The Dexter Holmes Story

The Wish

The phrase, "How could you be so stupid?" had never been said so lovingly to a child. Whispered between sobs as she held her sleeping son to her chest, again she asked, "How could a boy so smart be so stupid?"  The previous question had not so much been asked of a specific person as it had been asked of anyone that could answer it.  Anyone at all; God, the son she held in her arms, or even the one who slept in the bed across the room.

A breeze rattled the nicknacks on the windowsill and the child across the room stirred, still, she paid little mind.  Her attention turned back to the boy in her arms.

"My sweet Dexter, God nearly took you from me today, but he has given us both another chance. Let's make a bargain right now, you and I.  I promise to give you every opportunity to be everything that you can be in this life if you promise to do your part when you are old enough.  I want you to know that I'm not talking about money.  I don't care if you are rich so long as you are a good man."  The thought hung in the back of her throat as she trailed off.

Now it was Dexter who stirred, almost as if to agree.  She stroked his hair and started to sing, "Hush Little Baby".

When she had finished her lullaby, her eyes lingered toward heaven and she prayed, "God let my Dexter be a kind man. Let him be a leader - and a good leader.  And I know, Lord, that while you didn't see fit to bless me with a scholar's mind, Dexter is different, he takes after his father that way."

Her words trailed off and she thought of their father. It startled her slightly as she didn't often think about him. He had never been part of her son’s lives, and from the moment that she knew she was going to have them, they were entirely hers. Though he rarely crossed her mind, there he was, clear as day, heavy as a stone. She wondered how often he thought of them and even though he'd never met them, she wondered if he still missed them somehow.

Her eyes again drifted upward and she finished her prayer: "Please Lord, let him be smart. Let him be the most brilliant shining light in your world. Please, Lord, just please don't ever let him be this stupid again."  She laid Dexter down on his bed and lovingly admonished him one more time.  "How could you scare me like that? How could you do this to me?"

Red Light 

In this particular interval he thought of nothing.  Escaping his notice, somewhere in the first minute of the time between, his mind went blank.  An outsider would have mistaken his gaze for an intent stare at the control board before him, but in reality, as focused as his eyes appeared, it all was blank before him.  That is, of course, until the entire room washed in a dull red.  He looked up at the red light, and as he did, he pulled the same lever that he pulled every two minutes and twenty four seconds.  

           He tried to fill the next interval by re-telling himself a story from his childhood.  There were pieces that were muddy, even entire sections that disappeared from memory.  They'd been gone so long that it didn't bother him in the least that they were no longer there.  In time, he would come to learn the understated value of being able to forget.  Still, the parts of the story that he remembered were crystal clear.  The characters, the places, the adventures ... the red light  ... which illuminated the room again, and he pulled the lever, reminding him of the passing of another two minutes and twenty four seconds.

In the interval that followed, he thought about the time.  No more, no less, without fail, two minutes and twenty four seconds.  It had occurred to him no less than three years previous that a simple alarm clock and an electronic switch could have easily replaced him.  It also occurred to him that such a suggestion could cost him his job.  As much as he hated the job, it put a roof over his head, food on his table and beer in his fridge.  The suggestion would rob him of ... the red light ...  which illuminated the room, and he pulled the lever again, signifying the passing of another two minutes and twenty four seconds.

The next interval was consumed with thoughts of beer.  Not specifically beer, mind you, but instead, alcohol in general.  When the final two minutes and twenty four seconds of his day had finally passed, he dreamt of the cold lager running down his throat.  His thoughts warmed as his chest would while the first sip of whiskey made its way down to his stomach.  His mind's eye envisioned the comforting yellowing walls of the public house that he would visit.  Beyond the temperatures and colours, he thought about the buzz.  The sweet, beautiful fog that would allow him to forget about ... the red light ... which illuminated the room, and he pulled the lever, bringing him closer to that buzz by another two minutes and twenty four seconds.

