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The Secret	By : Keen Category: 1 through F > Dexter Views: 4873 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Dexter, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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�� Laurent
Pascal opened the door to his two bedroom cottage style home and paused. His
walls were bare, stripped clean of every colourful children�s
poster. The shelves that housed his collection of toys and pop-up books, also
naked as the day they were assembled. He must have known someone had been
inside his house, seen his collection of meant-for-the-underage things and yet,
he followed the makeshift trail of cereal boxes and jell-o cups to his bedroom.
He picked them up as he went, cursing in French, hissing in the delicate
language as he strode past the giant entertainment centre in the room�s centre.
�� At
his bedroom door he dropped the things in his hands when he saw his room draped
in plastic from ceiling to floor. He was so startled by the change he didn�t
even see me slide up behind him. He didn�t notice my arms enfolding him until
it was too late.
�� The
needle pushed into his neck and my thumb compressed the plunger, bursting the
drug into his veins. Almost in an instant Pascal�s head rolled back. He slumped
against my chest, falling limping into my waiting arms. I flexed my biceps and
easily raised him up. This was the reason I lifted weights and swam long breast
strokes, to have the muscular strength to hoist 80kg of soon-to-be dead weight
onto an elevated surface and tie unbreakable knots with quarter thick rope
before my minute hand on my watch clicked. With his body fixed to the table, I
set out my instruments as I eagerly waited for my night to begin. My ears
twitched when a sound, not of my own making, reached them.

�� Pascal
woke and I saw the fountain of vomit arch from his mouth. He had the presence
of mind to turn his head, keeping his neck and chest clean, of which I was
thankful. I didn�t want my work space compromised.
�� About
one in five have a violent nausea reaction to the drug I use. The fact the
ratio is so low�aside from how fast acting the narcotic is�is the reason I use
it. I make enough mess deliberately. I don�t need my victims adding to my clean
up load but for Pascal it seemed appropriate. What he did made me just as sick.
�� Coming
to stand over him I could see there were some unsightly chunks on his chin and
cheek. Fortunately I kept a bottle of water on hand. I always hydrated myself
after a bout of heavy lifting. It would be a waste of my time and my victim�s
for me to be fatigued and only half present for this.
�� I
emptied the bottle of Evian on his face and he coughed and sputtered as
expected, trying to keep his airways open. �Thank you,� he said softly.
�� I
chuckled, slightly out of disgust.
�� I
did not do that for you,� I said, capping the bottle. �I would hate to smell
that while we talked.�
�� Talked?�
he echoed, looking around the room. �What about?� he said, softly, like he had
no idea. His eyes surveyed the room.
�� On
the walls I hung pictures from his collection, the ones I could stomach to hold
longer than a second. Fresh-faced, innocent souls that knew
his awful touch. I leaned across the man and held his chin, forcing him
to look at me.
�� Mr.
Pascal, your time is short here on this earth. Even shorter now that I have
found you,� I smiled. �Do you really want to waste what time you have left like
this?�
�� Ah
don�t understand wha-�
�� Jean-Paul
Maurice,� I yelled, shutting him up in an instant. I moved to the wall where
his picture was posted and held it out for him to see. �He was six when he came
to �La Petite Acad�mie�. Six when you forced a rag in
his mouth and then forced your dick inside him. Charles Auguste Renoir,� I shouted, seeing the man had the nerve to
look away. �He was only four when you did the same to him and perforated his
colon in the process.�
�� Pascal wailed then,
a long drawn out moan. There were tears in his eyes; they rolled down his dark
cheeks in torrents and I knew he understood now. I replaced the pictures on the
wall while he sobbed, letting their smiling faces watch as their tormentor
languished like they had.
�� Je vous salue,
Marie, pleine de graces,� he began with a whisper. I
leaned in so I could hear it. I did not recognise it at first, the words
foreign and spoken with such softness as if they would break.
�� .le�.le�. Seigneur est avec vous; vous �tes b�nie
entre toutes les femmes, et
J�sus le fruit de vos entrailles, est b�ni.�
�� He stuttered as I
neared his face and turned to look in his black eyes. I knew what he was saying
now and I let him continue with his useless prayer. Slightly amazed he knew
how. It shouldn�t surprise me because I myself could recite them word for word
but I too managed to miss out on �such principle messages like, �thou shalt not kill.�
�� Sainte Marie, M�re de Dieu, priez
pour nous p�cheurs, maintenant, et � l'heure de notre mort.�
�� L�heure de norte mort,� I repeated,
standing up from over him. �The hour of your death?�� He said nothing and I smiled with relish. �How appropriate.�
�� He burst into tears
at that and started with another one. This time I didn�t even bother to listen.
It was all useless drabble anyway.
�� I
made the first incision, the slanted cut on the cheek and Laurent stopped
praying. I halted cutting then because it was so unusual. Once the pain began
the prayers, the shouts and pleas for mercy usually got louder. There was snotting of the nose, wriggling and gnashing, but never
silence. I almost thought he passed out but peering over his face I could see
he was awake. He stared back at me without a hint of fear now. His eyes brooding and pitiless. They focused on me as he
lifted his head as much as the restraints allowed, his pitted face carrying a
wicked glint of a smile. When he spoke, Pascal�s Haitian accent was so thick
the English coming from his mouth sounded exotic
�� Ah am like you,�
he said with a big breath. �Ah chos dose who wanted
what ah had to give dem. Dose who needed my attention,� he purred contentedly.
�Some, they found me and if ah had found you,� he said letting his eyes wander
over me, �you would have understood. All of mon petit enfants understood.�
�� He
lifted his eyes to the children on the wall and I saw him look at them with
something other than regret. I imagined my face must carry that same luster
when I looked at my collection, when I run my hand over the stiffly kept
slides.
�� Perhaps
Pascal was right. Maybe I was like him and just killing a part of myself in
killing him� but he was strapped to the board and I was not.
�� I
raised my hand and stamped the butcher knife in his chest.
�� I
forced it deep. Not too far to stop the heart but enough, I hoped, to make him
wish that I had. His mouth opened and I forced the gag inside. Despite it,
Laurent screamed like someone would hear him. Like anyone cared. He also
thrashed against the saran-wrap, obviously not realizing that only wedged the
blade deeper. But it kept him busy while I prepared my slide and carefully
placed it out of harm�s way.
�� I
took my meat cleaver next. I favored the mechanised saw but for Pascal I wanted to do something
different. After all, the way he came to me was different and I felt compelled
to acknowledge that.
�� As
I carved my way though his ankle, ignoring his muffled screams, I thought about
her. That in of itself was odd. I usually thought of nothing else but the task
at hand when I did this, but somehow I couldn�t help but thank her for this
moment. Her choice was truly excellent.
�� The
legless man beneath me was unapologetic. Not to say, I would not and have not
hesitated to kill an apologetic murderer, but the fact Laurent was not made his
murder a more�pleasurable one. I had
absolutely zero compunction to stop and consider what I was doing when they
were like this. None. People like Laurent weren�t even
people. They were sub-human, even less than I pretended to be.
�� In
fact, times like these made me nostalgic. I was often reminded of the days in
my youth when I would take animals from the neighborhood, the cat that scratched
Deb�s face, the dog that kept my adopted mother awake as she suffered with her
cancer. They were all kills that made my insides quiet and afforded me
something I imagine others would describe as peace. And I had one woman to
thank for it and of course the limbless corpse in my hands.

