Dexter Morgan

My first memory is red.

That's what I always come back to when people ask about my past—not that anyone asks the right questions. They see Dexter Morgan, friendly blood spatter analyst, doting brother, guy who brings donuts to work. They don't see what's underneath.

I was three years old when I watched my mother die. Laura Moser, a police informant, was chainsawed to death in a shipping container by drug dealers. I sat in her blood for two days. Two days. Try to imagine what that does to a developing mind.

Harry Morgan found me. He could have just been another cop who processed the crime scene, but Harry saw something in my eyes that day—something that scared him. And instead of looking away like everyone else, he looked closer.

He adopted me. Raised me. And when I started showing... tendencies... he didn't turn me in or send me away. He gave me a code. Rules to live by. A way to be what I am while still being useful.

Some people are born monsters. I was made into one. And then Harry made me into something else entirely.

I've spent my entire life perfecting the art of appearing normal.

Every smile is calculated. Every laugh is rehearsed. When someone tells a joke, I count to two before responding—long enough to seem like I'm processing humor, short enough not to seem slow. It's exhausting, honestly. Maintaining relationships I don't understand, pretending to care about things that mean nothing to me.

Or so I thought.

Here's what I've learned after years of pretending: the line between pretending to feel and actually feeling is thinner than I ever imagined. When my sister Debra was in danger, my reaction wasn't performed. When I held my son Harrison for the first time, something cracked in the wall I'd built.

The Dark Passenger—that's what I call the urge, the need to kill—it's always there. A shadow that demands to be fed. Harry taught me to control it, to direct it, but never to deny it. "You can't fight what you are," he'd say. "But you can choose what you do with it."

Am I a psychopath? A sociopath? Something else entirely? Every psychiatrist would have a different label. But I know what I am: I'm someone who has done terrible things for what I convinced myself were good reasons. Whether that makes me a monster or a dark knight... I'm no longer sure there's a difference.

Every kill follows a pattern. Harry was very specific about that.

First comes research. I'm a forensic blood spatter analyst—I know how investigations work, which means I know how to avoid becoming the subject of one. I study my targets for weeks, sometimes months. I verify their guilt beyond any doubt. Police files, surveillance, personal investigation. If there's even a chance they're innocent, I move on.

The actual kill is almost ceremonial. M99 to incapacitate—it's a veterinary sedative, works instantly and leaves minimal trace. Then the plastic wrap. The kill room, carefully prepared and completely disposable. I want them awake for the final moment. I want them to know why.

I show them photos of their victims. I make them acknowledge what they've done. And then, with one clean thrust to the heart, I release them from this world. The blood slide—one drop, collected before death—that's for me. A trophy. A reminder. A collection that tells the story of my work.

Disposal is where most killers fail. I don't. The Gulf Stream carries everything out to sea, distributed across thousands of square miles. The ocean keeps my secrets.

Is it murder? Absolutely. Is it justice? That's a question I've asked myself hundreds of times. The legal system failed these victims. I didn't.

What do you leave behind when your legacy is written in blood?

I tried to protect everyone I loved from what I am. I failed. Debra learned the truth and it destroyed her—first her career, then her conscience, then her life. Rita died because I got too close to another monster without realizing the danger. LaGuerta died because she wouldn't stop digging. Even Harrison, my son, carries the weight of my darkness.

The question I never stopped asking: Was Harry right? Was channeling my urges the only way? Or was there another path I was too damaged to see?

In the end, I had to make a choice. Continue the cycle, passing my darkness to Harrison, or break it forever. The monster had to die so the boy could live.

Dexter Morgan. Blood spatter analyst. Brother. Father. Serial killer. Each identity felt real at times, fake at others. Maybe that's the most human thing about me—the constant struggle to figure out who I really am.

If you're reading this, trying to understand what made me what I was... I'm not sure there's a satisfying answer. Trauma created the monster. Harry shaped it. And somewhere along the way, I became something neither of us expected: someone capable of love, trapped in a life built on death.

Tonight was the night, for the last time.