I do not own Bates Motel.
But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.
Yeah, Whatever
Hollow Man
Dylan's shirt was covered in blood.
Norman's blood from where he had shot his own brother.
And killed him.
It was drying now, metallic to his nose and tacky to his touch.
Dylan Massett hadn't ever wanted to kill his own brother.
Other than in that hormonal, familial, jeez, he annoys the crap out of me, I'm gonna kill himway.
But in the real, eyes going dead, body convulsing, soul exhaling to the ethereal plane way, no.
Dylan had not wanted to kill his little brother.
But Norman had been crazy, insane.
Murderous.
And Dylan'd had two choices.
Kill Norman and stop the madness.
Or die.
And now here he was with his white shirt covered in blood.
His brother's blood.
And Emma was hugging him, pressing her pretty white blouse to his blood-stained clothing.
Covering herself in the blood.
Norman's blood.
The blood of his little brother.
Norman.
And-
"Dylan, look at your shirt. Touch it. There is no blood or any other bodily fluids on it. And what color is the shirt?"
He thought for a minute.
"Blue."
"Yes."
Dylan looked at his Seattle therapist.
And down at his shirt.
The blood was still there.
People of the Bates/Massett family of Wackos, Yakkos, and Dots did not ask for help.
They took care of things themselves.
Because they were an island unto themselves.
And nobody cared anyway.
It was why so many of them had gone insane.
Crazy.
Succumbing to drugs, alcohol.
Physical violence. Sexual deviance.
Murder.
They always took care of things themselves.
Until they couldn't.
Until they died.
But Dylan Massett . . .
"Emma? I think I need help."
. . . was going to break the cycle.
He was going to be different.
He was going to get better.
He was going to survive.
"I think so too, Dylan."
He was going to find a way.
It took him a long time to stop waking up in the middle of the night, scream of madness locked behind his grimacing lips.
He couldn't sleep.
And when he did, he saw Norma's dead, gray face filling his vision.
Her lifeless clouded eyes staring blankly at the opposite wall.
He hated the smell of hot food and he couldn't eat.
They survived on cold foods for a long time.
Thanks to Emma's patient, faithful efforts.
Still, he lost weight. Grew hollow and thin.
He got an ulcer and his mouth often felt sour and ill.
He became clumsy and sluggish and he couldn't think clearly.
Wanting to drink, wanting it so much.
Blackout oblivion.
But he was afraid if he did, he would never stop.
So he didn't.
His thoughts returned again and again.
To the night he had been forced to kill Norman.
And Norman, his little brother who was so stark raving mad he had, in a moment of clarity, tried to kill him . . .
"Thank you."
. . . just so he could be with his beloved mother again for all eternity.
Even though it had been a premeditated act of mercy as well as a reflexive . . .
Emma, Katie, no-
. . . act of self preservation, it still haunted him deeply.
Dylan wanted to die.
He dreamed about dying, ending his suffering.
But he couldn't do that.
He couldn't give up and die.
He had to get better.
For Emma. For Katie.
For his family.
"How are the anti-anxiety meds working out, Dylan?"
"Better. I sweat more."
"Yes, is one of the possible side effects. Have you been drinking water?"
"Yeah. I pee alot."
And eventually, he did.
Growing stronger, little by little.
More stable in his mind.
Weaning off the drugs slowly, as doctor prescribed.
Clawing his way painstakingly out of his own much more real Pit of Despair.
Processing years and years of the unbelievable stress of being part of the insane ongoing Greek Tragedy that seemed to be the Bates/Massett Legacy of Batshit Crazy.
Culminating with the murder of his own brother.
Who had murdered God knew how many people.
And kept the body of his dead mother in his house for two years.
Amd now all that was now finally over.
On the outside.
And himself, what he had allowed to happen, out of misguided loyalty to a mentally ill brother.
And the brother who would do anything for him.
Dylan had enabled the monster.
And become something of a monster himself.
A monster who lied to his wife about her dead mother.
Who kept the lies for his codependent mother and mentally ill brother.
A monster who let a monster kill.
Until he himself killed that monster.
And was left to be the only monster alive.
To die a miserable monster.
Or live long enough to become a monster no more.
On the inside, Dylan Massett still fought the shadow on his soul, probably would forever. But he fought it with the best weapons he could ever wield. The light and happiness of the family who still somehow loved him.
And he fought everyday. Sometimes a little, sometimes alot.
Some days he was barely aware of the shadow at all.
He went to work, actually speaking to others without coercion or relative anxiety.
He came home to his family, played with his daufhger, talked with his wife.
Other days the shadow weighed him down, swathed him in a heavy cloak of depression and a yearning for the void.
On those days, he kept his head down at work, let people take the lead on projects and deals he would easily have snagged a year ago
On those dayss, he lay awake at night and listened to Emma breathe for him, as he felt he could not.
He watched Katie sleep, deep and peaceful for him, as he could not.
Promising himself he was going to be okay one day.
Not sure when, not sure how.
But that he would.
For Katie.
For Emma.
His family.
Sometimes it's a different kind of fight, isn't it?