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“Dex, why don’t you ever smile?” Deb inquires while sprawled across the couch, her territory during the evenings since she had moved in. Like I have my rituals, she has her own—namely, watching TV past midnight. It’s something Harry used to let slide because of his late shifts, and she’s continued it all these years later. Staying awake past curfew is the most innocent a person can do at this hour, compared to backyard deals and lousy hookups. And homicide.
“I smile, see?” I reply with bared teeth. My flesh feels unnecessarily stretched, but I imagine my teeth gleaming, wide-spread, and happy. Deb disagrees, indicated by her disgusted face, as I hand her a beer and sit down next to her. Other than the smile I just gave her, it’s true—I do smile. In each appropriate situation, I smile. I always make sure I do. There’s something in a pleasant face that humans find comforting, I’ve observed, but Harry was the one to teach me how to smile. If you show too much tooth and gum, it’s a snarl. If your lips have a gentle curve, it’s an expression of happiness. But it’s not the muscles that differentiate threat from reassurance. It’s the eyes and the intensity, how you can tell a murderous intent from a friendly one.
Deb grabs the beer from my hand and readjusts on the couch to face me properly. “That’s not a smile. And it’s creepy as fuck. You look like one of those psychos getting a mugshot taken.”
Maybe my eyes are too serious, or maybe they’re empty. There’s a faraway, boorish look in criminals’ eyes, like they have cataracts, when the camera flashes. They don’t ask to have their picture taken, so I don’t blame them. I do blame them for getting caught, though. Something that will never happen to me; Harry made sure of that, with his teachings. One of Harry’s teachings in ‘How to Human’ is smiling, and another is holding conversation. It’s a useful skill to practice, so I continue talking. “Why do I have to smile, anyway? It’s stupid,” I say. One point of honesty I can offer, Dark Passenger and all.
“It shows you’re happy. And it’s normal. N-O-R-M-A-L,” she rebukes, scowling eyes pinned on mine.
I sink into the couch cushion to avoid her scrutiny. I turn up the TV volume to drown my inner voices, and for a while, it works. Deb and I sit in silence, until she changes the channel.
Deb is sick of the movie—sick of boys—she says, as she removes the ring that Brian gifted her. My eyes catch on the sparkle as she takes it off. My brother. After Deb had moved in, I had queried why she still wore it. Obviously there is still some part of human nature I don't understand, because she proceeded not to speak to me for a week. She’s finally removed it though, her way of breaking free i suppose. Although i would of thought that something so ‘momentous’ would occur somewhere apart from on my couch in my lousy apartment. The action makes me feel.. Well, I don't feel anything, but the thought of Brian, my brother , stirs something in me.
I shake the thoughts of The Ice Truck Killer away as she flips through stations and finally stops. What’s on fixates me—a knife, glinting in the lamplight, arcs downwards and plunges into the prey’s chest… no blood is on screen, but I can imagine it spurting like a spout. I can feel the trimmer of the blade’s hilt as the prey spasms, and I can feel how the knife stills when the prey is dead. I see Deb, but I don’t hear what she’s saying; I can only feel the need and darkness as it swarms my senses. I think about what it would be like to puncture her chest, to feel the metal sink through muscle and into her aorta, but then I think of the fear and betrayal in her eyes, and the tears that asked why. The conflicting image is enough for me to discern her words.
“Hey numbskull. You finally paying attention?” Deb snapped, exasperated.
“Uh, yeah,” I say, repressing the image of her flowing blood. Maybe she would like to be strangled instead; it’s more kind, I think, than a knife—no, no. I can’t think of these things. The greatest threat to her is me, but I am still her protector. To damage her would be against natural code.
“You looked so out of it, dude,” Deb huffs with a relieved laugh and a quirked grin. “Where the fuck were you Dex?”
I focus on what’s in front of me: Deb, unharmed, smiling her dimpled smile, and showing the softness beneath her rough edges. She’s concerned for me, I can tell. I breathe in, then out, and flex my hands. This is a perfect moment to practice control, to continue Harry’s lessons. While I buckle the Dark Passenger in, I tell my sister, “I was just thinking. You said smiling shows I’m happy. If you say I never smile, doesn’t that mean I’m never happy?”
“What? No. You’re happy here, with me.” Her eyes are resolute, and I wonder how, with pupils as dark as mine, they can reveal the depth of emotion she feels. If I felt anything, maybe my eyes would be like hers; maybe my smile would be like hers.
“Then there’s a fault in Deb logic.”
My sister growls and chucks a pillow at my face, which I guard with raised arms. “The only fault is in your pea-brain head.”
If I think about Deb dying by me now, no image surfaces, no promise of release tickles my nerve. The Dark Passenger is quieted, and I grin. “So… I don’t have to smile?”
“You don’t have to smile all the time, but more often would be nice. You have a good smile, when it’s real. Like the one you have now.”
“Okay,” I said, and we both turned back to the screen. It was the murdered man’s funeral; people cried, and then began discussing the goodness in his life. This part bores me, and my beer is finished so we rise from the couch and say goodnight. I watch her close her bedroom door, before I go to mine.
With my head against my pillow, I think as I drift to sleep. This time it’s not of killing, like it usually is. I don’t really know how Deb knows what’s real and what isn’t with me, to the extent that she can, but I think it’s nice she knows parts of me I don’t.