Young Writers Society

Dexter felt a light tap on his cheek. Something then came upon his side, moving his body back and fourth. His hibernation did not break suddenly and he stretched his arms out wide and making animal-like noises. He realized that his morning schedule was going to deviate significantly from ordinary when his arms did not reach the ends of the bed as usual.

The teenager sat up and opened his eyes to find Darcie standing next to the bed. She was smiling, no different than usual, and wore plain white dress shirt, tight black jeans, and a black vest that covered her chest. Her hair was plain; the bows or ribbons or clips that usually accented the strands were nowhere to be seen.

Dexter peered upon himself, analyzing his wrinkled long-sleeve knit shirt. This was the first morning Dexter hadn't taken a shower the night before, and he found himself a smidgen dirty and unkempt, especially when compared to the attire of the girl at his bedsite. He groaned, and fell backwards on the mattress.

Darcie took Dexter's hand. "Come on, Dex, we have to leave now if we are going to make it to school."

"School?" Dexter whined. His studies where the last things on his mind.

"Yeah, it's Monday," Darcie said.

Dexter accepted Darcie's help up. They walked, or rather Dexter stumbled and Darcie walked, into the kitchen portion of the living room.

"Sorry, I don't keep much food here. Chocolate milk and toast is all that's left of the breakfast food. That sound okay?"

Dexter nodded, only half-listening. The morning was not the best time to ask him questions, as his mind was still half asleep. He watched as Darcie set his beverage on the table; the glass was empty before the toast had even toasted. When the toaster popped, he took one slice in his mouth, one slice in his hand, and then they were off.

The journey's conversations consisted of crunches and munches of toast, and huffs and puffs in attempt to ward off the fall air. Of course, each of the couple had their moments when they pointed out the things around them and made jokes in attempt to cheer the other up, but they were one of the many standard boyfriend-girlfriend conversations that everyone has read, watched, or experienced throughout their life, and thus do not need detailed upon.

They arrived at school a quarter before class began. The couple split ways at the entrance with a kiss, and continued to their respective homerooms. As he watched his peers organize themselves for the day Dexter realized that his hands were empty. He was not carrying his messenger bag. His notes and homework were left at home.

The usually organized student scrambled to his locker. He was lucky he kept extra supplies in his hole in the wall. He grabbed a pencil, a few pieces of notebook paper, and his textbooks into his arms. He went back to his home room and dropped his books on his desk. After staring at the pile for several minutes, he held his head and groaned. What am I going to do, he thought.

He had never forgotten his homework before. He buried his face in his hands. God damn, God damn! His brain rushed to find a solution to his emergency.

Dexter took in a huge breath, and then slowly let it out. When I get home, I'll never hear the end of this from my fa-

He inhaled sharply. His mind was beyond the point where he could control his emotions.

The time between his breaths was becoming shorter by the second, and when he peeked through his fingers at the clock on the wall, it was as if the seconds hand accelerated with his breaths.

Dexter felt his peers' eyes upon him; if only that was the case. Not one took notice of Dexter's behavior, and even if they did they didn't act as if. They couldn't care less. Not a single one. Dexter was alone in a room full of people. His family was broken, his girlfriend was far away...

The bell rung. Dexter let force of habit allow him to organize his papers and books into a stack. He walked to first block class, his tears and stone-hard face uncovered for all to see. Yet no one saw.

By the time his first period teacher walked into the room Dexter's tears had dried. He fought through the embarrassment of having to tell the teacher that he did not have his homework. In every period he was given a look of surprise by his elders. It hit him in his pride; something he didn't know he even had.

The battle to eighth period was tedious and frustrating. At times Dexter felt his resolution sway, almost giving away to the horrors of home. They weren't around him, but his mind... His mother was in the doorway, pulling back her arm to prepare another volley, and his father lay on the floor in front of the classroom, his blood staining books and intestines hanging from the desks. He could only stare wide-eyes and wish it away as each teacher sloshed through the gore.

Each time the bell rung he felt the pressure come off him slightly, and by eighth period he was able to tell his educator that he was without his homework without averting his eyes. He could still see the tracks of blood on the tile from his red-covered shoes, and he could still hear his mother's demented rants, but after so long, it didn't matter. Darcie was sitting in front of him, offering looks of concern and whispering to see if he was okay.

Dexter traced the flowing strands on the back of Darcie's head with his eyes. Soon he realized that one was out of place. He unconsciously went to replace it, but when his fingers touched the lock, they wrapped around it. He brushed his thumb over the ends, like an artist admiring a new paint brush.

His mind went numb; this was just the simple, innocent activity he needed to take his focus off the world. Without thinking, that's just what he did, not breaking his trance until the final bell rang.

Dexter hadn't realized that the day again deviated from normality: Dexter was noticed.