The last interval was full of thoughts of those he would find at that yellow public house.  Friends, loved ones and strangers, all coming together to forget the world for a while, to sing songs and try to collectively hold the heads of their sorrows under the firey water in their mugs.  It was then that he thought of her - she would be there tonight.  In fairness, she never fully left his mind, but at the moment she was all the more present.  Her name carefully toed the line at the edge of his tongue.  He could never allow it to cross that border, to slip mindlessly from his lips, so instead there it stayed.  Haunting and comforting at the same time, bringing out his inner darkness and all within him that was light ... the red light ... which illuminated the room again as he pulled the lever, frozen in time for a fraction of the two minutes and twenty four seconds.

All He Needs

A gentle roar erupted as Dexter strode through the door. That is to say, it was as gentle and warm as roars go.  He smiled slowly as his eyes subtly scanned the room for the familiar reaction to his arrival.  The bartender smiled with a slight shake of his head as he poured the beer that Dexter had yet to order but inevitably would soon have in hand.  The bartender knew that he was in for a long evening.  Dexter's arrival meant trouble by no means, in fact, it inflated the projected sales for the evening.  It was always a party when Dexter was around, and the bartender braced for sloppiness and increasingly generous tips.

As he picked up his glass with his right hand, his left placed a cigarette between his lips. Out of his peripheral vision, he saw an object arcing in his direction.  Without moving his head, he lifted his recently freed left hand and caught the object - a lighter. He studied it pleasantly after he lit his smoke.  The gold zippo was the prized possession of its owner. Dexter looked across the table and winked, playfully placing it in his pocket as though he were going to keep it.

He took a drag from his cigarette and a large mouthful from his glass as his eyes drifted upward to the painting above the bar.  It hung in mockery of a man who had caused some sort of offense to the establishment many years before. Dexter had pieced together most of the story over the years from various drunks and local legend.  It was a portrait of the Reverend Maxwell Something-Or-Other who had passed through the town decades earlier on some sort of revival tour.  He had been one of those evangelical Southern types who preached fire and brimstone to all of those that fell by the devil's ways. Cards, women, the drink, all tools of the darkest form of evil, robbing the mind and soul of the purity of good Christian sacrifice and humility. It seemed to be the schtick of this particular travelling preacher to find a local establishment to laud as the playground for all activities that he and his lord above spent the majority of their time condemning. The yellow stained public house in which he found himself was the lucky choice on this stop of the tour.  At the time, the owner claimed that business had doubled in the following year, owing both to increased sales within the community and curious tourism from the neighbouring areas. Since the original visit, the bar paid an annual tribute to the good Reverend in the form of a party in his (dis)honour. They jokingly celebrated his sermons and toasted the local woman he allegedly took up with that night.  No one could verify to Dexter who she was or if she actually existed, but he enjoyed the parties mostly for the parties themselves and not the silly legends that were their basis.  Though he could find no logical reasoning why within him, he could not dispute that looking at the portrait had always given him a sense of calm.

He continued his scan of the room for just a moment.  In his mind it seemed an eternity and he was sure that everyone around him noticed, but in reality, it was no more than a lingering glance.  He saw her laugh and he smiled. The smile, like the glance, only lasted for the split second before the realization hit him for the millionth time that she was not for him.  He reminded himself that it was foolish to think any other way.  He reached down to the whiskey shot placed before him, knocked it back and stared at his watch.  This wasn't going to get to him tonight.  Not the jealousy, not the all too short 71 hour, thirty two minute and twenty four second respite from the red light, not even the sick feeling in his chest left by the cheap whiskey.  Tonight was going to be about him, about the party and about drinking until it all didn't matter anymore. At least, it wouldn't matter until the morning. He thought to himself, "That's tomorrow's problem," reached for another shot and raised his arms in victory.  Yet another warm, gentle roar followed.

Have a Drink With Me

There's a saying about a drinker that Dexter couldn't quite recall.  The general gist implied that a drinker's stupor was equivalent to walking around in a dream.  It may have been closer to a stumble than a walk, but Dexter looked around at the buildings and the sky as he lilted forward and appreciated the shine falling off of them that didn't exist when he was sober.  As he turned the corner onto his street he did a double take.  Of all the times he had dreamt of finding her waiting for him at his home, he had to be sure that this time wasn't just a figment of his imagination.  He blinked repeatedly to clear his eyes and yet still she was there. 

