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Chapter 4
The dark bags under Dexter's eyes gave evidence to his lack of sleep. It seemed to him that this was becoming an unhealthy habit; he was unable to stop thinking, let alone crying, in the middle of the night.
There were several texts on Dexter's phone when he turned it on that Sunday morning, all from Darcie. The first couple comforted him just enough for him to wipe the tears from his eyes and come out from under the covers of his warm bed.
Dexter found his mother's bedroom door closed as he walked down the hall. Not wanting to wake her with the hum of the microwave, he settled on cooking himself a scrambled egg and some toast.
As he ate his meal, Dexter scanned through the messages left in his inbox, most timestamped with the date of the night before. Dexter's phone displayed his messages as a conversation, one after another.
“I'm done with the set. It went well. Message me back if you need to talk.
I guess you are sleeping... Hope you feel better in the morning.
Dexter, I never liked someone as much as I like you.
I feel free to talk to you because you seem interested and actually care about the things I do.
When we first kissed it was like fireworks. I didn't want them to stop...
I didn't want to leave you like that last night... I'm sorry...
That was the last thing in the world I wanted to do.
I hope you can forgive me...
I miss you so much right now...
My skin itches for your touch, my ears beg to hear your voice, my eyes crave to reflect your image...
I love you, Dex, more than anything.
Goodnight and sweet dreams.
Good morning Dex. Hope you are feeling better... Feel free to message me whenever. I love you.”
Dexter's face began to warm up. Then he did exactly what most teenage boys do in a situation where they could possibly show their emotions: not know what to say, so avoid it. Instead, Dexter temporarily ignored the fluttering of his heart to reply to only Darcie's most recent message. “Good morning. How did you sleep?”
“Hi sleepyhead. You're finally awake? Not bad, you?”
“It was hard to fall asleep, but once I did I was okay.”
“Aww... Hope you're okay.”
“I think I'll be fine...” Dexter took his empty plate and placed it into the sink.
“Do you really think that?”
Dexter closed the door to his room and pressed the power button on his computer, then collapsed onto his bed. “I don't know.”
A bing signaled the computer's completion of loading its operating system. Dexter didn't acknowledge it at first, instead staring up at the static ceiling fan, his mind clear of all thoughts. Soon, though, his email client booted up, and it proclaimed that Dexter had new mail in his inbox.
Dexter rolled off his bed. On the two yard journey to the desk Dexter received another text from Darcie. “If you need anything, just ask, 'kay?”
“Okay,” he replied, sliding his phone closed with a snap.
Instantly his phone started vibrating again.
“Promise?”
“Promised,” Dexter typed as he pursed his lips.
“Good. I'm here for you. That's what a girlfriend's for.” Suddenly, Dexter was not frustrated anymore.
Dexter smiled to himself as he opened an email from Lucas, whom Dexter had completely forgot about over the weekend. Lucas had wrote that he was wondering where the art was for the theme of his new forum for discussing the art murderers. It was rare for Dexter to be late on projects.
Before writing a reply email, Dexter messaged Darcie back. “Thanks, Darcie” was all that he could think of to say. He had read her latest message over and over again to himself, and there was no way he could make her do the same.
At first, Dexter wasn't sure what he should tell Lucas. Instead he found himself itching to draw, but not his usual blood and gore sketches. Lucas already knew about Dexter's father's disappearance, though. The last thing Dexter needed was Lucas to ask him how his father was doing in the middle of school; for this reason, his reply told Luke of how he found out about his father's murder, and that he needed time to think.
Then Dexter slid open his cell phone and sent Darcie another text while he waited for his email to send. “It's nice to have a girlfriend...”
“I'm glad you think that. It's nice having a boyfriend, too.”
Dexter's eyebrows came together. “Really? It feels like all I've done is make trouble for you...”
Luke's reply was announced by a synthesized female voice. Dexter's eyebrows went from a raised questioning position to a low scowl as he read;
“Dude... I'm sorry...
Sure you can't finish the new theme? I could really use it...”
He had just told Luke that he couldn't work with stuff like blood and gore for a while. Why is he... Dexter didn't even bother replying to the email.
