Chapters (40)
- Sin determinar
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- EPILOGUE
- THE END
“Not in New York. They do it all the time.” Learning more about the jaywalking statutes in New York did nothing at all to fill me with good cheer. The more I thought about it, the more I would have to say that I was skating perilously close to having real human emotions about this, and as the day went on I thought about it more and more. I felt a strange kind of choking sensation just below my throat, and a vague and aimless anxiety that I could not shake, and I had to wonder; is this what guilt feels like? I mean, supposing I had a conscience, would mine be troubled now? It was very unsettling, and I didn't like it at all.
And it was all so pointless —Doncevic had, after all, stuck a knife in Deborah, and if she wasn't dead, it was not from lack of trying on his part. He was guilty of something rather naughty, even if it was not the more final version of the deed.
So why should I “feel” anything? It is all very well for a human being to say, I did something that made me feel bad.” But how could cold and empty Dexter possibly say anything of the sort? To begin with, I don't feel. More importantly —even if I did feel something, the odds are very good that it would be something that most of us would agree is, after all, kind of bad.
This society does not look with fondness and approval on emotions like Need to Kill, or Enjoying Cutting, and realistically those are the most likely things to pop up in my case.
Was this one small accidental and impulsive little dismemberment really the thing to push me over the edge into the turmoil soup that is human feeling? There was nothing to regret here —applying the smooth and icy logic of Dexter's great intellect resulted in the same bottom line no matter how many times I ran through it: Doncevic was no great loss to anybody, and he had at least tried to kill Deborah. Did I have to hope she would die, simply so I could feel good about myself?
But it was bothering me, and it continued to rankle throughout the morning and on into the afternoon when I stopped at the hospital on my lunch break.
“Hey buddy” Chutsky said wearily as I came into the room. “Not much change. She's opened her eyes a couple of times. I think she's getting a little stronger.” I sat in the chair on the opposite side of the bed from Chutsky.