As he climbed the steps to his porch, he tried to come up with a witty greeting, but was only able to spill out a mangled, "Is this where all the cool kids hang out now?"    

She smiled softly and he noticed something amiss.  The smile wasn't the same just now, and he couldn't quite put his finger on why.  First, he imagined that it was the unlit cigarette pressed between her lips, but as he reached into his pocket for a light, he concluded that it must be something else.  He flipped the top, sparked a flame and held it to the end of her smoke without a word.  As he closed it and went to drop it back into his pocket, he realized which lighter it was and smiled. 

He handed it back to her and said, "You'll see him before I do, and god only knows how he'll react when he finds it missing."    

She laughed, knowing how much the lighter meant to its owner and she slid it into her pocket, making the requisite joke, "Not if he sees me first."  She took a drag from her cigarette and put her head in her knees, leaving a silence for what seemed like an eternity.    

"Not to suggest that I'm not appreciative of the company, especially company that brings up the overall class level in this joint, but I'm forced to ask - what are you doing here?"    

She spoke softly as she reached into her pocket and pulled out a flask.  It was not just any flask, but one her husband had given her on their first birthday together.  She was unaware, of course, that it was in fact Dexter who had picked it out for her.  Her husband had completely forgotten the occasion, but as always, Dexter was there to bail him out. 

She held it to her lips and took a swig of the sour poison and held it out to Dexter, "Have a drink with me?"   Dexter took the flask and looked at the spout, momentarily thinking about how her lips had just touched it, and now his would.  He washed away the thought with a giant gulp and again reminded himself that this was another man's wife.  It was a reminder that he forced upon himself nearly every time that he saw her.  It was forced upon him just after they had met, as he spoke at their wedding and again now as she sat on his porch, nearly as drunk as he was, on the verge of tears. 

"Enjoyable as that was, we did spend a number of hours at the same pub tonight.  Why are we sharing a drink now?"    

"I think he's cheating on me."  The words hit Dexter like a rock, hurting him to hear as much as it hurt her to say, or so he thought.  He swallowed hard and tried to maintain his objectivity, wanting only to go and hurt the man for causing her such pain.  Still, he had no reason to believe that her husband would do such a thing to her.  Instead of following his instincts, he calmly tried to diffuse the situation.    

"What makes you think that?" he asked, aiming for a tone of compassion in his voice, failing in his attempt to hide his kneejerk emotional reaction.  Luckily for him, in her state, she didn't notice.    

"I don't have any proof, just a feeling," she began.  "It isn't as though I've found lipstick on his collar or another woman's underwear around the house, I just feel as though something is wrong.  He's different now than he's been, he's distant.  It just seems as though there is some sort of giant gap between us.  He gets angry at me for no reason, and it's the sort of defensive anger that..."  She stopped and waved her arms in the air.  "I don't know.  I probably sound like a crazy person, don't I?  I don't even know why I came here.  You've never been anything but kind to me and I don't want to put you in the middle of this.  I just figured that if anyone could tell me that I'm crazy and imagining things, it would be you.  Am I crazy?"    

She took another long haul from the flask and handed it to Dexter.  Slowly, he raised it to his lips and his mind raced.  He had no reason or proof to believe that her husband had been anything but loyal to her.  In fact, he could probably provide an alibi for almost any of the times that her husband had been absent.  He knew deep down that he had to tell her this.  Slowly, he sat down beside her and pulled her in close, holding her in his arms. 

Everything in his mind screamed, "No, he'd be a fool to cheat on you, and of all of the terrible things that he may be, a fool is not one of them."  Still, a funny thing happened in Dexter's brain in that moment.      

There is a school of philosophical thought that suggests that there is no free will.  Instead, in any given situation, a human being will do whatever will cause it the most pleasure or the least amount of pain.  If such a school of thought is true, there may be no better example in recorded history than this very moment.  Dexter didn't take the time to think about the consequences, he didn't even forsee this as a long term solution, he simply saw an opportunity to be her favourite, just for a night. 

He kissed the top of her head and said, "I don't think that you're crazy."  His throat closed at the lie and he almost choked on the next seven words; seven words that would forever change who he was and his own view of himself.  He rubbed her arm, put his head on hers and softly uttered, "How could he do this to you?"   

