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Darkly dreaming Dexter :: Lindsay Jeffry P.
Страница: 25 из 160I know it,” almost to himself now, for effect maybe, and then his eyes lock onto mine. “Otherwise, you wouldn't care what I thought, or what Mom thought. You'd just do it. You can't help it, I know that. Because-” He stops and just looks at me for a moment. It's very uncomfortable for me. “What do you remember from before?” he asked. “You know. Before we took you in.”
That still hurts, but I really don't know why. I was only three. “Nothing.”
“Good,” he says. “Nobody should remember that.” And as long as he lives that will be the most he ever says about it. “But even though you don't remember, Dex, it did things to you. Those things make you what you are. I've talked to some people about this.” And strangest of strange, he gives me a very small, almost shy, Harry smile. “I've been expecting this. What happened to you when you were a little kid has shaped you. I've tried to straighten that out, but-” He shrugs. “It was too strong, too much. It got into you too early and it's going to stay there. It's going to make you want to kill. And you can't help that. You can't change that. But,” he says, and he looks away again, to see what I can't tell. “But you can channel it. Control it. Choose-” his words come so carefully now, more careful than I've ever heard him talk “-choose what… or who … you kill…” And he gave me a smile unlike any I had ever seen before, a smile as bleak and dry as the ashes of our dying fire. “There are plenty of people who deserve it, Dex…”
And with those few little words he gave a shape to my whole life, my everything, my who and what I am. The wonderful, all-seeing, all-knowing man. Harry. My dad.
If only I was capable of love, how I would have loved Harry.
So long ago now. Harry long dead. But his lessons had lived on. Not because of any warm and gooey emotional feelings I had. Because Harry was right. I'd proved that over and over. Harry knew, and Harry taught me well.
Be careful , Harry said. And he taught me to be careful as only a cop could teach a killer.
To choose carefully among those who deserved it. To make absolutely sure. Then tidy up. Leave no traces. And always avoid emotional involvement; it can lead to mistakes.
Being careful went beyond the actual killing, of course. Being careful meant building a careful life, too. Compartmentalize. Socialize. Imitate life.
All of which I had done, so very carefully. I was a near perfect hologram. Above suspicion, beyond reproach, and beneath contempt. A neat and polite monster, the boy next door. Even Deborah was at least half fooled, half the time.
That still hurts, but I really don't know why. I was only three. “Nothing.”
“Good,” he says. “Nobody should remember that.” And as long as he lives that will be the most he ever says about it. “But even though you don't remember, Dex, it did things to you. Those things make you what you are. I've talked to some people about this.” And strangest of strange, he gives me a very small, almost shy, Harry smile. “I've been expecting this. What happened to you when you were a little kid has shaped you. I've tried to straighten that out, but-” He shrugs. “It was too strong, too much. It got into you too early and it's going to stay there. It's going to make you want to kill. And you can't help that. You can't change that. But,” he says, and he looks away again, to see what I can't tell. “But you can channel it. Control it. Choose-” his words come so carefully now, more careful than I've ever heard him talk “-choose what… or who … you kill…” And he gave me a smile unlike any I had ever seen before, a smile as bleak and dry as the ashes of our dying fire. “There are plenty of people who deserve it, Dex…”
And with those few little words he gave a shape to my whole life, my everything, my who and what I am. The wonderful, all-seeing, all-knowing man. Harry. My dad.
If only I was capable of love, how I would have loved Harry.
So long ago now. Harry long dead. But his lessons had lived on. Not because of any warm and gooey emotional feelings I had. Because Harry was right. I'd proved that over and over. Harry knew, and Harry taught me well.
Be careful , Harry said. And he taught me to be careful as only a cop could teach a killer.
To choose carefully among those who deserved it. To make absolutely sure. Then tidy up. Leave no traces. And always avoid emotional involvement; it can lead to mistakes.
Being careful went beyond the actual killing, of course. Being careful meant building a careful life, too. Compartmentalize. Socialize. Imitate life.
All of which I had done, so very carefully. I was a near perfect hologram. Above suspicion, beyond reproach, and beneath contempt. A neat and polite monster, the boy next door. Even Deborah was at least half fooled, half the time.