Betrayal

The memories shimmer as I lose concentration, distracted by my idle musings. I pull myself to my feet, frustrated, and push the remembered scene away. It swirls and falls apart, dancing backwards into Dexter's shifting thoughts. I'm still wondering which one to pull up next when I hear the giggle. It doesn't sound right. He hasn't done it in weeks, not since…

Shoving that thought away before it appears, I sort through the other memories, curious. There's a group here that are different, they have a strange sort of feel to them, sharper somehow. It takes me a moment to realise what it is. These are the ones Dexter watches the most, his favourites, imprinted deeper into his neural pathways by repeated replay. These are the ones he watches when he hides in the back of our mind, when I'm in charge of the body.

I feel a little guilty as I look through them, which seems ridiculous, like feeling bad for reading my own diary. The examination only proves what I've known all along; the freak has strange tastes. All the assignments we've been on, the excitement of the kill, the hot joy of knowing you're stronger, better, more powerful than another, that you're the survivor, and he chooses to remember sitting in Central Park with our father, feeding the pigeons. That's kind of weird.

I pull up another to see what that is, and again, why? Why would he choose this memory? It makes no sense. Sitting on Dad's knee fixing a clock for the first time, it's not like we need to learn that lesson, we know how to repair timepieces, we've known since, well, since Dad sat him on his lap and showed him how, when he was five years old. There's nothing to learn from this memory, why does he use it so often?

Shaking my head, I move onto the next one, then the next, it's more of the same, over and over. Sat reading with Mom, playing in the snow, the first time Dad took us fishing and we caught a tire, a boot and a used condom. Kissing Jamie from next door when we were six, the puppy we managed to keep a secret from Mom and Dad for eight whole days, catching that damn baseball and winning the game during high school. We'd been sent well out of the way so we didn't screw up, and that thing just sailed out of the sky and landed in our glove. We were the school hero for almost three days…up until everyone remembered what a nerd Dexter was. Is.

There have to be twenty or thirty memories here, and each one of them is a nothing moment. There's no excitement, no triumph, granted catching that ball was pretty nifty, and I wish Jamie had shown the same interest in our teens because that girl was something else. But otherwise…I don't understand how these snapshots can hold his attention, at least not this much, they're so well used he must have been watching them over and over for, well, months.

There's another one that's starting to show the same patterns, this one's different to the others though, newer, more recent. I pull it up to take a look at it and it's all I can do to not scream. Because it's Foster. He replays being with Foster. That first time together.

If I was in control of the body I would probably be throwing up right now, even in this ghostly form I feel physically nauseous and I have to clench my teeth to keep from shaking with rage. He doesn't want to remember being with me; he wants to remember being with Foster. The little bitch, after all I've done for him. Foster wasn't there for him when our little sister, Eden, died, he wasn't there for him when we had our heart broken by Sandy, or Ruth, or Jonny. It's a betrayal, pure and simple. The little bitch doesn't think I'm good enough for him. I shove the memories away and sit in the dark, trying not to think about how much this hurts. And it's my own damn fault for losing my temper and shoving him out there. I should never have let him out; I should have kept him inside, safe from the world, safe from…other people. Mine, and only mine, forever.

He's laughing again, I can feel it. Laughing at me probably. I pull myself up and move forwards, so I can experience what's going on, there's different levels of reality in here. I find where I need to be and open up to Dexter's senses, and then nearly bolt again, he's being tickled, and the little freak likes it. He's curled into a ball, trying to protect himself, giggling like a kid. Foster's hand slips under his chin suddenly and pulls him up for a kiss, stroking his face, and it's tender, and sweet, and everything I've ever wanted from the nurse.

I retreat quickly, before one of them notices me. It's got nothing to do with the sudden jealousy burning in my heart, nothing at all, I'm just being cautious. I hug my knees to my chest and wonder where the hell I went wrong, I should never have left the two of them together, never, what was I thinking? Now Dexter loves Foster more than he does me…and Foster… Why isn't he that gentle with me? He hurts me. Hurts me and humiliates me and enjoys every second of it. And I come back for more, because he wants me. I could have anybody, force them to my will…but they wouldn't want me back, so what's the point? I'd be doing it just to prove I can, and there's no satisfaction in that if the other person is so much weaker than I am. Foster's the only one who's a challenge now, and he wants me back. He must, otherwise he wouldn't fight so hard to make me submit to him, to have me, to use me. What if he doesn't want me anymore now he has Dexter? Dexter will give him anything he wants…for free.

I pull up another memory and bury myself in it; I'm not going to think about this anymore, I'm going to concentrate on this old kill, work out how I could have done better. Improve my skills, my technique.

I'll make him pay for hurting me, for stealing Dexter, for not…loving me. I'll teach him. 

Gabriel.