Growing up as a psychopath was so god damn weird.
Of course it's not like I knew anything different. But I knew there was nothing normal about any of this.
I never knew what to say. All other humans seem to have gotten a rule book for social interactions I didn't. A fact that Harry tried to remedy both personally and by encouraging me to read about social conventions, and imitate observed behavior from TV and at school.
It was a process ripe with trial and error. Thankfully all teenagers were awkward, so said Harry, so as long as I tried to blend, mistakes here and there were fine.
Still couldn't relate to them. Normal people were so loud, messy, strange. Chaotic. Absolutely unpredictable. They'd say they want honesty, but when you told them the truth they'd get upset.
Worse, they were boring. Dreadfully dull. They couldn't understand about mysteries, blood, moonlit nights, serial killers. That was freak stuff, stuff to conceal.
Debra was different. She was emotional, sure,. but she was always honest about her emotions. Never left them concealed to marinate til a false step triggered an explosion. She understood about Crime and horror movies and seemed to like the night.
Deb wasn't dull. That was important. I hated boredom.
I didn't have many feelings for anyone really. Respect and gratitude towards Harry sure, but nothing else. If I did though, they all would be reserved for Deb. She was the only other person besides Harry that I felt connected to. That I was even interested in spending much time with.
It was difficult to relate to anyone. Mostly what I cared about were related to my sadistic tendencies or my interest in...abnormal psychology. Sports, games, books...they were fleeting interests, usually adopted as a cover. Unless they were...related to my dark obsessions. Those I'd have to keep secret, minimize, not draw attention towards. I could like horror movies but not...too much.
Deb I could relate to. Not all the time, but talking to her wasn't usually as soul-crushingly boring as it was with other people.
Still I couldn't be too interested. I learned early on that brothers who paid too much attention to their sisters weren't considered normal. It was "creepy" a word that Harry told me to avoid at all costs, so I tried to maintain a distance, especially in public.
That was easy enough. As my sister aged, she didn't always want to hang out with her weird geeky older brother. It felt...bad in a way I can't quite describe. But it was better this way.
As our mom was dying and afterwards, though. She came back to me. Her nighttime visits to my room, which had started in childhood, faded, stopped completely, and only sporadically reemerged, became increasingly frequent.
I liked it. It was oddly...comforting. Debra could sometimes be like cold water to my feverish parched mind as the Need grew stronger. She could never take it away but her presence could...make it easier somehow. Even when she kept me up talking about whatever was on her mind it felt...nice. Conversation always felt safer in the dark. More honest. But also less...consequential.
Deb and I didn't ever talk about her nightime visits in the light of day. We rarely even talked about the stuff we talked about at night with each other during the day. I liked that. It made me feel...safe. Took a bit of the, already fairly low sting, of my sister's constant volley of teasing insults and vicious sarcasm that had increasingly dominated her personality and demeanor towards me as she entered adolescence. When I knew that she cared enough to confide at me at night, considerate enough to keep that time sacred, her brutal mockery felt less personal.
I didn't mind it honestly. As much as I loved and missed the kind, sweet if a bit tomboyish even then childhood Debra, I liked this new sarcastic, passionate, abrasive Deb just as much, maybe more. Even if it made her often completely unpredictable to me.
Maybe because it made her unpredictable.
Debra could be a fiery inferno, a great and powerful tempest sweeping over us at House Morgan. She could also be a soothing oasis, a bright smile, a laugh, and a quip.
I was a shadow. A simulacrum made of ice or stone. There was a connection between us, more powerful then I even realized then, but my secret created a gulf between us.
Still, we had our moments.
I was never a real brother to Debra, I owed her more than I gave. I was always in the red (appropriate). I didn't know how to support her. What to do. But my fumbling attempts did seem to count for something. She loved me.
I loved her too.
(I didn't. If I ever did I'd have never killed. I'm sick. I destroyed her. Debra I'm sorry.)