Dexter heard the click of a door handle turning. He cringed at each echoed stomp until the beast that used to be his mother was in his doorway. She wore tattered, colorless pajama pants and a matching top, both two sizes too small for her. Around her eyes were the remnants of her makeup from the day before, making her irises appear as if they were several inches in front of her face, staring deep into Dexter's very being. Her blond hair was unkempt and thin, matching her sickly white body. It looked to Dexter as if the life was sucked out of her, a zombie of her former self.
The woman stared blankly at her son, brain dead. Dexter matched her gaze, enabled only by clenching his jaw. This was not his mother. He could barely tell if she was even alive anymore.
Slowly, her eyes began filling up with the salty liquid known as tears. One by one they fell. After what had seemed like hours to Dexter, her voice crackled the five words that would haunt him for the rest of his life. “Why did you do it?”
Dexter's eyes grew wide as he drew a bitter breath into his body. Suddenly he felt a decade younger. His answer was rushed, pleading. He knew what she meant. “I didn't.”
The woman didn't move.
Dexter's heart thumped in his chest. “I didn't do it...” He whispered, finding it impossible to find air to produce speech with.
No reaction.
A tear rolled down Dexter's cheek. He mouthed his pleas using every breath in his body, and then some, but no sounds came out. He didn't stop as he watched his mother about face and silently walk away.
Dexter was still gazing down the empty hallway from his seat when his mother yelled not five minutes later. "Dexter! Get your lazy ass down here!"
Each and every pore in Dexter's body opened and released moisture. He had never heard his mother yell before. He ran downstairs in a panic, stubbing his bare toe on a stair on the way down. It hurt so bad. But the scowl on his mother's expression hurt far worse; as if it was a bullet that pierced his very soul.
"What the hell is this?" She pointed to the sink, as if disgusted bu the dishes.
"I woke up this morning and made myself breakfast..." Dexter said timidly. Yet again he felt ten years younger; smaller, weaker, unable to think for himself.
"Do you expect me to clean up after you?" Her voice echoed throughout the house.
Dexter could not speak. He had expected her to clean up after him, just as she had been without complaint the sixteen years he had been alive.
Upon seeing that her son was not going to justify himself, she swore under her breath, then shouted at the poor boy. "You lazy ass!"
Dexter looked to the ground, tears streaming down his cheeks. "I'm sorry..."
"I don't want you to be sorry." Her saliva flew onto Dexter's shoes.
Dexter coughed. His mind was asking questions, coming to no answers. "What do you want then?" He asked.
She burst out in fury. "You smart ass! How dare you talk to me like that!"
Dexter jumped. His mother's cloudy eyes answered none of his silent pleas. What was wrong with what I said? Why is she mad? What's going to happen?
"You're in high school! Stop bitching like a baby and get out of my sight!" She spat.
And Dexter did just that, running up the stairs, his toe pulsating. He flew onto his bed, hiding his face in his pillow.
Dexter couldn't be sure how long he lied there sobbing; his sense of time was nonexistent. He asked himself over and over again, wondering where the logic was behind the morning's events. He couldn't even find it in his dreams.
-----
Dexter woke up to the familiar vibration of his right pants pocket. He groggily rubbed his eyes and pulled out his phone. The screen flashed that he had unopened texts. Unconsciously, he opened them and found that they were all from Darcie.
"No, Dexter. Don't you ever think that.
I love being the one you can turn to for help.
Helping you live happily; somehow, over the last few days it has become my life's goal.
Because when I see you smile, I smile, too.
Hey, Dex?
Dex?
Dexter?
I hope you are okay...
Please message me back when you get this...
I love you..."
Dexter glanced at the LCD clock on his dresser. Three thirty seven its red lights displayed. Dexter guessed he had been sleeping for more than two hours. He sighed, and typed to Darcie:
"I'm so sorry... my mom... Darcie, I don't know what's what anymore...”
Out of habit Dexter took the sketchbook that was on his end table and flipped through it as he had done countless times before. Page after page, he started trembling. The pictures were once his pride and joy, but now...
But now he saw every piece as if it was a human he had killed.