They stayed in that embrace for quite some time, him holding her and her weeping softly into his chest.  Eventually, courage welled up inside of her and she stood up.  "I should go," she said.  "I need to leave this place and be gone."  She lit another cigarette and started down the steps of his porch before pausing and turning back.  "You should know that I've always appreciated the way . . . I mean, I've always . . ." she trailed off.  "I suppose what I'm trying to say is that for what it's worth, you're a sweetheart, Dex, and I'll always . . ."  She bit her lip and unlocked her eyes from his.  He was slightly puzzled by her words, but the fatigue and the alcohol caused him to pay no mind and he waved as he watched her walk away.  "Maybe I should avoid them for a while, until this whole thing blows over," he thought.  "They will work it out, I'm sure I'll see her again sooner than I think." 

In a way he was right, but in another way, he couldn't have been more wrong.

Never Again

Even before he had opened his eyes, he knew this was going to be a bad one.  He contemplated just going back to sleep, or more accurately, passing out again.  However, this was the third time he'd been faced with this decision today and he had to get up eventually.

With his eyes still clenched shut, he began the familiar process of taking inventory of his system. He'd done this enough times to know that a dull headache, no matter how bad, could be cleared up with a couple aspirin and as much water as he could drink.  Most people experiencing a hangover for the first time, or even the first time in years, would be driven to the phrase on that dull headache alone.  He scoffed at the thought of "Never Again ..."

He concentrated on how his head felt. There was no distinct ache, but rather a fog he got lost in for a moment.

"This," he thought to himself, "is not a good sign".  He was ripped from the fog by his throat which demanded his intention.  He always smoked too much when he drank and a faint scratch was nothing for him to worry about.  However, this was no scratch - it felt as if something with talons had been trying to claw its way out all night.  With great effort, he rolled from his stomach to his back and began to understand why some people would react to this by saying, "Never Again .."

As if it were free to speak, now that the weight of the body had been removed from it, the stomach cried to the brain in a slow and forceful voice, "FEED." A pause and a breath, "ME.". He rubbed at his eyes and allowed them to open as he thought, "I must not have eaten last night when I got home."  He scratched his belly and sat up.  With ever increasing ease of movement, he swung his legs over the side of the bed. "Why didn't I head straight for the kitchen when I got in?"  He'd learned that the best way to piece together the hazy spots was to work from a place he remembered and visualize forward in time. He remembered walking home, "But when I got there, Emily was ..."

The terror hit him like a bucket of ice water in his sleep.  It rushed over him as he remembered it all. The lies, the tears, the pure stupidity of what he had said. That's when the feeling began to sink in. That special kind of cold, a kind of alone that's so all encompassing that it seems even bigger than yourself. Instinctively, his arm snapped outward and flipped on the radio - a voice to fool the loneliness. He rolled through the dial past a song, a news report and then back and then forth again.

"I have to make this right, and I have to do it right now."  His scattered thoughts grew more desperate with each passing moment.  "We were drinking, she'll be mad, but she'll forgive me. So long as I talk to her right away. So long as I talk to her before she talks to . . ." He didn't get the chance to finish his thought before his blood ran cold at the sound of banging on his door.

Lullaby

Dexter sat on his front stoop, his head held between his legs, watching the spots of wet fall from his eyes and expand on the asphalt between his feet as if the clouds had opened just enough to mark the land below.  He caught glimpses of said asphalt between extended moments of blurred vision.  He cried, sometimes uncontrollably, for nearly an hour before he pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lit the crisp tobacco.  Breathe.

            Only a few hours earlier Emily's husband, Augustus, had literally fallen inward when Dexter peeled open his door with fright.  The man sobbed at his feet, cursed in anguish, and after a moment whispered the words Dexter was now crumbling under.  

'Emily killed herself, Dex.  She...' he paused, gasping for air, 'She... my god... she killed herself!'  In that moment, Dexter felt his chest seize up as if a solid stone weighed upon his ribs.  His hands shook and his breath caught in his throat.  As quickly as his panic began it released and he also fell to his knees. The shock overwhelmed Dexter.  Although he wouldn't begin to piece together the chain of events until shortly after her funeral, Dexter knew instinctively that her blood was on his hands the moment his knees slammed against the floor.  

