Free 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

 
    “Ok Odette let’s start our session.” Says the therapist as she smooths out her pencil skirt, adjusts her position and opens her note book. Her gray hair is pulled back in a small bun and her spectacles make her eyes look a hundred times bigger. What is she from the 60’s, when wearing magnifiers were cool? She smells of Jean Nàte, even though she looks like she just walked out of a bland-ass, colorless closet. She wore a grey skirt, with a white shirt and a grey blouse. I wasn’t sure if she was color blind or if she enjoyed having no color to her clothes. I sighed as I slowly sat on the aged leather couch before me. It smelled like urine and old man farts. I held my breath as the last of the pressure in the old cushion was expelled as I sat my ass down on it. I wore white jeans, and a red T-shirt. I love red, the color and everything red. Though, to tell you the truth I really only loved red because that was the color of blood. If blood were green, then I would love green, but it was not. It was red; and red was an amazing color. It was not just a color, it was an emotion, it expressed your passion, your lust, and your desire. Red was so much more than a color and I loved it for that reason, plus blood looked really good in the color red.
    The shrink looked tight, so tight, like she had never been fucked in her life. Maybe she could prescribe some meds for herself. I think a heavy sedative and some sort of memory lapse drugs would be just what the doctor would order, the doctor being me of course. Though if I were her doctor I would prescribe more than some drugs, maybe a good fuck from one of those Chippendales guys, with their skin tight black leather pants, oily six packs of abs and those tight asses; and a shot of cocaine to top it all off with. She needs to loosen up and just say ‘The Fuck with it.’ This is a rule I live by religiously, when faced with a choice and you can’t seem to decide which to do ‘The Fuck with it’ and just do it.
    I sat in t he therapy office of the CIA. In college they found my dark side, me, and they unleashed it upon this world. This horrible, evil, sand box we all live in. Where the big kid picks on the little kids at recess; breaking their toys and throwing sand in their faces. I am the kid who you see every day, sitting there on her swing, playing with my hands. How I love to play with my hands. They feel, they grip, and tear, pull, pound and lust for the ever so orgasmic feel of warm blood on my skin. The way the red blood oozes out of the body, how warm and soft we all are. Glistening in the light of my den, with you their below me surrounded by your entrails, organs, ripped flesh and blood, hugging your expired bodily prison. You, the big kid in the sand box, you are in my sand box now, not so big after all. I am lord and master here, I am the one with all the shovels and buckets. You, who ran through my sand castle, you who pushed my face in the gritty sand, you now lay on the cold steel table. No more will you shove, push or beat the little kids.
    Yes, this is the world we, I mean I live in. The CIA found me, and with their crafty ways they turned this run of the mill amateur who dabbled in the art of killing, into a precision tool. Like those Ginsu knives you see advertised on TV that can cut through anything and yet they stay as sharp as all hell. Really? How is it that after cutting through five leather mother-fucken shoes, you're still sharp? Cut through a cinder block and get back to me. Yeah, precision, I’m like that. I never dull, never tire, never yearn for a rest, and never do I miss my target. How I relive these glorious, triumphant, orgasmic moments each day, savor them like a fine French desert.
    As part of the CIA training I am required to document my experience here, my killings and how I became who I am today. The therapist also claims that writing these down will help me to stay in the real world, as she puts it, and not in my fantasy world; so