The book flew out of Dexter's hands, slamming against the wall. The page that it opened up to as it fell to to ground horrified him; it looked so similar to his father's massacred body...
But yet-
He was both proud of his art and horrified at himself. Both thought himself unique and crazy. Or were they synonymous?
He loved his work, but at the same time hated himself for liking it.
Dexter's body didn't know which emotion to display, so it simply expressed none. He could feel the urge to cry combat the desire to laugh at his pitiful self.
His phone shook. He opened it. “It's okay, is there anything I can do?”
“No... Not that I can think of...” Dexter wrote back. He sighed, and as he did so a sketchbook he had never used before caught his eye. He picked it up off the floor and placed it on his desk, right next to which he placed his open phone. Dexter then sat down, flipped to the first blank page, and grabbed one of the many pencils around his room. But he simply stared into the white.
Dexter's phone beeped and displayed it's newest message. “Okay... Just try to get your mind off it.”
Dexter's pencil did not move. “How?”
“You like art, right? Maybe draw?”
The sheet was even more colorless than it had been beforehand to Dexter. “Draw what, though?”
“Maybe something hopeful, to remind you that the future can still be bright. Something that you can look at when you start to lose hope.”
After he had read this, Dexter's hand sprung to life. It curved this way and that, molding single, messy lines into a single uniform object.
Between strokes, he texted. “Okay.”
Several minutes later came another message. “Did you decide what to draw?”
“Yeah.”
“What?”
“You.”
-----
Dexter was adding white highlights to Darcie's hair on his computer when he realized that it was five o' clock. He told his girlfriend that he would be right back and, just as he had done every other day of his life, went downstairs for dinner.
Dexter stopped dead in his tracks when he stepped into the kitchen. The table, which was usually covered with food, was bare of everything but the deep red place mats and black wire napkin holder in its center.
Upon the farthest seat to Dexter's right sat his mother. The glass of wine in her hand was becoming a sort of attachment to her twig-like fingers. She looked about the room, as if dazed and confused, not noticing Dexter for several seconds. When she finally did so, she jumped in her seat, as if surprised by his presence. When she regained her composure, her hoarse voice scratched at his ears. "What do you want?"
Dexter felt his heart sink into his stomach. "I came down to see what was for dinner." Immediately he knew he had chosen the wrong words.
Dexter's mother snarled. "You say that as if you expect it to just be here waiting for you. What kind of lazy ass did I raise?"
Dexter did expect dinner to be waiting for him. He stayed silent, in fear of inciting her rage. At least he felt he learned something from their last bout; maybe staying silent will save him?
"How dare you expect me to do things for you after what you did," she smiled menacingly, "You know I loved that man; your father. He didn't do anything wrong. Why? That's all I want to know."
Every atom of oxygen ran away from Dexter. "I told you I didn't... I didn't-"
"Shut up!" She thew the half-full glass at Dexter, completely missing him and hitting a cabinet. She stared agape at what she had done in drunken surprise, then covered her face and turned he back towards her son. "Just go away."
Even though he wanted to heed her words, Dexter could not move. "Mom..."
She coughed horribly. "Just go away. I can't even look at you."
"Mom, please..." Dexter's hand automatically began climbing towards his mother, as if to touch her.
Dexter's mother turned around to view her son. Her face was deformed as streams of makeup streaked down her cheeks. Her bottom lip was visibly quivering. "Go away!" Her shrieking voice sounded as if she had a literal frog in her throat.
Dexter analyzed this woman in front of him. Her frail body shook as she tried to control herself. He felt sorry for her. Dexter about faced, and walked out the door. He couldn't stay here.
Dexter's mother watched her son walk away from her in awe. When she realized he was opening the front door, she fell off her seat onto her knees, reaching out her arm as far as she could. "Don't leave me," She choked, but her voice had left her before Dexter had. She was alone, with not even her own voice to talk to.
-----
Dexter pulled out his phone as he walked down the sidewalk.
"Hey Dark, want to meet up somewhere?"
Instantly, a reply appeared on the screen. "Of course. Have anywhere in mind?"
Dexter slid his hand into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. He opened it and counted his money: one hundred fourteen dollars were hidden inside; the change from the day before. "Want to go grab something to eat?"