Breathe.  Dexter tossed the cigarette filter aside and attempted to look upward; to feel the sun upon his face, to confirm he himself still existed at all.  Forever spun a new meaning, one Dexter couldn't now grasp, one which seemed unbearably unfair.  The act of mourning at its most honest state is less about fixing or working through it and more about acceptance.  Yet, the mere thought of acceptance sickened Dexter to his core.  Acceptance of her death?  Acceptance a man had lost his wife?  Acceptance she'd committed suicide?  Acceptance is admittance.  It felt dishonourable, as if his admitting she was never coming home proved it to be true.  His mind was turning now, ever faster, and he began to feel disoriented under the pressure of his thoughts.  

'Those drunken lies,' he whispered, 'were my last words to you.'  In the same moment that the shock was again paralyzing Dexter a church bell rang in the distance.  The echo of the bell fell upon Dexter's ears and immediately a sense of comfort encompassed him.  His deceased mother came to mind and he began to hum.  Sitting on his stoop, his cheeks still streaked with tears, Dexter hummed a lullaby to himself.  He hummed the tune as it was remembered; precisely as his mother had done when he was a boy.

 

At her funeral three days later he did the same.  He hummed, her chalk white frowning face before him nearly unrecognizable.  He hummed until everyone else had already left and the Director pleasantly interrupted him with a final prayer.  Somehow, the lullaby calmed him long enough to hear himself think.  Unfortunately for Dexter, his thoughts were far worse than the noise.  Dexter recalled the conversation with Emily.  The lies repeated in his mind.  Such an innocent lie had caused her suicide.  

'How could this happen to me?'

As he stepped into the rain from the funeral home he could still feel his mother's presence.  

'God's tears,' she would surely say.  Dexter wasn't so sure himself but the pelting of the heavy rain against his skin felt appropriate.  He hoped it would rain forever.  He hoped the clouds would open up above him, the rain flowing endlessly until the dams overflowed into the surrounding land.  The water level would rise above the corn fields and across parking lots, into basements and cars, and eventually Dexter would drown in sorrow.  Although his sins would not be forgiven and the effect of his mistake not erased he felt an eye for an eye was what he deserved.  He'd killed Emily.  The love of his life was gone and he was still breathing.

Sleep

            Dexter awakes abruptly, as if to a sudden unplaced sound.  At first the pure darkness is all encompassing but soon his weary eyes adjust and he peers about carefully.  The silence is so thick he coughs gently to be sure he's hearing at all.  The alarm clock at his bedside glows red characters he can barely make out.  It's half past six in the morning.  Just as he lays his head back into the yellow stained pillow the banging begins.  It's constant now.  So loud and close it's not around him but in him.  Yet, instinctively he is aware the sound is his own beating heart, booming in glaring contrast to the dead silence.  He peels himself from the warmth of his bed, exposing his stark naked being to the freezing cold of a winter morning.

Sleep has escaped Dexter for some time.  His secret burns a hole through his soul, through his being.  A hole the size of a lake.  A sprawling lake expansive enough he could canoe to the centre, sink his boat, and never make it to shore.  He could swim for hours and hours and the sun would threaten him, falling first behind the tops of massive trees and soon behind the endless earth altogether.  He would drown alone in the blackness of night and he would call but to no avail.  His voice would carry along the calm water, would echo up the shore and off the embankment, and would dissipate before catching an ear.  This was Dexter's reality.  His secret dragged him to the centre of that lake and unforgivingly sunk his canoe.  

I plea to you just as Dexter pleas to himself; he is not evil.  His mother would claim the Devil got the best of him.  She would explain matter-of-factly that he had been taken advantage of and enlisted to do the Devil's doing.  A lapse in judgment caused by the flaming deity himself.  Dexter didn't believe in the Devil or the Devil's acts but he knew with certainty that a splinter of hatred or jealousy can grow and grow until it breaks to the surface.  The slightest touch of evil in all of us will emerge to cause vast consequence.  

