A/N :I was watching a video about Dexter and I starting thinking about the idea of the artist's muse and obsession. This came out. I hope everyone enjoys it. The characters of Dexter Morgan and Lila West belong to Showtime. No copyright infringement intended.


"The artist longs to be consumed. By muse, by love by sweet slow death oblivion is their natural state."

She knows he exists. And because he is there, a shadow at the corner of her mind everything else seems to leave, to melt away.

She draws him, her Death with his red hair and his boy-next-door smile. Over and over and over again as if by drawing him she could somehow make him materialize.

Sitting now across from the woman who thinks she knows her. Thinks she knows what's wrong in the black of her mind. This woman speaks her name, her lips move but for all Lila hears she might as well be underwater.

Entering into the house, this woman used to troubled homes and troubled children, falters. There is something more in this place a current of dark water that tugs and pulls like a lover's irresistible embrace.

She finds the teen on the floor, a large sheet of paper spread out before her. She is drawing something big something impressive.

The therapist kneels down. "Miss West? What are you doing?"

The young woman looks up and for an instant like a drowning man swimming against the current, the therapist knows she cannot save this child.


"What are you drawing?"

The girl moves back in answer unveiling her masterpiece from beneath her body as though it is a favored pet.

A woman lying on a couch, her body rigid, paralyzed. She was half wrapped in something, a kind of blanket, a man with curly red hair and an open but somehow devious face was bending low over her. He wore gloves and there were weapons at his side. The pose is intimate, it speaks of sexual relations between the two but also something more. For a moment the therapist can't find the man's right hand. Then she sees it, sliding a knife into the woman, just above her breast bone, piercing her heart. The blood is already spreading a thin crimson river up the woman's breasts as though defying gravity.

For a moment the therapist cannot speak. Through the other woman's cold and spreading sense of fear , the girl moves her aside taking possession of the drawing. She bends low to the man's penciled lips and whispers "where are you?"

Another occasion:

Why do you draw that man Lila? Who is he?'

He's death

Who's death?

My death.

This she knows. Death has deep reddish hair. Death likes to be cradled like a child, and Death has the soul that matches with her own two puzzle pieces inter locking. Despite the insults the shoves the savage eyes the whispered threats she knows death loves her too.

"You're emotionally colorblind"

It isn't true you know. She isn't. Everything about her Death, her muse is in vivid shinning color, brighter then any paint she could ever buy or create.

The deep purple bruise that is desire made flesh, not just the frantic mingling of bodies though that is part of our bond but the bruise that stretches out across a room that need to be with him kindred soul meeting and melding, dancing colorblind.

"I couldn't possibly feel that need"

oh yes I can. The slow peach burn of melancholy when he's away from her the multicolored flame of anger against those he holds most dear. Because they all hate her of course. She knows this.

"Gross titty vampire"

And of course because she knows who he is the electric green tingle of anticipation the darkness pushing pushing pushing against his "good man" façade. She sees the darkness dancing behind his eyes dancing blind.

And most important of all, there is the blue. Always the blue. Like she's inside a fish tank and can't get out, she floats suspended, trying to feel…

"You're colorblind"

"You're wrong"

Death pushes her away so forcefully but with him around him beside him she feels the glow the glow that only comes from flame from the singing seduction of art, that glow is there. And it stays with her in an ember within and the more she is with him the larger it grows.

She knows what he is here for, in her shadowy apartment. Body goes limp but mind stays active. She saw it in her dreams, she drew it a hundred times but she is still afraid.

There's a kind of peace in annihilation, she said. A peace in fulfilling my destiny.

For I am the creator and I am the destroyer and I have been searching for him all my life, my handsome Death the beauty that will end my life.

Lay me back oh so gently on clear crackling plastic and I will look up at you, that face that I drew for so long has finally come for me. And it feels like a romance, like a cliché,

Lay me down gently my Death for I am paralyzed with love.