Warning: This isn’t like my usual imagines. This imagine is based off of the novel ‘American Psycho’ by Brett Easton Ellis, and if you’ve read or heard of it, you’ll know it’s very controversial. I tried to keep it mild because, obviously, no one asked for this and it’s not everyone’s cup of tea. However, I know some people may be quick to get judgemental. This isn’t supposed to offend, scare, mock or anything of the sort, it’s merely a piece of fiction inspired by another. With that, please be aware but also, enjoy it.
PS. If you don’t like it or are offended or whatever, don’t come at me; I warned you and you carried on reading. Enjoy💗
She lays with her head on my lap, her hair sprawls out and contrasts with my washed out jeans. I feel dizzy but I keep my focus on her to steady myself, it only just works.
The TV plays across the room, meaning there’s no need for us to make any kind of conversation. It means I can sit and stroke her hair, feeling her shiver beneath me. It gives me great pleasure to feel her body jolt whenever my fingers touch her scalp.
Her feet twitch at the edge of the bed, she lets them sway gently and curls her toes every so often. It’s a sight I’m familiar with and I’m taken back to the previous week when I managed to make them curl in the exact same way by pounding her with no remorse, I remember having to hold back from ripping her to shreds from beneath me.
My eyes coming back into focus, I realise I’m not paying even the slightest bit of attention to the TV but rather thinking of all the ways I could use the new power drill I purchased last night. So far, I’ve thought of six.
I’m not sure what we’re watching, but it’s quiet and calm - although, in my head it’s a completely different story - and I’m happy to sit doing nothing besides watching the white walls of [Y/N]’s bedroom, thinking they’d look a lot more appealing if they were dripping red.
I’m guessing the movie is a slasher; the loud thuds of non-diegetic music as the poor, defenceless girl creeps cautiously around the conveniently destroyed and abandoned building pours through the speakers.
It all happens so fast, much to my disappointment. I’m suddenly paying attention and watching with bated breath. Does she die? How? Knife in the stomach? Decapitated? I hope [Y/N] doesn’t feel my body stiffen.
She jumps when the killer takes a stab, meanwhile, I clench my fists. The fake blood and the shrill sounds of screaming awakens something in me and I can feel a wave of heat wash over me.
I abandon [Y/N]’s hair in fear of grabbing it too hard and instead, place them at my sides. They turn white from being balled so tightly while the girl on the screen writhes on the floor pathetically. [Y/N] is watching behind her hands now.
She looks up at me and for that moment, the world seems okay. “How can you watch this so casually? Are you not scared?” she whines and I smile.
I think about all the things I could tell her, about what I’ve seen, heard, done, and immediately decide against it; it’s selfish but I refuse to let her leave.
“It’s all fake, and not to mention, inaccurate. It’d take her a lot longer than that to die by a couple of mediocre stabs to the neck, and the blood is clearly paint. Blood’s thick, but not that thick,“ I say and think back to the night I fell deep - deeper than usual - into my typical spiral and ended up in my neighbour’s kitchen, drinking the blood from his neck after having used my - at the time - brand new pocket knife. It was bitter and left an unusual aftertaste but the kill was satisfactory.
“I know that,” she rolls her eyes, although I know she probably didn’t know. “But it’s still scary, the thought of it, you know?”
It’s humorous to me that she’s frightened by child’s play; whoever created, directed, produced and even starred in this sad excuse for a horror movie had clearly never slashed open a man’s stomach and scooped his insides out; they went about portraying it all wrong. Despite this, it’s sending my bloodlust into a frenzy and I’m thinking about asking her if I can borrow it sometime.
“The thought of what?” I ask, interested.
“Just.. murder. Killing someone. Having so much blood on your hands. I could never do it, I care too much.” She seems to go into some sort of mini trance and I grin, wondering what beautifully tragic images are going through her mind. I wish I could play with her brain and see what she’s seeing.
That’s why I love her - I think I do, I can’t really feel much, but I think I’m as close to being in love as I’ll ever be - she’s kind and delusional and thinks people are good. She’s innocent and pure and I sometimes struggle to keep it that way - sometimes my mind’s foggy and I have to leave before I ruin her.
“That’s because you’re angel,” I mutter and I can see her shy away, making me grin. I run my fingers along the side of her face and I catch sight of dry blood under my fingernails from last night, I make a mental note to wash my hands again.
“You are, too,” she replies and I try to stop myself from cackling. I think she notices because she frowns. “You’re too good for this world.. too good for me.”
She’s delusional, all right. She says I’m too for this world but I’m not ‘too good’ for anything, I’m not even ‘good’. I feel moved by her failure to see through my heavy guard.
“What if I told you that just last night, I had a girl’s head on my coffee table while her headless body lay limp in the kitchen? Would your opinion change?” I smirk and her eyes widen.
“Don’t even joke about that!” she slapped my chest with the back of her hand. She wasn’t scared, or even paying attention to the movie anymore. “You’ve got a sick sense of humour, Justin, you know that?”