Amongst said darkness Dexter sits; nude and sleepless and defenseless.  He will swim but he will sink.  He will drown and will not be saved.  The humour is not lost on Dexter.  He's smart enough to see the irony in this coincidence.  The nightmares continuously remind him of his fragile state.  He dreams of drowning often.  While he sleeps, although he is not aware, he pleas his innocence.  He begs into the darkness of his room, the truth slipping easily from him.  

''I didn't mean it!  It was not my intention!''  When he sleeps there's no keeping it inside.   

            Force of habit causes Dexter to blindly feel for a pack of cigarettes on his night stand.  He locates the crinkled box, pulls a smoke from it with his lips, and for a moment the room bursts into view by the flame of his lighter.  The fire dances in the silent darkness.  Suddenly, as if a light bulb was switched on and the beaming white burned his squinting eyes, Dexter's racing mind falls upon a seemingly innocent image.  He gasps.  

It was then that Dexter realized his second mistake.  A mistake that would tie him to Emily's suicide, which would dredge up all the secrets and deceit.  

His heart beats quickly in his ears with panic.  In haste he raises to his feet, pulls on a pair of jeans and sweater and dashes across the room to his front door.

''I need to fix this."

Stage II: Anger

A theory, which first originated the five stages of grief, was published in 1969.  The author, Elisabeth Kubler-Ross, wrote ‘On Death and Dying’ a few years after she became an instructor at the University of Chicago's Pritzker School of Medicine.  She developed there a series of seminars using interviews with terminal patients.  She wrote:

‘’This grief, shame, and guilt are not very far removed from feelings of anger and rage. The process of grief always includes some qualities of anger. Since none of us likes to admit anger at a deceased person, these emotions are often disguised or repressed and prolong the period of grief or show up in other ways. It is well to remember that it is not up to us to judge such feelings as bad or shameful but to understand their true meaning and origin as something very human. In order to illustrate this I will again use the example of the child — and the child in us. The five-year-old who loses his mother is both blaming himself for her disappearance and being angry at her for having deserted him and for no longer gratifying his needs. The dead person then turns into something the child loves and wants very much but also hates with equal intensity for this severe deprivation.’’

 ***

Fresh snow crunches under Dexter’s feet as he walks briskly along a barren sidewalk.  His footsteps are all he hears and they continually quicken in pace, the thumping spreading into the deadened silence all about.  The freezing wind blows along the street, uprooting the soft snow and causing it to crawl along the asphalt.  

Dexter hurriedly moves along side streets, across an arching bridge, and over a backyard fence, stepping carefully through the snow as to leave unrecognizable shoe prints on the white canvas.  He breaks a back window of the home, unlocks the door through the newly formed entrance, and with only a moment of hesitation bursts inward.

It is here in this empty house that Dexter’s rage and anger erupts.  It was not his initial intention but the familiar atmosphere, his longing for Emily, and the failure at fixing his mistake boil over.  He has come here to undue his tie to Emily's death but quickly comes upon the realization he can only erase the connection in the eyes of others, not of his own.  He can hide his guilt, but it cannot be undue.  Sheer discontent explodes with violence.  Soon, he finds himself sitting amongst the destruction, again humming the familiar lullaby, staring at a photo of Emily intently.  His mothers voice sings softly in his ear, calming him somewhat, and leading him from the home back into the dead winter night.  The voice enchants him with a sincere sense of familiarity and he follows it along the roadside.

Just Believe

Dexter opened the heavy door to the church slowly and quietly took a seat in the back pew.  The service was in full swing and he didn't want to interrupt.  It was the voices that had drawn him here, the voices from his youth.  There was little that could make him feel as warm inside as the sound of a choir full of song.  His eyes moved about through the congregation as the voice of the man at the front of the church droned on.     

He saw a woman of about eighty sitting near the front with a quiet sense of peace and a subtle smile.  She was dressed to the nines, even sporting a hat that might have been considered extravagant even for a royal wedding. 