�� At
sunrise, I was aboard the �Slice of Life,� watching white gulls cut through the
blue sky soundlessly. Their wings stretched so far I could see the individual
feathers on the tips from my place at the helm, bowing to cup the gentle breeze
that swept over the face of the water and combed through my hair.
�� The
marina, run down and antiquated as it was, looked picturesque in the early
morning light. Everything glittered and danced with the pale yellow sun,
especially the water that my boat so calmly split as it passed through the
canal. As I passed, my harbor neighbor waved to me and I returned the gesture,
almost as gleefully as he gave it.
�� My
mind had been cleared, my thoughts centered and balanced. The monstrous need
would never leave me. I had long since given up on hope of that, but I found
after an exceptionally evening, it could play nice. It would let me smother it,
push it so far back in my mind that I�d sometimes think that time was the last time and that the dark need inside me was
finally satiated� but it never was. The euphoric sensation would pass almost as
soon as it arrived, but I decided to enjoy it while I could, not sure when I
would get another.
�� Once
inside my apartment, I put Laurent with the others behind the air conditioning
unit. I opened the mahogany case and slipped my fingers over the top of each
slide sending the slivers of glass tinkling. Each one was so neat and carefully
placed, touched by my hands alone. Appreciated by me alone.
A hard earned reminder of the ties that once bound them to me, the darkness we
shared. Their legacy and my ultimate triumph.
�� I
reached into my pocket to add my twelfth pedophile when I felt my fingers brush
against something. I brought them both out of my pocket between my fingers and
hold it out in front. Wrapped around the slide, was the handwritten square of
paper from Harper, still carrying the faintest scent of lavender. I unfolded it
and smiled at the fanciful cursive before creasing it again and adding it and
Laurent to my trophies.

A/N: �The biggest
thank you to MuseofScrolls,
my patient Beta and Enslavement Thesis for
giving me my first review which has motivated me to keep up with this story.
Thanks again!
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The Secret