Now, Darcie was, by most standards, a "suck up" student. She, by her own accord, did most of her projects and homework, and when coupled with her positive attitude, she was a teachers' favorite. As such, when at the beginning of the year the students were allowed to choose their seats, Darcie was unafraid of sitting directly in front of the teacher's desk.

This just so happened to put Dexter and Darcie in the perfect position to be seen by a passerby in the hall through the door's window. Luke, whom by chance was "going to the bathroom" during one of his "blow-off" classes, glanced into the classroom in which the couple sat. He witnessed Dexter's slightly opened mouth and wide eyes, and mirrored them himself.

He allowed himself to wait for the inevitable retaliation. Even after blinking several times, it never came.

Luke balled his fists. He asked himself if what he was seeing was real; Dexter, his anti social, dark, boring Dexter, playing with a girl's hair, and being allowed? That just couldn't be. Besides, he liked them. Someone like him shouldn't even be allowed to have a relationship.

"I bet his dad didn't even die; sad excuse for a weekend with a whore," Luke grumbled as he went to legitimately take a bathroom break. Luke's steps echoed throughout the deserted halls.

Luke was still in the restroom when the final bell rang. He didn't care. He was staring intently at his face in the mirror. It had been so long since he last did so he could barely recognize himself. Then he thought of Dexter, whom he had known for years. Comparing young Dexter to his older self, Luke could see improvements. He had a girlfriend, after all.

Luke, on the other hand, spent his time extorting sick bastards who shared a love of blood and gore for clicks on ads.

Luke held his hand against the mirror, as if trying to comfort his double, but being barred by the glass. Where do I go from here?

-----

Even though Darcie had tried so hard to convince him not to, Dexter found himself again at the front door of his house. He had rejected her offer to again stay the night at her apartment, citing that he needed cloths, and that maybe his mom was better now. Maybe she forgave him.

Dexter shook his head. He didn't need thoughts like that; there was nothing to forgive. He hesitantly rang the doorbell, as he neglected to bring his keys the night he sneaked out. She shouldn't be home, he reasoned, she should be at work. Then why am I ringing the doorbell, as if I need permission to enter my own home? He didn't do it. He had no part in it. No matter what she says-

The door crawled open, accompanied by a deafening squeak. He, analyzed the woman in front of him; she was short, at least compared to Dexter. She had no muscles; no fat either. Her stomach had run away in fear as well. Her thin body was pale, her hair messy. Her eyes were sapphires floating in dark holes. Dexter didn't recognize his own mother at first. She should have been at work. Who was this zombie?

Dexter's mother did the same. From the fresh stubble on his chin to his toes. Tall like his father, she thought. His father. Her husband.

Dexter watched his mother wind up her arm over her shoulder; a glint showed in her eyes, just as it does in teenagers who wish to escape reality. The wine in the glass she held poured onto the carpet, forever staining it blood red. When she heard the splash, Dexter's mother dropped the glass and turned around to view the mess she had made.

Suddenly, Dexter felt powerful. He averted his eyes and walked in as his mother bent over to retrieve her glass. He avoided even looking at the primal animal that was his mother. He hastily made his way up the stairs to his room. In his head he made a list of priorities; he didn't know how long he would be able to stay at home, both for physical and mental reasons.

Even through his shower and the gathering of his toiletries Dexter's jaw was tight. His body felt clammy, even after he was clean. He was home, but this wasn't home. He wasn't safe here anymore.

He was jittery and anxious. There were several occasions where Dexter checked over his shoulder to make sure his mother wasn't there. His hand was shaking when he turned on his computer. When he turned from his desk to decide what else he wanted to pack into his backpack, he saw his room in a different light. Very few of his tangible artworks were done, yet he had begun many. The paints, paper, pencils, and other art supplies were all over his room.

Suddenly, an epiphany struck him. If he had to leave, he couldn't bring them. Again he had to prioritize. Dexter took a small pencil case and stuck as many art supplies as he could in it, then placed it in his backpack. It wasn't much, but it would be enough. It had to be.

Dexter latched his bag to the back of his chair and sat down in front of his computer. Already his email client was dinging and flashing, announcing that he had new mail. To appease the program, he quickly opened his newest message. It was from Luke.

"Dude, I saw you in class last block. What the hell are you doing with her? What did you do, pay her? Is that why my pictures aren't done and why you are never online anymore? Fuck, did your dad even die, or was that just some bullshit you made up?"

Dexter was blown back with each bash. How could Luke even think any of this? Everyone knew Darcie was nice; it wasn't as if Luke was an exception. She wasn't a whore. She was with him because...

Dexter thought about it for a minute, becoming frustrated until he moved on to the next part of the email. He would have to ask her, but that was not an issue at the moment.