"Okay. I have a set tonight at the club. Just a short one, though. Want to come?"
"Sounds good, I'll meet you downtown in an hour."
"'kay."
And, with that, Dexter replaced his phone. He took in a deep breath of the moist fall air. He felt at peace. But he gave in to the urge to turn around, still walking backwards. He watched as a bunch of leaves fell from the trees in front of his house. His fifty year old home. For the first time, he noticed that the white picket fence around his family's land was in need of repair. He saw the bits of ancient paint peeling off the side the house. The windows were dirty. The grass needed cut.
Dexter smiled to himself as he made his way down the sidewalk. It was not a smile of happiness, but a wry smile of pity for himself and for those he couldn't leave behind.
-----
The boyfriend and girlfriend ate at a small cafe that evening. They sat outside in wire chairs, and though the wind nipped at their fingers, they both felt warm inside. But, inevitably, Darcie asked what had been going on earlier and why he didn't immediately reply to her text messages.
Dexter found himself struggling to find a starting point for his story and, before long, didn't care about his endeavors at all. He broke the silence with the words: "My mother doesn't act like my mom anymore... she doesn't believe a word I say, or care about how I feel. Darcie, she thinks I killed him."
Darcie was flabbergasted. "What? How? Why would she even think that?"
Dexter sighed, and his vision flew past Darcie to the orange sundown. "I think she needs to blame it on someone, and since she doesn't know who did it is blaming me."
"How can she even-"
Dexter sighed. "I don't know..."
"Is that why she had been acting strange?" Darcie wiped her mouth with a napkin.
Dexter took his glass from the table and sipped from it. "I don't know... It could be. Or it could be just part of it."
"What about how she has been treating you?"
"What do you mean?" Dexter looked at the girl across from him with a suspecting and tired eye.
"If she didn't, for some damned reason, think you killed your dad, do you think she would treat you better?"
"Maybe... Probably. I don't know. The way she has been lately, I don't even think she knows..."
"Do you think you could somehow prove to her that you didn't do it?"
Dexter cocked his head. "How would I do that?"
"Maybe you could use everything you know about the art murderers. You said you like - or, rather, liked - them. Can't you somehow say 'this person did it because they' or something?"
"I don't know, Darcie..."
"It won't hurt trying."
Dexter felt his stomach tighten. Trying things was beginning to only hurt him. "You don't know that."
"What could go wrong?"
He imagined his enraged mother in his mind's eye. Maybe the glass will hit him one day. "Everything... I don't have much else to lose..."
"Dexter, don't you want your life back?"
Dexter only stared at Darcie. He felt his eyes well up with tears, clouding her face and figure.
"Don't you want your mother back?"
As Dexter's next words choked out his throat he could taste the salty liquid moisten his lips. "I do, Dark, more than anything."
Dinner was silent until its end from there on out. Dexter and Darcie wordlessly analyzed their life situations.
Darcie sat there and watched as Dexter slowly but surely devoured his meal. She smiled to herself. Though she had lost her own family a long, long time ago, she barely had one to begin with. But at least she had a goal, even back then. She wanted to be better than them. Prove to them she could be on her own. That she didn't need them. She succeeded. She knew that Dexter needed help. He needed a goal; a reason to live. She wanted to be it.
Dexter, on the other hand, felt his hunger dissipate and his stomach press against the surrounding muscles. He sighed, and looked up at the sky. The clouds flew over his head; something he never paid enough attention to witness before. It was then he realized that he didn't want to go home. He didn't want to deal with his mother.
His mother. He didn't want to have to "deal" with her; he wanted her to go back to how she was. She looked different, talked different, and even smelled different. He wanted her back; he wanted his mother back.
"Dexter, are you okay?" Dexter heard Darcie ask, bringing his vision back down to earth.
Dexter smiled; he wasn't sure if his smile was real or fake, or a mixture of the two, but he wore it anyway. "Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"
Darcie took her hand and reached over the small round table, wiping Dexter's face. "You were crying, Dex."
"I was?" Dexter had not even noticed.
