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Dexter Morgan learned how to control his violent urges at a young age. Doing it successfully, however, took a lot more practice. At eight, the urges still forced their way to the surface occasionally. Especially when stupid Will Barnes pantsed him during recess. By some major injustice, Dexter was the one who got in trouble for lunging at Will and biting down on his forearm with all the force he had. Will got stitches and Dexter got suspended.
He didn’t feel guilty about it; he didn’t feel anything at all about the whole scenario. However, he was frustrated at his suspension. Blood filled the back of his mind as the urge to kill something started to grip him by the throat.
Distant chatter echoed through the halls as Dexter sulked in a chair outside the front office, where Mom was talking to the principal. Dad was gonna be so mad when he got home. He’d been trying to control his urges, but sometimes it was too much for his little body to contain.
He hated losing control.
A few minutes passed before Mom left the office and led him silently to the car, which she had borrowed from a neighbor when she was called to the school. It was a crusty old thing that smelled like cats and cigarettes. Dexter leaned his face against the warm window, trying to shake the urge to draw blood with the vibrations of the moving car.
It didn’t work. He sighed and gritted his teeth.
“Oh I know,” Mom said, “suspending you was a little harsh. It’s not like you weren’t provoked.”
Dexter looked at her. Her short dark hair was wrapped inside her favorite green and pink checkered scarf, and her chunky bracelets clinked together as she fussed with the radio dials before finding a station playing rock ‘n roll. He wanted to tell her how angry he was; how much he needed to kill something. But Dad had told him in no uncertain terms that he was only ever to talk about his violent urges with him. No one else could ever know. And then there was that fear that Mom would try to get rid of him if she found out. He was a freak; no one wanted a freak around.
“When’s Dad gonna be home?” He asked.
She put her arm around his shoulders. “He won’t be mad at you.”
He leaned into her warm, cherry blossom-scented skin and closed his eyes, taking a deep, shuddery breath.
“I know what’ll make you feel better,” Mom exclaimed.
Killing something, Dexter thought.
“I just so happen to have all the ingredients to make chocolate chip cookies! And you know I need my little kitchen helper.” Her smile was wide and bright and genuine.
At that age, food was usually an effective distraction for Dexter’s Dark Passenger. Especially making food with his Mom. As an adult, many of his fondest memories involved spending hours in the kitchen with Doris as she taught him how to make every recipe scrawled on her index cards in her loopy cursive.
The urge was still there as Dexter ran to the front door, but it had loosened a bit. The fight at recess was quickly fading from his mind, replaced by anticipation and recalling what bowls and measuring spoons they would need.
When Mom unlocked and opened the door, Dexter bolted to the kitchen and started rummaging through the drawer where the special utensils were kept.
“Wash your hands,” Mom reminded him, pulling sugar and flour out of the pantry.
“Oh. Okay.” He did so.
Once everything was lined up on the island, and Dexter was stood on his step stool with a frilly blue apron, they were ready to begin. Mom set the temperature on the oven while Dexter fitted the sifter onto one of the mixing bowls and measured out the flour. It was so satisfying to watch the dry ingredients fall through the sifter.
Mom cracked the eggs into the other bowl. She didn’t drop a single drop of liquid nor any shell. When she mixed the eggs, butter, sugar, and vanilla together, she used a whisk instead of the stand mixer. Dexter never knew why she did that; he’d made these with the mixer and they turned out exactly the same.
“Okay, I’m ready for you, sweetheart,” Mom held her mixing bowl out, prompting him to start pouring the mixed-up dry ingredients into the creamy mixture.
Once all the base ingredients were mixed, it was time to add the chocolate chips. Everyone in the Morgan family liked their cookies with lots of chocolate chips, so he dumped in two whole bags into the dough.
Mom grunted as she folded the chocolate chips in with a wooden spoon. “You wanna try to mix?” She asked.
Dexter eagerly took the bowl and pulled the spoon so suddenly, a small glob of dough flew onto the wall behind him. “Oops!”
A warm smile donned Mom’s face as she laughed, and scooped the dough off the wall and held it to Dexter’s lips. He licked it off her fingers. She ruffled his hair. Life was good.
“Okay, time to get the cookie sheets ready!” Doris pulled out three cookie sheets. “Can you get the parchment paper?”
Dexter nodded and stepped off his stool to get the roll of paper from the cabinet.
Doris handed him the ice cream scoop, “you try it this time.” She was still smiling at him, but starting to waver as she leaned heavily against the counter. “I need to sit down a minute, honey.” She sat on a barstool, watching Dexter scoop the dough onto the papered cookie sheets. Even Dexter could see that she was tired; her eyes were droopy and her hands trembled. When it came time to put the cookies, Doris forced herself up to help her son with the oven.
An hour later, they had made three dozen gooey chocolate chip cookies, and set them on the cooling rack. Doris and Dexter sat on the couch with a plate of cookie crumbs; Dexter had eaten so many that his stomach was starting to hurt. Doris was watching some soap opera that Dexter couldn’t even begin to follow. He looked back to the source of the tantalizing smell in the kitchen.
“Save some for your Dad and Debbie,” Doris reminded him.
He crossed his arms and pouted.
She smiled and shut the tv off. “How bout you go get your riddles book.”
“Okay,” he went to his room and grabbed the book of riddles and brain teasers Doris’ parents had given him for his birthday.
The two gave each other riddles until Dad came home with Debbie. The little girl immediately ran to the kitchen and grabbed a cookie while Dad rounded to the couch. Dexter avoided making eye contact with him.
Doris stood and kissed Harry on the cheek and whispered something in his ear. Dexter assumed she was telling him about the fight, as Harry frowned.
“Will Barnes pantsed me in front of everyone,” the boy explained, “he’s always doing stuff like that. He still won’t give back my trapper keeper.” Dexter had saved up his allowance for eight months to get that; he suspected that Dad didn’t believe it had been stolen.
“Biting is unacceptable, Dex. You know that.”
Dexter huffed, knowing they would have a lengthy discussion about controlling his urges later.
Doris chimed in, “I don’t agree with Dexter’s exact reaction, but that Barnes kid needed some pushback. He’s been tormenting the other kids for years. Dexter was just defending himself.” She sat back down and wrapped an arm around her son. “He’s a good boy.”
Harry flinched when she said that, but said nothing.
“We made cookies.” Dexter told Harry.
The man looked over his shoulder to the kitchen, where Debbie was on her third cookie, chocolate neared around her mouth. Harry smiled, then looked back at Dexter. “Do you feel better?” It was a vague enough question, but Dexter knew what he was really asking.
“Yeah,” he answered truthfully.
Harry nodded. “Good.”