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Darkly dreaming Dexter :: Lindsay Jeffry P.
Страница: 37 из 160”
“All right,” I said, still shocked at what I had done.
“I don't think I want to-I'm not ready for- Damn it, Dexter,” she said. She unclipped her seat belt, opened the car door, and ran into her house.
Oh, dear , I thought. What on earth have I done now?
And I knew I should be wondering about that, and perhaps feeling disappointed that I had just destroyed my disguise after a year and a half of hard maintenance.
But all I could think about was that neat stack of body parts.
No blood.
None at all.
CHAPTER 7
T HIS BODY IS STRETCHED OUT JUST THE WAY I LIKE it. The arms and legs are secure and the mouth is stopped with duct tape so there will be no noise and no spill into my work area. And my hand feels so steady with the knife that I am quite sure this will be a good one, very satisfying-
Except it's not a knife, it's some kind of-
Except it's not my hand. Even though my hand is moving with this hand, it's not mine that holds the blade. And the room really is sort of small, it's so narrow, which makes sense because it's-what?
And now here I am floating above this perfect tight work space and its tantalizing body and for the first time I feel the cold blowing around me and even through me somehow. And if I could only feel my teeth I am quite sure they would chatter. And my hand in perfect unison with that other hand goes up and arches back for a perfect cut-
And of course I wake up in my apartment. Standing somehow by the front door, completely naked. Sleepwalking I could understand, but sleep stripping? Really. I stumble back to my little trundle bed. The covers are in a heap on the floor. The air conditioner has kicked the temperature down close to sixty. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, last night, feeling a little estranged from it all after what had happened with Rita. Preposterous, if it had really happened. Dexter, the love bandit, stealing kisses. And so I had taken a long hot shower when I got home and shoved the thermostat all the way down as I climbed into bed. I don't pretend to understand why, but in my darker moments I find cold cleansing. Not refreshing so much as necessary.
And cold it was. Far too cold now, for coffee and the start of the day amid the last tattered pieces of the dream.
As a rule I don't remember my dreams, and don't attach any importance to them if I do. So it was ridiculous that this one was staying with me.
“All right,” I said, still shocked at what I had done.
“I don't think I want to-I'm not ready for- Damn it, Dexter,” she said. She unclipped her seat belt, opened the car door, and ran into her house.
Oh, dear , I thought. What on earth have I done now?
And I knew I should be wondering about that, and perhaps feeling disappointed that I had just destroyed my disguise after a year and a half of hard maintenance.
But all I could think about was that neat stack of body parts.
No blood.
None at all.
CHAPTER 7
T HIS BODY IS STRETCHED OUT JUST THE WAY I LIKE it. The arms and legs are secure and the mouth is stopped with duct tape so there will be no noise and no spill into my work area. And my hand feels so steady with the knife that I am quite sure this will be a good one, very satisfying-
Except it's not a knife, it's some kind of-
Except it's not my hand. Even though my hand is moving with this hand, it's not mine that holds the blade. And the room really is sort of small, it's so narrow, which makes sense because it's-what?
And now here I am floating above this perfect tight work space and its tantalizing body and for the first time I feel the cold blowing around me and even through me somehow. And if I could only feel my teeth I am quite sure they would chatter. And my hand in perfect unison with that other hand goes up and arches back for a perfect cut-
And of course I wake up in my apartment. Standing somehow by the front door, completely naked. Sleepwalking I could understand, but sleep stripping? Really. I stumble back to my little trundle bed. The covers are in a heap on the floor. The air conditioner has kicked the temperature down close to sixty. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, last night, feeling a little estranged from it all after what had happened with Rita. Preposterous, if it had really happened. Dexter, the love bandit, stealing kisses. And so I had taken a long hot shower when I got home and shoved the thermostat all the way down as I climbed into bed. I don't pretend to understand why, but in my darker moments I find cold cleansing. Not refreshing so much as necessary.
And cold it was. Far too cold now, for coffee and the start of the day amid the last tattered pieces of the dream.
As a rule I don't remember my dreams, and don't attach any importance to them if I do. So it was ridiculous that this one was staying with me.