Thread: Cough Drops and Corpses: A Dexter RP (SevenxWine)

For the second time that week, Dexter dreamt he dreamt of sharp and flashing silver and glittering liquid crimson, he dreamt of cold stainless steel pressed against the bare skin of his back, dreamt that he couldn't lift his arms away from the slanted table he had been strapped to. The room he was in was cold and his breath came out in rolls of fog he couldn't move his head to look around, but only a few feet away from him, he could see buckets of unclotted blood, each carefully labelled with a name. The fifth one was empty. And then there were clever hands and dark eyes, a low voice in his ear and teeth on his skin, nails on his chest and a knife against his throat, the feeling of damp breath against his face, and the murmur of ' brother ' that somehow made his teeth ache. Dexter woke up with sweat on his temples and the taste of iron on his tongue, naked and tangled in the sheets beside him, Rita lay asleep and undisturbed by his twisting. He peered to his right and the clock blinked 200 a.m. at him he had to rub his eyes to relieve them of the burn that made him feel as though he had laid with them open for hours - and maybe he had, he knew for a fact that he had done stranger things - before rising from the bed, unable to sleep any longer. Stalking across the living room, Dexter's thoughts were still muddled with sleep and hazy from the memory of his dreams, but the Passenger was wide awake, alive with the clarity of a true predator - and the predator was hissing things, low murmurs, but not it's usual ones. No, the Passenger was telling him something. Something was wrong. No, something was - different. Just like before, Dexter's first thought was to check the refrigerator. He wasn't sure if he was dissappointed or not when he didn't find anything - but the Passenger had nothing to say. He was just about to check behind the air conditioner, just in case, but then he caught sight of something sticking out beneath his front door - an envelope. You can't run from the past forever. We need to talk. I'll be at home. Everything Harry had taught him told him to wait, told him to plan, told him to be careful. Told him to kill Brian Dexter ended up sitting on the couch with the letter clutched in his hands, barely resisting the bizarre urge to smell the paper, as though he might be able to find some trace of Brian on its fibres, might be able to feel him through the neatly scrawled lettering. The damned heat was moving up his spine again, crawling through him and over his limbs, making his head swim. Brian had come to his apartment again, while he was asleep - while she was asleep. And only days before, he had broken a window in Rita's house, nailed a dead cat to Deb's door - they weren't warnings, but they were reminders . Brian was playing. But the game was becoming darker. Rita was still asleep and smiling when Dexter was pulling on his clothes, still lost in sweet dreams while he slung his bag over his shoulder and tugged on the tight leather gloves, flexing them and revelling in their familiarity. When he got in his car, it was the Passenger behind the wheel, hungry and apprehensive, leading him forward. This was reckless. This was stupid. He hadn't planned anything, he was going in blind and the knives, hefty bags, and saran wrap he was armed with seemed suddenly meaningless in the face of what he was telling himself he had to do , just as he had told himself before. Just the way he had meant to do it in Brian's economy freezer, when he'd had him strapped down and prepped for the kill, just the way he had gone to New York planning to do it, too. He had to do it, he reminded himself. The Code demanded it, and he had already broken it too many times, had already betrayed everything that Harry had taught him, had let Brian continue on, let him kill more. And for what? Dexter flexed his fingers in the leather and told himself that this couldn't go on. He moved silently through the grass of the old Moser home and up the steps to the front door, intent on moving as efficiently as possible, but when his hand touched the old metal railing, he froze. Suddenly it was summer and she was in white, bare foot and blowing bubbles on the front steps the cotton of her dress felt cool against his cheek, where he was resting his head on her leg, watching the soap float through the air. He prodded a bubble with one tiny finger, and Biney watched him intently, smiling. Dexter pulled away from the railing as though he had been burnt by it, staggering back to stare at it, looking at the front yard again, just the way he had done the first time he had set foot on the Moser residence. No. he told himself, hands going to the door, turning the handle, an action that seemed to take more effort and co-ordination than it should have, Focus. The inside of the home was sparsely furnished, dark, but Dexter's well-trained night vision allowed him to move through it - but his finely honed predatorial skills seemed to be rapidly giving way to memories as he found himself stopping in rooms, staring at points on the wall or the floor - - remembering . He didn't have an answer while he was in the car, no way to know why he had broken the Code, but as he stood in the home that he had spent his short childhood in, it came to him. For freedom , the Passenger reminded him hungrily, To be whole.