Concept: Patrick Bateman with a lover that’s debatable worse than he is depending how you look at it,,, #needthat
Warnings: Murder, drug usage (mentioned), dehumanization of prostitutes, intentionally vague series of events, mutual toxicity, manipulation.
Author’s Note: didn’t proofread this,, sorry,, also alot of this is up to interpretation, especially deciding that actually happened that night.
!! Person in the border isn’t the reader!! Just the vibe the reader has.
“Pat, baby,” someone had repeated— maybe for the fifth time. He wasn’t listening. Because just now, blood splashed onto his expensive Rolex watch. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t much, nor did it matter that he could—hypothetically— wipe it away with even the cheapest napkin.
It was about the control. This worn-out whore, from what he could recall, had not only kicked and squealed like a farm pig; but had the gall to die in such a filthy way that he had to go out of his way to undo her mistakes. Maybe this whole thing was a mistake, really. He didn’t need another woman tonight. He really, really didn’t. But God, was he bored. He was bored, the cocaine was fresh, and every women looked like Marilyn Monroe if he squinted hard enough. It wasn’t worth it. Now he’s dirty, he’s dirty and his Rolex is worthless and nothing is going how it should tonight.
“Patrick.” The voice repeated, quietly stern.
His eyes flick upwards, now processing both your eyes stabbing into his and your hand caressing his left cheek. You’re both on the ground— when did you move the body?— and you’re both soaked in crimson. When did you get here? He never told you he was here, did he? Swallowing, he shakily nodded his head to show you, show himself, that he was here. Something as meaningless as some prostitute wasn’t going to throw him off.
Words escaped him before he could explain himself. He could try, but he’d sound like some blubbering idiot infront of you. This day— one of the worst days of his life— didn’t need that. Not from you. So, to make up for his silence, he nodded his head again.
“Feel better baby?” You cooed, your touch as you wipe evidence off of him so warm it’s almost scorching. “Oh, you don’t even remember, do you?”
Squinting his eyes, he almost scoffs in amusement. Don’t remember? What do you take him for? Some senile loser ridden with Dementia, pumped full of meds to keep his head on straight?
“Of course I remember,” he spat, trying to ignore how shaky his voice sounded. He needed to get. it. together. “I didn’t invite you here— why are you here?”
Where was he? Looking around, he’s met with unfamiliar colored walls— nothing like the prestige he’s used to. The wallpaper was a mahogany brown, rather than his crisp white. Furniture was a completely different brand— nothing to mention the lights above were utterly asymmetrical. This couldn’t be home. Why would he invite a whore to a house that isn’t even his?
“We’re in my apartment, Pat.” You finished for him, slowly standing and leaving him on his knees. Your hands, having been clothed in gloves— why didn’t he think of that— flex before going still as you headed toward the kitchen. Your kitchen. “She spiked your drink. Drugged you. You showed up here with her corpse.”
..What?
“Honestly I was shocked that no one had seen you on your way. You’re incredible, baby.”
Ignoring the rising heat in his cheeks, he shot up— knocking that lackluster glass of water you thought to bring him onto the ground. He didn’t tense as it shattered, and neither did you. The confrontation morphed into a silent war. Both of you kept your eyes on one another, his a glare— yours a reflection. You break it first, holding back an eyeroll as you crossed your arms.
Patrick took that as a sign to begin. “You have no idea what you’re talking about! You think you can sit there and pamper me like some child? I—I can kill you!”
His words were broken by a laugh, hands making a vague choking gesture as he paced. For someone who had just come back to reality, his eccentric behavior knew no bounds.
“I’ve thought about it.” The man cut in, even in his own rant, his pointer finger glaring at you. “Everytime you’d open that damn mouth of yours, I’d scope out the closest pencil and hold back on dragging your tongue out with its led. But I haven’t.”
