Page 52 of The Misfits
I understand his quest. I underwent the same form of therapy when I discovered Nick’s son was born healthy. I spiked his fiancée’s tea with so much misoprostol, she should have bled out on the table. I was so angry at Jenni and Nick, I took out my fury on their unborn son.
What I did was wrong. Nick’s son didn’t deserve the brunt of my fury.
Dexter shouldn’t forget the effects of his childhood, either. I’m not a shrink, but I’ve spent enough time with them to analyze that Dexter’s condition is a result of his childhood. From his reaction to a lullaby, it may have even started when he was a baby—perhaps even in the womb.
It’s not absurd to think this way. Some people are born to lead. Others are born like us.
We’re not broken.
We are unique.
I wait for Dexter’s outrage to subdue before standing from my chair. His violence touched every inch of the dining room, leaving only the chair I was sitting in unscathed.
He balks when I remove his hands from his face so I can crawl into his lap. Because of the difference in our heights and frames, it isn’t a hard feat. It’s just foreign. I’ve never wanted to nurture someone as much as I do him. My daddy said I am like my mom, that I don’t have an empathetic bone in my body. Dexter proves he was a liar. I care about him so much I’ll do anything to stop his pain.
Anything at all.
Dexter’s heart pounds in my ear when I nuzzle into his chest. It’s so furious I’m afraid it will burst my eardrum. Its frantic pace adds to the danger looming in the air but in a calm, nurturing way. He’ll never hurt me. The way he left me unscathed during his violent uproar proves this without a doubt.
I don’t care what the many doctors’ diagnosis is. I know the truth. Dexter is my protector. My lover. The man slowly reviving my veins with blood. It might be a little murky, but it is still lifesaving blood all the same. He will take care of me, and I will do the same for him.
Dexter’s tormented eyes bounce between mine when I raise my hand to his face to remove the strands of hair stuck to his temples. After clearing them away, I glide my fingers down his cheeks and across his plump lips. I comfort him without the lullaby I used last night, finally recognizing the tune is partly to blame for his psychotic break.
I caress him for what feels like hours but is more minutes, and just when I think he will never return my affections, his hand traces the bumps of my spine. He draws me closer to him with every contusion he glides past. His silence should be off-putting, but it isn’t. He doesn’t need to express gratitude for my comfort. I would do it even if he requested that I stop.
It is what a woman does for the man she loves.
eighteen
DEXTER
“We need to leave within twenty minutes. We cannot be late.”
Megan stops peering at herself in the mirror to shift her remorseful eyes to me. She isn’t looking at me as a psychotic maniac with no grasp on life. She’s peering past the layers, seeking the source of my disturbing behavior.
She will be searching a very long time.
Nearly twenty-nine years, to be precise.
“There’s no need to put in an effort, Megan. My father won’t judge you on how you look.”He’ll be too busy formulating how you bleed to assess the clothes you’re wearing.
She sets down the makeup kit I had delivered this morning before standing to her feet. Instead of wearing the clothes I purchased for her when we escaped Meadow Fields, she has on the knee-length skirt and three-quarter-sleeve knitted jacket. The instant I spotted the ensemble in the boutique store of our hotel, I knew it was designed for her. The subtle palette adds to her innocence, and the green foliage enhances her diamond eyes.
My father will be pleased when he sees her. She is the very essence of pure.
After placing her hand on my chest, Megan gives me a look that reveals she’s nervously excited. When I told her we were going to visit my father, she misunderstood the situation entirely. She thought I was laying down foundations. I am—somewhat—just not in the way she predicted.
She knows of my secrets, of my inability to keep a rational head when in the depths of a nightmare. For that alone, she will never be my pet. This is the exact reason why I never slept in a woman’s bed. I try to maintain control over every aspect of my life, but there are some things I can’t regulate, such as my dreams.
I guess the same could be said for Cleo’s dad when he killed Shelley. Maybe it was just an accident, and no one was at fault as Megan suggested last night. When it’s your time, it’s your time. That’s what I’ve been continually telling Megan the past sixteen hours.
Argh!I’m talking like I have a cunt between my legs.
I need to get this woman out of my head. She is making me unhinged. Even more than usual.
My reaction to the bruise circling her wrist was all the indication I needed to know it’s time to finalize this part of my playbook. I don’t pursue women who remind me of my mother because I am infatuated with her. I hate her so much, I hurt women who look like her because I can’t hurt her. Every tear they shed, every scream ripped from their throat, I pretend came from her.
My manic behavior is disturbing but is easily excused. Many years ago, I was diagnosed as having Sadistic Personality Disorder, among other comorbid mental illnesses. In laymen’s terms, I’m several shades of fucked-up. I don’t just have one mental illness. I have many.