"Yeah." Darcie stood up and walked over to Dexter, kissing his forehead, which was almost up to her standing height. "Sure you're okay?"
Dexter nodded, then asked, "Are you ready to go?"
Darice smiled, "Yep."
And so, Dexter rose, then dug in his pocket. He counted out some of the money from his wallet, then coolly threw the bills onto the counter.
Darcie stole Dexter's hand as soon as it was open. She went on her tip-toes to lightly kiss Dexter's lips. After she came back down to earth she giggled and said, "Let's go, then!", leading the way to the club.
The building was already bouncing when the couple walked through the door. Darcie was happily greeted by everyone who saw her, which was few in number due to her short stature.
They made their way to the bar. The second the bar tender caught eye of Darcie he began preparing drinks for the two, having them on the table before they even sat down.
The bartender smiled their way. "So, how are you two this fine evening?"
"Not too bad, yourself?" Darcie replied casually.
"Fine, fine. Just overworked and underpaid. I need to tell Simon to hire another bartender," the mustached man joked.
Darcie laughed along with him. "Just one? You need an entire army over here."
As if on queue, several customers began calling for more drinks. The poor man sighed, "Well, I'm back off to work. Good luck tonight," then went off to tend to the customers.
Darcie swiftly checked the time on her phone. "It's almost my turn. Will you be okay without me fore a little?"
Dexter nodded. "Yeah, I'll be fine."
Darcie dug around in her pants pocket until she pulled out a key, then handed it to Dexter. "Feel free to hang out in my room. I should only be a little more than a half an hour."
"Okay." Dexter leaned down to kiss Darcie's forehead. By the time he stood straight again, the embarrassed little girl was halfway across the club.
Not sure quite what to do by himself within the sea of people, he walked up the stairs to the balcony in front of Darcie's room to watch as the water flowed below him. He felt his muscles loosen; the sight was somehow relaxing to the boy who had been through so much in the days before.
Dexter paid attention to the DJ's stage when Darcie took her place in the center, announcing that she had a new mix for tonight. Her fans cheered. Dexter just smiled to himself over his girlfriend's energy, her positive aura, and her cute smile. When she instructed the club to dance, Dexter didn't make a move; he didn't feel like dancing.
Instead, Dexter watched Darcie enjoy herself as she manipulated the music to her liking. She wore a grin the entire time, and sounded so excited when she occasionally yelled into the microphone. His pride surged; that was his girlfriend up there, entertaining an audience of several hundred.
Dexter didn't move from his position when Darcie left the stage. He didn’t even move when she appeared at his side ten minutes later. He was still admiring the sights and sounds of the party.
Darcie copied Dexter and leaned her elbows on the banister. “How did I do?”
Dexter turned his head to kiss Darcie's cheek. “You did great, Dark.”
Darcie's smile mirrored Dexter's. “I'm glad you liked it.”
The two of them stayed that way even after the new DJ began spinning. Satisfied, content; neither of the couple wanted to break the moment.
Darice found herself smiling at a scene she had become used to years before. Nothing about the club was different from the first day she stepped in, yet the atmosphere was more satisfying. She turned her head to watch Dexter's entranced features. It has to be because of him, she thought to herself. She kissed Dexter's cheek. For that split second, Darcie's skin developed goosebumps; that second wasn't just right, it was perfect.
Dexter felt the moist peck, and turned to face Darcie, who was now standing straight. Her fingers entangled his; he let her lead him into her apartment and into her room. As they walked, Dexter glanced at the clock on the night stand. It was two in the morning.
Dexter felt the instinct to go home. He had never slept over someone else's house. He was always home by ten, every night, for as long as he could remember. He imagined himself walking into his house. He could see his mom on the couch, a half-full wine glass in her drunken grasp. She stood. She cursed. She fell. She glared. She asked the question. He told the truth. She would not believe him.
Dexter's voice quivered. “I don't want to go home, Darcie.”
“That's okay.” Darcie pulled down the covers of her bed. She slipped under them, tugging Dexter's hand to follow. “You can stay here tonight.”
Dexter nodded. He was afraid to speak again. He buried his face deep into his girlfriend's body, letting his himslef go limp. He had enough for one day.
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