1 Pilot

"Why'd you do that?" I asked, my voice low and urgent.

"Dex, be quiet. My father is outside. You have to leave right now," she whispered urgently, fear coating every syllable.

"That doesn't mean you had to spill water on me," I protested, my frustration evident.

"I had to," she said softly, her tone pleading. "You weren't waking up."

Just then, a knock on the door interrupted us. "Wake up, Jasmine. I need you downstairs," the commanding voice outside demanded.

"Oh my god, it's him," Jasmine whispered, her panic palpable.

"Who?" I asked, my heart racing in sync with hers.

"My father. Dex, you have to leave right now," she urged, her eyes wide with fear.

Another knock echoed through the room. "Jasmine, don't make me break this door down, young lady. Open it right now," the stern voice demanded once more.

"Oh shit," I muttered, urgency propelling me out of bed and towards the window. "I'm gonna jump off," I declared, my mind racing for a solution.

"But it's the third floor, you're gonna break a bone," Jasmine protested, her concern evident.

"He doesn't sound like he wants to talk. Plus I'll climb down," I reasoned hastily, desperation lacing my words.

"Dex, I don't think you should do that. I'll try to talk to my father," Jasmine pleaded, her voice trembling.

"Babe, I can't take that risk. Plus, I don't want you getting in trouble because of me," I said, reaching for her hands, seeking solace in her touch.

As I opened the window and peered down, fear coursed through my veins. "Babe, wait. Think about it first," Jasmine implored, her voice shaking.

"No, I have to," I insisted, determination fuelling my actions as I began to climb down.

Just then, the door slammed open. "Jasmine, what are you doing? Why's your window open?" her father's voice boomed, shattering the fragile calm.

"It was hot," she stammered, her voice betraying her panic.

"Why didn't you open the door when I asked you?" he demanded, his tone growing harsher.

"I was doing... girly things," she replied weakly, her excuse faltering.

"Close the window. It's cold in here; the air conditioner's on, and the air outside is gonna break the air conditioner," her father ordered, his authority unquestionable.

"Dad, in a minute. I'll close it in a minute," Jasmine responded, her attempts to stall evident.

"No, I want you to close it now," he insisted, his patience wearing thin as he moved closer to her.

As he reached for the window and looked down, he spotted me. "What the fuck are you doing on my window?" he bellowed, his anger palpable.

"Sir, it's not like that. I was looking for something," I stammered, my mind racing for an excuse, any excuse.

"You must think I'm stupid, huh? Wait here; I'm coming down there," he threatened, his words sending a chill down my spine.

In a moment of panic, I let go of the window and fell.

Suddenly, I woke up, my heart racing and body covered in sweat. "It was just a nightmare," I said to myself, relief flooding through me, if only momentarily.

Even in dreams—or should I say nightmares—something always went wrong in my life. My name is Dexter de Louis, though most people just call me Dex. I'm French, as you probably guessed from the name.

When I was just eleven years old, my heart suddenly stopped beating. The event was so unexpected and left me hovering between life and death. Unfortunately, my brain was starved of oxygen which led to me being brain dead. Despite this, my father who was obsessed with science refused to accept this.

He took it upon himself to experiment on my body, subjecting me to countless surgeries and procedures in a desperate attempt to bring me back to life. Against all odds, he succeeded, but I wasn't quite the same as the person who had died. A few months passed, and my father was the one in the grave. Sometimes, I feel like we switch places; for me to live, my father had to die.

I moved to America after my father's death to live with my aunt, on my father's side, in Louisville. To tell you the truth, I still haven't gotten used to it. I speak differently from everyone here. I'm quite jealous of the way they speak; they sound so comfortable while I have to force myself to speak normally.

Today is July 13, 2007, and it's my 16th birthday, which I hated, but my Aunt keeps pressuring me to have a party.