"This is her everything," he thought to himself.  "The best part of her week is getting all dressed up and coming to this place."  Despite his somber mood, he almost laughed to himself.  "She goes through all of this for something that doesn't even exist.  I just want to shake her and shout, "HEY!"  There is nothing else out there, you're praying to no one."    Even though Dexter had been raised in a very religious home, his self defined 'good sense' had led him away from God.  He'd spent countless hours in his youth thinking about whether or not it was possible, and he had long ago come to the conclusion that there was nothing more to this life than simply this life. 

The voices of the choir filled the room again and his eyes fell back upon the woman. 

"She reminds me of my mother," he thought.  "Older, yes, but she used to have that same look of peace about her when she heard a choir."    It was at that moment that it hit him.    He had spent his life pitying these people, thinking them to be duped fools without any good sense.  Now, he saw, that he should be envious instead.  Yes, perhaps to him it was a lie, but it was true and real to her.  In her mind, everything was simple.  Every decision wasn't a decision, simply an opportunity to serve the lord. 

"How nice would that be?" he asked of himself.  "How warming to be guaranteed a better afterlife.  Maybe, just maybe," he thought, "If I can convince myself that this is all true, I can be like her."  He closed his eyes and tried to will himself to believe.  He tried to forget that the entire story is nonsensical, he tried to forget that it was clearly a rouse perpetrated through history to scare the gullible into obeying the establishment.  He tried to have faith.  Sadly, insomuch as the choral voices brought him comfort, he could never be as at peace as the woman in the silly hat. 

"What if it all were real?"  He laughed, "I just can't believe.”

Waves

Ignorance is bliss.  Dexter was certain of this.  Admittedly, despite all arguments of opposition one could suggest, Dexter longed for a world of black and white.  He recalled being sixteen years young, seemingly invincible, and living in this utopia.  At sixteen he didn't see the world in any array of grey but, rather, cut and dry.  Right and wrong.  Good and evil.  Age brought upon the spectrum of grey; the same spectrum he now detested.  Of course, it was seemingly favourable to be informed and knowledgeable of the world around him but upon reaching this so-called plateau Dexter felt cheated.  It wasn't as he expected.  There were no further answers, just more and more grey.  It again occurred to him that things occur to him.  

 Thus, as Dexter sat on his stoop having not showered nor left the house for days, he thought about the good old days.  He romanticized the days as a youngster - fearless, curious, creative, imaginative.  He smirked at his days as a young adult - still fearless, stubborn, full of pretentious attitude, strong willed.  He realized, as he spread his memories in front of him, that nothing could ever be the same.  A phrase his mother had said many times during his childhood came to mind and he felt it appropriate for the moment.  It was, perhaps, the only wise thought she'd ever expressed that was not directly quoted from the bible; likely passed down from her father and his father before him.  This may be why it came to mind now. Dexter spoke to himself softly, 'Oh, my son, don't spend your days searching for happiness 'cuz one day you'll look back only to realize it has passed.'  So many years Dexter had longed for Emily, the only thing truly out of his reach.  So many years he had wasted away at that goddamn factory, pulling the lever, enslaved by crimson light.  Now, marinating in his own stench, he had nothing.  His potential was not nearly as significant as his mother had hoped.  Furthermore, what good was knowledge when it was wasted away in mistakes and consequence?  

For a moment Dexter reviewed the chain of events that lead him to his current state.  Hindsight has a curious flavour.  It almost seems as if everything could be chalked up to fate until you accept that all of these moments, sometimes actioned upon you, sometimes actioned by you, intertwine so oddly that it's less like a mathematical equation and more like the random nature of radioactive decay.  Dexter can now pinpoint many turning points throughout his life based on memory and the retrospection of the past.  What this equates to, in this moment, is an overwhelming feeling of belittlement, of opprobrium.  One little portion of the turning gears that can be jammed entirely by the slightest fragment of metal. 

Dexter sunk into himself, his cigarette burning unsmoked, the long flaccid ash hanging on edge.  He gulped his beer, now attempting to flood his system with poison until he could not feel and think.  This overanalyzing of everything would directly trigger his depression.  A depression so severe one cannot see a means to an end.  He looks back on the past but he cannot look passed his regrets.  Regretfully, this drink can't last.

