norman got the bigger one.
And dumped him there.
"You are a bad little boy, Dylan!" she shouted, shaking a finger in his cowering face. "And you can just stay in here until you've learned your lesson!"
Then she stalked out, slamming the door shut behind her.
Leaving him on the floor in a ball.
Crying and snotting everywhere.
His body stinging all over, welts rising on his burning skin.
Hands red and swollen from where the flat side of the plastic had hit them.
And he laid there alone and cried until he worn himself out.
And learned his lesson.
And now, here they were again.
What had happened to her was awful.
Getting raped by Keith Summers.
No woman should have to suffer that.
It infuriated him, made him sick.
But Norma had gone too far.
Kill him, okay.
Dylan could see a scumbag that would rape a woman deserved to die.
Especially in the heat of the moment like that.
But dragging Norman into it, twisting him up even further than he already was.
Too much, it's too much, Norma.
And frankly, she hadn't learned a damn thing from it.
She had always been like that.
Unstable, creating drama, dragging everyone around her into shit nobody could handle.
She was unfit to raise a cat.
And those things don't need anybody.
Dylan was sick to death of it. Mad as hell.
So when she cornered him on the stairs . . .
"Where's Norman?"
How should I know? You've taught him to run from me.
"Out with a girl."
. . . he could not keep his mouth shut.
When I'm the one trying help him be normal. And you're just turning him into a freak because you're so needy.
And crazy.
". . . taken away from you."
Telling the truth.
But also . . .
"Nobody is taking him away from me."
. . . goading her. Trying to hurt her.
Because . . .
What? Do you expect him to be at your beck and call every second for the rest of his life?
Because you can't just live and breathe on your own?!
That's insane!
. . . what she was doing, had always done to him and Norman, was outright criminal.
He hadn't thought about her going batshit all over him.
Screaming, slapping, hitting.
It wasn't the first time she had struck out at him.
Or the fiftieth, probably.
But he was bigger now. Older. Stronger.
Angrier.
But even so, he couldn't hit her.
Wouldn't.
Instead, he reversed, shied away, deflecting her blows.
Realizing she wasn't going to stop . . .
Would you call the cops or just bury me in the backyard if I fell down the stairs and broke my neck?
. . . he grabbed her upper arms.
Turned her around.
And pushed her back against the wall.
Grabbed those flailing arms by the wrist, pinning them just above her head.
Holding her still, steeling himself to wait for her to wear herself down.
Just like that time with Kristi when she was strung out on meth and hadn't slept for three days straight.
Just holding her until she gave up her assault.
Knowing it was Norma Bates.
So it might take a while.
Ducking his head down near her shoulder and away to protect his face.
Even getting his big ear out of the way.
Satellite dishes, right, Tommy?
In case she tried to bite it off.
But Norma, for all her fire and acid tongue.
Was just a weak, broken thing once you disarmed her.
Crying and victimised all over again.
When the person who was really taking a psychological hit lately it seemed . . .
God, woman, what have you done to that kid? He's a wreck.
. . . was Norman.
The doorbell cut through her pitiful, shrill weeping and he let her go.
Her hate glaring through his brain.
What else is new?
She wouldn't say anything about the incident later.
Unless it served her purposes.
She would just . . .
"Hey, Dylan, can you help me out?"
. . . put it out of her mind like nothing had ever happened.
Sure, Mommy. I mean, Mother. I mean, no.
But for now while she tottered unsteadily down the stairs . . .
"Norman, honey?"
. . . Dylan trudged up to the third floor to sleep off his alcohol.
Why the hell did I come here?
And his anger.
And why am I still staying?
So many things I can't say here about this scene and my addition to it.
Guess I'll just hug somebody instead.
You kind, silent reader go do the same, okay? See you back here later.