A smile cracks onto his lips, lopsided and— from anyone else’s perspective but his own— utterly pathetic. But even the most pathetic of predators still hunt, and he slowly inched toward you; only stopping when both of you were pressed back against your mahogany brown wall.
“But just because I haven’t yet,” he began, voice lowering enough octaves to lure you into some false sense of security, “doesn’t mean I won’t cut my losses if you open that mouth up again to anyone else.”
In response, he feels your eyes trail up his body. From his blood-soaked hands to the anxious bobbing of his Adams Apple, all the way to the shake in his pupils. You weren’t scared, but you weren’t too pleased, either. You hated it when he got like this. All loud and desperate for someone, anyone, to tell him that it made him strong. Amusing, for awhile. Annoying, after a couple of weeks.
You could fix that, though.
“And do what?” You whispered in return, following his gaze with your head as he backed away step-by-step. “Go back to that job of yours like normal? Have your good friends pick and prod at you every step of the way? When’s the last time any of them have given you a sparing glance, huh?”
He tenses. “How could you know about my relationships? I’ve never told you about them.”
Just as quick, almost rehearsed, you counter. “I didn’t need you to. They treat you like a mutt, they parade you around laugh when you do those stupid tricks of yours.”
Hand met hair as he brushed back the hair that sweat seemed to have glued to his skin. Something built in his throat. Shame? All to familiar, that agonizing sensation as he realized that you might be right. His mind was splitting in two, especially since now he couldn’t even confidently say he could recall what happened tonight. As you kept talking, his mind went over it. Again and again.
“They’ll tell you that you’re hilarious, and mock your attempts at humor,”
He went out with some friends. A party.
“They’ll tell you that your fashion sense is to die for, then they’d turn and ridicule the brand,”
Paul Allen brought cocaine. He snorted the cocaine. Everything felt wrong.
“They’ll tell you, over and over again, that you’re the best. That you deserve that promotion, that you’ve earned it,”
Paul Allen laced the cocaine, didn’t he? Or— or maybe he got a botched supply. But he remembers the world spinning. Not quite an overdose. Paul Allen was gone. The party blazed. Loud, overwhelming— he was alone. His friends.. Atleast that’s what he thought, had left him.
Where did the prostitute come from?
“And they’ll mock you Patrick. Like they always do. Right at Dorsia. You know that’s where they went, right? After the party?”
His head is pounding now, nothing was adding up.
“I didn’t see a prostitute tonight.” Patrick affirmed, as if trying to convince himself. “Why—why did you say that— what is happening to me?”
This wasn’t normal. He didn’t just forget things. That’s not the kind of man Patrick was. If he was one to forget, what separated him from those schizophrenic nutjobs who filled up the asylums? The rancid bums on the streets? Working the streets? Some fancy tuxedo and unappreciated business card? This couldn’t be happening.
Coming off the way, you softened. Gently, you pressed his head to your chest. “Shh, shh. It’s alright. I’m sorry, baby. You’ve been through a lot tonight.”
Despite himself, he relaxed. The racing in his mind paused as he allowed himself to let it go. Slower, and slower, until everything felt like it wasn’t going to break and shatter.
“She must’ve gotten you with something strong.. you did the right thing in killing her.”
If you were right about anything, it was that. Today has been nothing more than a catastrophe every step of the way. He needed this.
“Mm.” Patrick hummed, squeezing his eyes shut.
And as you stroked his hair, your eyes floated to the mess around you. Broken glass, blood, that thing dead on the floor, not even taking into account the surprise you have in the bathroom. It was a headache to even think about.
But he was asleep. Gentle, benevolent, and as adorable as ever. Your baby hadn’t suspected a thing. You weren’t proud of what you needed to do, but you were proud of the results. He was safe and yours— you’ve got the feeling he won’t be looking at those kinds of women for a long time because of tonight. That’s okay, though. You fixed it. Just like you knew you could.
Now all you had to do was get him to quit that job of his.
