Dismembered 🔪 Dexter

02. Mr. Wallace

I used the clean white rag the Bay Harbor Butcher had handed to me to clean the partially dried blood from my cheek. The gash stung like a bitch, but he hadn't cup deep, just enough to draw blood. It would heal fast and hopefully not leave much of a scar.

I had slid on my lacy black underwear and bra from the pile of my clothes and then picked up my fitted dress I had worn to the bar earlier. My shoulders slumped and I let out a frustrated breath as I held it up, rolling my eyes at the Butcher. It was open like a vest, a clean cut down the center. I glared at the butcher, who was leaning his back against the wall across the room, his arms crossed over his chest and one ankle crosscutting the other.

"That's what happens when you wear a dress tighter than that cling wrap." He commented. I could tell there was a certain level of sarcasm mixed into his tone.

"I was undercover." I replied in a flat tone. "You owe me a new dress." I decided as he pushed himself off the wall and stepped out the plastic curtains for a moment, returning with a neatly folded piece of fabric. I slid on the light turquoise t-shirt the Butcher had given me, which fell mid thigh on me since I was a whole head shorter than my kidnapper. "You know, the least you could do is tell me your name." I said, as I dabbed away more blood that had been expelled from my cheek. The Butcher sighed, as if I was inconveniencing him. "You don't even have to give me a last name. I'm just looking for something to call you cause you don't seem to be a big fan of 'the Butcher'."

"Dexter Morgan." He finally stated, taking off the matte black apron he wore and tossing it onto the table I now sat on the edge of.

"Dexter Morgan." I repeated. "Hardly sounds like the name of a serial killer. A total geek, maybe." I teased, but he didn't seem too amused. He began tearing down the plastic, leaving his gloves on to avoid leaving his fingerprints. "Want help?" I offered, not exactly what level of hospitality was socially acceptable in this particular situation.

"You're not wearing gloves." He declined as he balled up a few of the opaque sheets and stuffed them into a black garbage bag with yellow drawstrings. He grabbed several more from a box on a tray and packed more of it.

As he took care of the disposable party decorations, I wadded up my dress and tossed it like a basketball. It flew flawlessly into the trash bag he was holding open and I smirked when he looked over his shoulder at me in annoyance.

I quickly got bored of sitting in silence and hopped off the table, grabbing an extra pair of gloves I had spotted during the clean up session. I slid them on and began assisting the Butcher-- I mean, Dexter-- in tearing down his clever little murder room. With two people working, it was cleaned up quick and Dexter picked up his apron to reach into his apron pocket, taking out the glass slide that held a drop of my blood. He dropped it into the last garbage back and knotted it closed.

"Now what?" I wondered, pulling off the gloves and putting my hands on my waist.

"Now, we go our separate ways." He said, gathering up the plastic bags. He had extras, probably since he had anticipated to be carrying out a few with the dismembered pieces of my body.

"Just like that?"
"Yes, Elena. Just like that." He said in his usual, impatient tone, without even bothering to look at me.

"You know, murderer aside, you're still kind of a dick." I informed him.

I glanced around the echoey room. Without the thick plastic enclosure, I could finally tell where we were. We were in a small, empty room with concrete walls. The room looked oddly familiar, though it seemed as though something was missing, like... fuck! A body tied up with duct tape!

"Fuck!" I exclaimed, out loud this time, throwing my hand to my forehead.

"What?" Dexter questioned and I pinched the bridge of my nose. He didn't seem to necessarily be that interested, but asked anyway.