I do not own Bates Motel.
But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.
Yeah, Whatever
Monster
Norman's lawyer Dylan was spending his own hard earned money on definitely did not help their spiraling situation.
". . . update on Norman."
Oh jeez, no, not now-
". . . want an update on Norman . . . things going on right now . . . not at the top of the list."
Julia Ramos seemed unsympathetic.
"Well, he should be."
Dylan tried to be diplomatic.
". . . okay if I step outside and talk to her for five minutes?"
Trying to be careful, so very careful with Emma.
But Emma . . .
"About what? His defense?"
. . . was calling them both on every bit of bullshit she could smell on them.
"He's guilty in case you were under any illusions!"
Julia tried to be sympathetic.
". . . sorry . . ."
But couldn't touch Emma.
". . . brother-in-law ever killed your mother?!"
"Allegedly."
And Emma was done with them both.
She turned and walked into the bathroom, the only place neither of them were, slamming the door as she went.
As if she could no longer stand the sight of either of them any . . .
Shit.
. . . more.
She wanted him to sit for Norman.
Julia Ramos.
His lawyer.
Show the world his human side.
I'm his brother.
He's not a bad guy.
Just crazy.
Capital offense.
Death penalty.
Or, innocent by reason of insanity.
Life in psychiatric care.
That's what I wanted for him.
So why do I feel so defeated?
And Dylan Massett did not know what to do.
". . . to go make the funeral arrangements."
But he did know.
"I'll go with you."
"No. I just want to be on my own."
That whatever he chose to do . . .
""Are you going to the hearing?"
"Not if you don't want me to."
Guide me, Emma . Help me please.
"I can't tell you what to do about your family, Dylan."
That he would be doing it alone.
Because Emma was on her own path.
And definitely not inviting him along.
Her eyes, her entire countenance, was flat and withdrawn.
They always hugged goodbye. Kissed. If only a peck.
He needed her now more than ever before.
But she was gone away from him, her love and devotion and loyalty and steadfastness a ghost of a memory for him.
And she left then.
Without a touch.
Without a peck.
Without an inkling of familiarity between them.
Left him alone in that motel room.
Breakfast uneaten, coffee cooling.
And he could not . . .
"Don't pressure me. For anything."
. . . stop her.
He was going to be sick.
He was going to throw up all over the rubberneckers and gawkers and concerned townsfolk and people with missing family members . . .
Hello, Madeline. You still look like Norma and you're freaking me out.
. . . who were surrounding him, listening to the judge lay out the parameters for Norman's hearing.
He hadn't gone and sat behind him.
He was there, but he just couldn't do it.
In fact, he didn't even know anymore how much further he was willing to go for the murdering little psychotic.
Who was his half brother.
Shit.
The murders were brutal, carried out with passion and a violence so complete, they could no longer be swept under the rug.
The sick feeling was getting stronger as Sheriff Green described in detail, the ways in which the victims had died and left their bodies on earth.
And Dylan . . .
Oh god, Norman, what have you done?
What have I done?
. . . had to go.
He rose suddenly, trajecting himself in the direction of the door.
Trying not to step on toes as he . . .
Let me out of here.
. . . stumbled past.
He didn't throw up, not quite.
But he did hunch over the toilet bowl . . .
I do not want to know whose ass has been here.
. . . fighting the sour bile . . .
Why why why . . .
. . . rising in his mouth.
And finally, when he thought he had control of himself, he stood shakily.
Flushed the empty toilet out of habit.
And exited the stall, pale but composed.
He washed his hands.
What have I done?
Dried them.
And what do I do now?
And gazed up blindly at the stranger in the mirror.
What are you?
Trying to find the courage to leave the public restroom.
I didn't mean to become a monster.
He reached and dug his phone out of his back pocket.
Opened the homescreen on his phone.
Thumb hovering over the photo app.
I don't deserve to look at them.
Not after what I've done.
He stood, frozen.
Yearning.
Sick.
Remorseful.
And wishing he could take so much back.
Have made different decisions.
But he couldn't.
It was impossible.
It was also impossible to stay in the men's restroom of the courthouse forever.
So Dylan Massett, brother of alleged murderer took a deep breath.
Pocketed his phone.
And left the restroom.
Sam Loomis' pretty, blond, Norma-esque widow was there.
As if fate needed to punch him in the balls some more.
And Dylan Massett stepped up to meet it.
'Cause, as the damaged flesh on his lower left torso proved, he didn't run from shit.
Except with Emma to Seattle.
Dylan faced fate.
And punch him in the balls it did.
". . . me for a few weeks. How did he trick you for your whole life?"
Her disgust and hate and misery and lost demanded a reply.
And he couldn't think of an acceptable one.
Then her face cleared with terrible understanding.
"He didn't. You knew. He was your brother. You knew."
No, I wasn't sure, I . . .
Yeah. I knew.
"How can you live with yourself?"
He realized he didn't know.
Because now he had become the monster.
No, I do not think Dylan is a monster. But I think he does.