A/N: There are so many layers to what Deb is going through I just felt compelled to write this dark, somewhat abstract, piece in order to concisely express what I could.

Takes place the last night they both get a 'decent' sleep before Dexter moves out of Deb's place.

...

...

I can't fucking breathe.

I can't.

The plastic wouldn't give. Nothing more than an inch. No. Not even an inch. Wrapped tight around her, squeezing against her ribcage, it creaked and squeaked every time she moved – tried to move- , every time she breathed –tried to breathe-, she couldn't think.

Couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn't breathe. She did what she could. She opened and closed her eyes. That was all she could do, but she was too fucking scared to stop looking. She had to see everything. If she stopped looking she would lose everything. All there was was the light and the darkness around it.

Black and white. No gray. Shame ran through her.

One light was hanging over her, blinding her. She knew where she was. Everything was blurry, but she knew it wasn't the light doing that, she tried to choke back that blurriness. Fuck, she couldn't. Too weak.

She couldn't hear anything, but something in her head sounded tinny – like metal. And then that voice.

"I can't. Not Deb."

That voice. Weak and strong. She's heard it all her life. She wanted to scream. She wanted to run. She wanted to claw her way out of her transparent – invisible- prison wrapping her down to the table keeping her in place and ready for his knife. She wanted to kick and yell and bite for freedom. She wanted his arms around her and cuffed. Instead, she couldn't breathe. Couldn't move.

She did what she could: closed her eyes and opened them.

Her eyes opened and she was in her bed. Her bed back at home – home with Mom and Dad. Plastic still covered every inch of her, except her eyes. He was with her. Young and happy. But not happy. He wasn't that boy anymore – he was never that boy. That was a lie. She didn't want to think about it.

She did what she could.

Same house. His room. She was on the floor. She had had a bad dream. She had snuck in. He didn't know she was there but she knew he was and that was enough. But it really wasn't. Not anymore. She knew everything, but he didn't know anything. She couldn't breathe, but she could hear him breathing in his bed – nice, slow, sleeping, guiltless, breaths – jealousy ran through her.
She wouldn't breathe.

But she did what she could.

Her bed. Plastic still paralyzing her. She's only a couple years younger. Rudy's face is smiling down at her exactly how he used to. She wants to scream. She wants to reach for her gun. Squeeze the trigger. She couldn't. She hears the bang, though. A phantom pain in her side comes back. She would scream if she could breathe when she sees the blood pooling widely under her plastic. Her plastic. Rudy's smile never changes.

Not until she does what she could.

Still in that bed. But his smile, his face, his body, is replaced by his brother's: her brother's. Her plastic is gone, but the fear and shame crush her – pin her down.

She couldn't breathe. She couldn't move. But she didn't blink.

Not until the blood which had pooled around her wound turned black and covered her hands could she move them – could she touch him. Black fucking blood. Only then was she immune to him – only then could she see the black become gray in how it would smear across his skin wherever she touched him. Wherever he touched her it was the same. She knew it would stain – it would never wash off. She couldn't stop.

"Now you see…. Everything isn't always so black and white."

He smiled down at her.

The fear wasn't enough to wake her up until she felt herself smile back at him.

…

Now awake, on her couch, she didn't move. Her body felt too heavy. Her breath was shallower than an inch's worth. She could feel him in the next room, she could almost hear him breathing – so slowly, so deeply.

She matched her breaths to his; feeling better for it.

She did what she could.