A Serial Killers Guide: Dexter's Final Cut, Dexter, Darkly Dreaming Dexter, Dearly Devoted Dexter, Dexter in the Dark, Dexter By Design, Dexter Is Delicious, Double Dexter Tribute - Episode 1 by C.A. Jarest Page A
Authors: C.A. Jarest
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finely stated by the highly educated therapist with all the degrees after her name.
Well before I delve any further into my dealings, killings, and my murderous side I was told to introduce myself. How foolish is that? Hello journal, my journal. I am now going to document my full name in here so that when the CIA needs to set me up they can clearly point out that this is in fact my journal. The therapist is insisting I reveal to you my name. Don't get your panties in a twist! Seriously, I have no idea why people like her suddenly one day go 'Therapist, yeah that sounds cool. Think I like the sound of that.' Morons, the lot of them.
Well here it goes; my name is Odette Sara Hicks. There I said it, you happy now? God I hope so. Do you want my first born to. My social security number? How about my rights as well, oh wait, you already do. Damn it! They’ll probably take any child I have, not that I want children. Gee I can see it now, career day.
“So , why don’t you tell us a little about what your mother does for work.” Teachers asks.
“She kills people.” Replies a small child.
Yeah, that would go over real well. I can’t help it, I was born like this, no, really I was. I still remember the first day my urges started. I was seven years old, sitting on an old log that my father used as a chopping block. There were chicken parts smeared all over the wood, blood stains, and feathers about the ground. I sat there looking at the bloody ground. My dad had just killed a bunch of old hens that were no longer laying, the fresh blood on the brown dirt; it was marvelous. I knelt down on the ground as I slowly placed my hand in the blood. Goose bumps covered my body and my eyes closed as the sensation, satisfaction, utterly indulgent stirring in my soul reverberated throughout me. That was the moment I knew I would never be the same, I would always have to kill.
The shrink feels that I should explain to you my short, dull, inferior childhood. As she so stated to me ‘It would be good for you to write it down, to let go of your childhood, it will help you to connect the dots. Help you see why you are the way you are today.’ If this is the best the CIA could scrounge up, that’s saying a lot. Really, such an educated woman should not explain things the way she does. I’d be a better therapist than she is. Course there might be more blood, some guts, and the body count would pile up. My office would not be this neat, or this well-furnished.
Seriously, why are there five boxes of tissues in one room? If I were a therapist we would meet down below the ground in a small dark, damp cement cellar. With nothing more than a single, low watt bulb swaying from the ceiling, course there would have to be a couch for them to sit on. A couch I would have picked up on the side of the road; yeah one of those free ones you see. The free one that looks like someone fucked the shit out of it, and the fuckability of the plaid is no longer there. You slowly drive by and swear there are blood smears, cum stains and probably vomit all over it. The fabric has been torn from it, as if the person who was being fucked had to grab something other than the fucker on top of them, fear of ripping them apart. Yeah, that couch. What’s a therapist office without a box of tissues? Me, being such a thoughtful therapist would have gone to the dump mall to see what kind of shit would be good enough for my clients. The Kleenex box with mouse holes on the bottom of the box and all that fucking mouse shit on those white ti ssues. Now that I have my fucken couch and mouse tissues, we would have so much fun.
Though I don’t see my career as a therapist working out very well. I’d end up beating the brains out of whoever was laying on that plaid cum couch. Get a life; seriously find purpose in something other than your pathetic, prune ass, depressive, limp life. The rage, anger and complete satisfaction I would take in cracking open their sternum, ripping
Well before I delve any further into my dealings, killings, and my murderous side I was told to introduce myself. How foolish is that? Hello journal, my journal. I am now going to document my full name in here so that when the CIA needs to set me up they can clearly point out that this is in fact my journal. The therapist is insisting I reveal to you my name. Don't get your panties in a twist! Seriously, I have no idea why people like her suddenly one day go 'Therapist, yeah that sounds cool. Think I like the sound of that.' Morons, the lot of them.
Well here it goes; my name is Odette Sara Hicks. There I said it, you happy now? God I hope so. Do you want my first born to. My social security number? How about my rights as well, oh wait, you already do. Damn it! They’ll probably take any child I have, not that I want children. Gee I can see it now, career day.
“So , why don’t you tell us a little about what your mother does for work.” Teachers asks.
“She kills people.” Replies a small child.
Yeah, that would go over real well. I can’t help it, I was born like this, no, really I was. I still remember the first day my urges started. I was seven years old, sitting on an old log that my father used as a chopping block. There were chicken parts smeared all over the wood, blood stains, and feathers about the ground. I sat there looking at the bloody ground. My dad had just killed a bunch of old hens that were no longer laying, the fresh blood on the brown dirt; it was marvelous. I knelt down on the ground as I slowly placed my hand in the blood. Goose bumps covered my body and my eyes closed as the sensation, satisfaction, utterly indulgent stirring in my soul reverberated throughout me. That was the moment I knew I would never be the same, I would always have to kill.
The shrink feels that I should explain to you my short, dull, inferior childhood. As she so stated to me ‘It would be good for you to write it down, to let go of your childhood, it will help you to connect the dots. Help you see why you are the way you are today.’ If this is the best the CIA could scrounge up, that’s saying a lot. Really, such an educated woman should not explain things the way she does. I’d be a better therapist than she is. Course there might be more blood, some guts, and the body count would pile up. My office would not be this neat, or this well-furnished.
Seriously, why are there five boxes of tissues in one room? If I were a therapist we would meet down below the ground in a small dark, damp cement cellar. With nothing more than a single, low watt bulb swaying from the ceiling, course there would have to be a couch for them to sit on. A couch I would have picked up on the side of the road; yeah one of those free ones you see. The free one that looks like someone fucked the shit out of it, and the fuckability of the plaid is no longer there. You slowly drive by and swear there are blood smears, cum stains and probably vomit all over it. The fabric has been torn from it, as if the person who was being fucked had to grab something other than the fucker on top of them, fear of ripping them apart. Yeah, that couch. What’s a therapist office without a box of tissues? Me, being such a thoughtful therapist would have gone to the dump mall to see what kind of shit would be good enough for my clients. The Kleenex box with mouse holes on the bottom of the box and all that fucking mouse shit on those white ti ssues. Now that I have my fucken couch and mouse tissues, we would have so much fun.
Though I don’t see my career as a therapist working out very well. I’d end up beating the brains out of whoever was laying on that plaid cum couch. Get a life; seriously find purpose in something other than your pathetic, prune ass, depressive, limp life. The rage, anger and complete satisfaction I would take in cracking open their sternum, ripping
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