The Fall

Dexter walks solemnly along a bridge, not far from his home, the same bridge he'd nearly drowned below so many years earlier.  The sound of waves against stone echo as he slowly wanders to the centre of the aforementioned bridge.  A rope is tied around his waist, strung tightly to a weighty stone dragging along the wooden frame behind him.  A full moon, occasionally erased from the sky by massive clouds, shines down upon him brightly.  It highlights his dismal features, his frown.

The vision of his beloved Emily washes over him like waves flowing overhead.  Her innocent sweet smile haunts him endlessly.  He cannot live with this regret.  He cannot live with the choices he's made nor the relentless guilt.  His very reflection sickens him.  So broken he's become, so irreparably shattered, like glass strewn along sand for miles.  

Dexter pulls the stone toward him, it's jagged edges etching an endless reminder into the bridge boards, and heaves it into his arms.  He pulls himself upward onto the railing and balances carefully, the stone still in his arms, the rope still tied between himself and the stone.  As he peers downward he notices his shadow stretching out across the churning waters.  He appears so insignificant.  

It seems appropriate Dexter will die here, struggling desperately for breath under the same bridge he'd been saved below as a child.  If it hadn't been specifically chosen for that purpose, Dexter may have attributed it to fate.  This is where Dexter ceases to exist.  The beckoning waves and froth below provide his death.  He will drop the stone forward, a brief moment of terrifying silence will follow, and then the excess rope will disappear and tug ferociously at his torso, pulling him directly into the numbing cold.  He will not have time to scream.  Below the water he will hold his breath and struggle against the ropes pull.  His breath will last only a few moments before he sucks inward, water instantly filling his lungs with severe burning rage.  In this moment, of course, he will wish desperately for life.  But life will undoubtedly escape him and it will be significantly more painful than expected.  Dexter will panic.  Although he will be gone in only a few minutes at most, it will seem to Dexter that he fought and choked and hurt for another lifetime.  

Knowing this, Dexter begins slowly counting to ten, readying himself to plunge - the fall.  Yet, three times he counts to ten, to eleven, followed by twelve and thirteen.  He stands at the edge of death, bound by fear.  The silence speaks because he cannot.  Dexter exhales heavily, his breath like smoke against the cold night air, and in one rapid motion releases the stone from within his arms.

Redemption 

            Dexter fell to his back with his feet still dangling over the edge of the bridge.  Somehow, no matter his guilt and depression, he could not commit suicide.  Slowly, rhythmically, he breathed deeper than he could ever remember having done before.  Another first in his memory was feeling as though each breath were a gift. 

He thought to himself, "What has this come to?  What did I almost just do to myself?  How could the great Dexter Holmes be reduced to this wretch?".

Slowly he sat up, his feet still dangling as the words escaped his lips.  "But, I am Dexter Holmes.  If anyone can turn this around, it's me.  I can gain control of my life again.  I'll put down the bottle and start using the mind that I have to it's fullest potential."  All of his life he had heard that his potential was limitless if only he would apply himself.  Now, now he was ready to start doing just that.  He realized that he didn't need spirituality to save himself, he just had to put aside the guilt and the self-loathing and carry on.  He believed in himself.

He sat in silence at the edge of the bridge for what seemed like an eternity. 

"Tomorrow," he thought, "Tomorrow I'll begin my life again and make the most of the time that I have left."  He paid no attention to the sound of the car slowing to a stop behind him as he repeated his new mantra over and over, "I believe in me.”

He heard the object drop at his side before he saw it.  When he looked down, there it was, clear as day, and it only took a moment to register.  The pair of feet that stood beside it on the ground could only belong to one man - that man.  Dexter looked up at Augustus and he knew.  He knew that Augustus was aware of his role in Emily's death and he knew that he would have to answer for that role.  The shame and regret was etched on Dexter's face as he slowly got to his knees to beg for forgiveness.

            The conversation that they proceeded to have is a story for another time.  However, the words that escaped both of their lips as the man pushed the still attached stone over the edge of the bridge were the same - "How could you do this?"  With two large splashes, Dexter was gone, leaving nothing behind but regret and silence.

Written by Dan Adair and Scarfo

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Copyright The Dexter Holmes Story 2012