“I do, indeed.” But my sense of humour actually feeds on puns and knock-knock jokes, the girl’s head was still on the coffee table as I left for work this morning and, unless it grew legs and took off, was probably still there now. The body is currently on its way to London, Tokyo, Canada, Switzerland, and many other places across the globe, in tiny pieces.
“I love you,” she says, looking at me with a strong look in her eyes that told me she meant it. I’m sure my heart would’ve began to beat rapidly if that kind of thing was what kick started it, and I suppose, if it functioned properly.
“I love you too,” I trace her eyebrows with my finger, doing the same with her eyes, nose and lips - they’re wet under my finger and I lick my own involuntarily.
I often think about the ‘L’ word. It’s supposedly powerful although I’ve never seen the hype. So what if your boyfriend doesn’t love you back? So what if your mom has never said she loves you? Fuck them. And no one really cares how much you love your new Summer dress or how in love you are with your boyfriend or girlfriend. Love is helpless and hopeless, it’s nothing important, really.
Actions speak louder than words, which is why I prefer to kill the people who arise the anger in me; it’s like saying 'you’re an annoying bastard’ without actually having to open your mouth.
“I’ve missed half the movie now,” she mutters before shifting her gaze from me to the TV that shows a sobbing man on his knees, a high camera angle has been used, probably to portray his weakness. He’ll probably be dead in the next few minutes and I watched silently.
I’m right. The killer returns once more and takes their time raising the knife to stab the man in the chest. Lust seeps into every inch of my body and I remind myself of rain against the windows and expensive ice cream and hot food in Winter afternoons, just to distract myself from the fog clouding my mind.
Sweat forms at my hairline and I find myself growling quietly. Thankfully, it doesn’t draw any attention, even when I begin to shake lightly, she doesn’t notice. I force myself to take deep breaths but I know from past experiences that it does nothing.
My heart is thumping in my chest and I know I have to excuse myself before I explode and grab the small but sharp knife in my coat pocket.
“Baby, I’m just gonna go get a drink. You.. want anything? Water? Coke? A glass of blood?” I grin and she rolls her eyes. I try not to focus on the one drop of sweat that strokes my skin.
“Tempting, I must say,” she jokes, and I immediately have vivid images of her soaked in blood, although not her own of course, and I sigh. “Water, please.”
I nod and make my way out of her bedroom, trailing my fingertips along the wall before jogging down the stairs. It’s dark downstairs but the lamp in the corner gives it a yellow tinge.
I hum the theme of Halloween as I reach the kitchen. The room comes to life when I flip the switch and I make my way to the top cupboard. Almost taking the door off its hinges, I grab the open bottle of Vodka from the darkness of the shelf, I only know that because I opened it a few nights ago.
I down it without remorse, feeling it burn and take away the bad in my brain. I had two choices; I could down the rest of this and return upstairs, I’d probably be able to last without spiralling until I left if I made some excuse as to why I can’t stay over tonight. Or I could leave now and find the next breathing thing to take home and satisfy my terrible desires.
As I fight with my own mind, I chug the vodka without having to tell myself to and it’s as though I’ve already decided what I’m going to do. Once only a quarter of the bottle is left I put it back and feel like brand new. I’m able to make my way, slowly, back up to her room.
She’s laid as she was when I left. Her hands rest, clasped together, on her stomach while her boobs curve out in a way that compliments her greatly.
I smile as I sit down back where I was, she lifts her head so she can rest it in my lap again. She’s looking up at me expectantly and I frown.
“Water?” she asks carefully. Her fingers tap together on her stomach and I notice her nails are polished and gleaming, unlike mine.
That’s when I realise I was focused so much on creating a buzz in my mind that I forgot to bring her water. I cursed myself mentally.
“Oh.. I, uh, I.. forgot.”
She chuckles and take my hand in hers. “You do that a lot,” she says and I realise I do. Although I’m pretty good at remembering how many stab wounds I gave that man in New York last year, and how many screams left the other man’s mouth while the chainsaw pierced his skin, I wonder how I’d forgotten her water.
“My apologies, I’ll go get you it.” I’m ready to stand but she doesn’t move her head. I don’t want to have to move it myself in case a rush washes over me and I end up snapping her neck.
“No, it’s okay. Stay.” I can see her cheek being attacked from the inside by her teeth and I watch it happen, wanting to be the one biting her.
“As you wish,” I grin but I know she shouldn’t want me around, it’s one of the many moments I’m with her where I think of breaking it off. She can’t want me, at least she shouldn’t.
But I’m thirsty for her, and even though I have to be cautious and work around the late hours of my bloodlust, I want her, more than I’ve ever wanted anything - the liberating feeling of pushing a knife through the surface of the human skin, the sound of women’s screams, the drugs, the alcohol, the taste of skin in my teeth, I want her more than any of that and I know I’m capable of keeping her with me forever.
janainaart
stormborns
yousharknotpass
turnnoffyourmind
jbbartram-illu