How ignorant can that fuck get? Dexter thought. He had been fighting for his sanity the last week, and then there Luke goes, doubting the base of all his problems. Enraged, Dexter searched his father's name. Sure enough, Dexter found the picture on the first page. He expanded it, and was about to send it when he suddenly felt exhausted. Dexter let go of the mouse and let his hands fall into his lap.

Dexter's father's features could still be recognized beyond the blood. His gray, balding hair, his nose. Dexter's face its lost tension. His father's eyes were in his mouth, staring at him, as if begging for mercy. They glinted in the early morning sun, along with his fresh blood. The crystal embedded in his father's forehead, a contrasting blue, stood out from the rest of the picture. He knew that signature...

Dexter's door squealed open. Dexter's mother was in his doorway, leaning her whole body on the wall, as if she was limp. She coughed, then took a sip of her blood red wine. She smiled masochistically. "So, where has my bastard son been for the last day?"

Dexter considered not replying, but he could not fight his programming. "We went out to eat, then out to a club and stayed the night there," he answered truthfully.

She laughed raspily. "And how did you manage that? Don't clubs only stay open until three?"

Dexter stared at his screen, using the hand opposite of his mother to securely hold onto the backpack in case he would need to run. Wanting to switch subjects, Dexter pointed the topic of conversation toward his mother. "Why aren't you at work, Mom?"

Her laugh ceased as she recalled the last few days. "A child was being bad. I did what I had to. A shame the mother didn't agree. One day she'll figure out that you have to deal with them early; I already learned my lesson.”

Dexter's expression became stone hard. He could cry some other time, just not now. The chaos of questions floated around his mind again. There were no answers; they were beyond him. Yet Dexter asked anyway. “Mom, what did I do?” His voice was monotone.

“What did you do?” Dexter's mother shoved off the wall, stumbling over her own feet. Her arms were limp at her sides, swinging with her movement. Every motion she made was exaggerated. Wine spilled this way and that. She repeated the phrase as she came closer to her son. “What did you do, what did you do? What did you do? You fucking bitch!”

Suddenly, the base of his mother's glass dug deep into his cheek. Her knuckles pounded his skin into his teeth. Dexter's eyes automatically squeezed shut, along with his jaw. Dexter's head flew into his monitor, cracking the sheet of surface plastic and pushing the innards of the screen into the circutboard, and with it the whole screen hit the wall.

When he felt the cause if his wound being removed, Dexter opened his eyes to find his mother glaring at him with disgust. He mirrored her eyes, holding back tears. Dexter's vocal chords shook inaccurately, creating holes without speech. “I didn't do it! I didn't kill Dad! I had nothing to do with it!”

This flared up his mother's anger yet again. She grabbed her son's hair and pulled his face to her's. Dexter could have easily broken her grip, but he was in such a shock that he was unable to do anything as she spat in his face. “Prove it! I don't believe you! Prove it! It could only be you!,” She threw Dexter's head back; he fell, taking the chair and his bag with him, “Prove it! Tell me who did it then! Who the fuck else could have done it? Tell me! It was you! You son of a bitch killed your father!” Her tirade died to a whisper as she lost her voice. She panted from exhaustion, but to Dexter she was a rabid dog, preparing itself for killing the person who hurt its master.

Instead of becoming vicious, Dexter's mother tumbled out of the room. He heard the creek of the stairs, one by one, as she made her way down.

Dexter finally let himself cry, holding his bag of possessions in his arms. Time froze; he had no clue how long he stayed there; it didn't matter. Time was a non-issue. Just emotions. Emotions he had never felt before; emotions that he had never known. They introduced themselves, one by one. And one by one he attempted to deal with the crowd. His emotions were like the club; so many parts, so many different drugs and people.



A month old photo of his happy family was up against his chest the whole time, covered by the material of his bag.

-----

Dexter's ringtone for Darcie filled the air. Hesitantly, Dexter stood up, the needles in his legs stabbing him as he fell forward. He was lucky that he had the reflexes to at least hold onto the back of his chair. As he used it to balance himself, he caught his reflection in his computer screen's cracked plastic cover.

He locked eyes with himself. He was nothing like he remembered. In his mind, he still looked up to his parents, not down. In his mind, his hair was short, not long. In his mind, he was young, not a teenager. In his mind, his family was whole, not broken.

Dexter wiped his tears with his sleeve. In his mind's eye, the picture that was on his screen was again projected in front of him. The crystal. That was the key. If he could just prove that Crystal did it, then embedded her signature crystal in his father's forehead, then he could prove to his mother that he didn't do it.

Dexter answered his phone. “Darcie?”

“Yes, Dexter?” She asked, fearing for the worst.

“I think I can make things right again.”

Though she didn't know it at the time, that was the worst.