I do not own Bates Motel.
But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.
Yeah, Whatever
Mice And Men
"Dylan? Dylan, are you there? Dylan, what happened?"
Her voice was the thing that let him know he wasn't dead.
Her voice.
And the more distant sound of Katie babbling in the background.
And he couldn't speak.
"Dylan? Dylan?!"
Her voice was quiet, for fear of upsetting her infant daughter.
But her tone was desperate.
"Dylan?!"
Like she was hanging onto a thread of a lifeline.
"I'm here."
His voice sounded empty and hollow to him.
Like he wasn't really there.
"Dylan, what happened?"
He opened his mouth and the words fell to his feet like dead, lifeless things.
"Norman's dead. I killed him."
Her shock and horror poured out of the phone as she gasped for air.
There go those lungs, he thought vaguely.
It was not the first time he'd had that thought.
Only the first time he hadn't felt anything while thinking it.
It wasn't that he didn't still love her and care about her.
It was that he just wasn't there.
"Oh my god. Are you hurt?"
Subjective question.
He was beyond hurt. He was in that numb void where your heart is beating in your chest.
Your blood pumping through your veins.
The air rushing in and out of your lungs.
But you can't feel it.
"No. I'm fine."
I want to come home.
Please, god, let me come home, Emma.
The sheriff was coming up the steps toward him.
That woman with the squinty blue eyes and pinched lips.
The one who hadn't stopped Romero from taking Norman.
"Emma, the sheriff is coming to talk to me," Dylan Massett relayed. "I have to go."
Then he hung up before he could listen to her not say 'I love you'.
Again.
"Who were you talking to?" The sheriff inquired.
Dylan put his phone in his pocket with a numb hand.
"My wife."
I hope.
Then Sheriff Jane Greene spoke.
"Dylan, I need you to come down to the station and tell me what happened here."
He stared at his hands, covered in Norman's blood.
"Okay."
Sheriff Greene was a very dedicated professional.
She wanted lots of details.
The good thing was, she listened intently for as long as he wanted to talk.
And Dylan told her everything.
His voice monotone, flat and dead.
He never got off topic. He never wavered.
He never ranted or paused or mixed up his words.
He didn't have the energy left to.
He did tell her everything.
From the time he had contacted Norman up to the moment he had dialed 911 with smell of gunsmoke and evening supper and stale death wafting through that creepy, crawly house.
Everything.
It took a while.
Unbeknownst to him, Emma was listening as well from the witness room, horror filled eyes transfixed on her husband's blank facade.
Tears streaming down her face.
Transplanted lungs steadily and faithfully inhaling oxygen and exhaling carbon dioxide.
When he ran out of words and his bastardful tale was complete, she turned to the officer standing next to her and spoke only one sentence.
Five short words.
Five syllables.
"Can I see him, please?"
"Dylan?"
Dylan Massett looked up at the small town sheriff who had never dealt with any tragedy of this caliber in her short career.
He did not speak.
"This has been a terrible ordeal for you. I wish you'd come to me earlier. But I understand you were trying help your brother."
She drew a long, slow intake of breath.
What a cluster, she thought.
"Your wife is waiting to see you."
For the first time since he had walked out onto his dead mother's front porch, Dylan felt a tremor of emotion.
Hope, maybe.
Fear.
He looked at the sheriff.
"Emma?"
The grim-faced woman nodded, speaking a bit gentler now.
"Yes. Would you like to see her?"
He didnt even hesitate, only nodded. Scared to face her and unable to not to.
"Does she know?" he asked.
Greene nodded.
"She asked to listen. I hope that's okay."
Dylan nodded vaguely. He had never considered it not being okay.
It was Emma.
"Yes."
Greene eyed him carefully.
"Okay."
She crossed the room, knocked on the closed interrogation room door and it opened.
Emma rushed in, heading the few steps straight to Dylan.
Whose face pinched as he reached out to her beseechingly.
With one hand.
Only a few inches from the table where he shackled.
Emma stopped dead, a hand clasping his one outstretched one.
Then she turned to the sheriff, expression irrate and burning with fury.
"What is this? Why is he still handcuffed? Take this off of him, he didn't do anything wrong! He acted in self-defense, premeditated self-defense, maybe, but it's the only reason he's still alive-"
Greene waved her off, face calm and collected.
"He's been through a lot of trauma. We just wanted to be sure he wasn't a threat to himself or others."
Emma flared.
"Well, he's not so take it off!"
Greene smirked a wan ghost of a smile and nodded.
"Sure you're not his lawyer?"
Emma didn't respond, seething.
Greene moved forward and unlatched Dylan's left wrist.
He immediately stood, wrapping both arms tight around Emma as she reached for him.
And tucked his face down into her neck.
Burying himself away from all the badness in the sweet smelling fall of her auburn hair.
She responded by pressing herself completely to him, arms wrapped around his neck, hands clenched into the fabric of his shirt.
"Emma, Emma, I'm sorry-"
Rambling, he was rambling. A muttered raw flood of rushed words he had already uttered once that night.
Dry and empty before.
Now pouring with emotion and heartbreak.
"I tried not to do it, Emma. I tried. But he wouldn't stop and he kept coming and he had a knife and Norma was rotting in the next room and-"
Sheriff Greene watched them, keen hearing picking up the broken man's renewed confession.
Apt brain reworking all the words, alerting no discrepancies, no falsehoods, no hidden codes.
And she watched them as they clung to each other, tears of relief and guilt and delayed response engulfing them both.
Emma was now comforting him, a quiet, tremulous surresh . . .
"Shhh, it's okay, it's over, shhh . . ."
And Greene thought about Carol waiting for her at home.
Probably curled up with a good book or her latest knitting.
And she wondered what her response would have been if all this had been her and not the Massett boy.
And then Jane Greene dropped her gaze away from them and quietly left the room.
As Dylan Massett shook himself to pieces in his wife's arms . . .
I'm sorry, Norman. I'm sorry. But I had to.
. . . and hoped his wife would let him come home when this was all over.
She did.
Yes, I skipped away from first person which is weird but I think Dylan has, in his own way, "gone away" a little here. Understandably.
We'll be back to first person after this. :)