Fic: American Psycho
To replace my massive lack of writing, I post something that I made in my Creative Writing class and am proud of. I still have another prompt due tomorrow and haven't even started. The prompt for this one -although I had already made up my mind about the plot- was American.
Title: Sincerely
Characters: Patrick Bateman
Rating: R
Word count: 660
Notes: I had no idea why I felt drawn to write this but the course has been very helpful -until now. I'm still blocked :(
Give me prompts.
I’m in a meeting. I’ve been trying to avoid Evelyn’s calls for the last two nights but I know she won’t stop and she will eventually get to me. I might have to come to the conclusion of killing her.
I sit with Bryce and Van Patten. I’ve only learned their names for the importance of the company and its wellbeing. We’re discussing about taxes not fulfilling our needs of equality. We move to a more relevant subject; what style on ties looks better and gives more of a high class feel: plain, stripes, or paisley.
Truthfully, I don’t care. I’m doing the best I can to blend in but it doesn’t excite me. They are all empty, inside. I wonder what would happen if I told them what I am. I am just a shell of a human being. I try to light up the mood with a Dahmer joke. Even though I laugh through my mask of vanity that I have perfected specifically for this life, no one laughs with me.
They chat about the relief of Paul not being there. I tell them I’ve heard him go on a permanent business trip. People should know what really happened and that I was simply doing him a favor. He doesn’t have to live in this desperate, straining, corrupt of a society anymore.
Jean brings in the coffee.
I know that later on I will have to take her life. She is just doing her job, I’ve realized that. Unlike the sick, unappreciative people who have no idea how hard it is to choose between Armani Vintage and Couture, I think that she has a heart. A real heart. Jean always brings me coffee that is near perfect both in texture and aroma. That fact does not remove my annoyance with the sound of her moccasins against my office floor or her never-ending wardrobe of unsexy clothing. And the insecure way she portrays herself whenever she opens the door and has some disappointingly work-related meeting appointments to tell me.
She seems somewhat attracted to me - or maybe it is my instinct telling me she’s next in line. No one has noticed Paul is missing. I must have covered the trails nicely.
The next evening Evelyn calls me. I tell her I don’t feel anything, there’s nothing more to say, and I tell her to shut up. I’m boiling inside and all I can think about is what her brain tastes better as; cooked or grilled.
I invite Jean to dinner and pretend that it’s as simple as a phone call to order a table at Dorsia, but hope that we never get to that point. I smile at her to make her believe I am genuinely interested in her. I have to get my fix. I bring her into my home; maybe she will feel my pain. I want her blood spattered across my living room as if only then she would know my misery and become a part of my ever-growing hunger of understanding the psyche of these naive, goalless people surrounding me.
As I put the nail gun to her head and I tell her I seek for a meaningful relationship with someone special, Jean hums in some sort of way that would describe fulfillment, content, perhaps relaxation. It confuses me, and I have to lower the gun as I realize she deserves more. She deserves more than the nail through her skull and her pretty face. Even though she never wears the “Fuschia Rose” I like, it’s not her time.
I tell her kindly to leave. That must be the first time I have been able to control myself.
I order takeout. I have some steak for dinner.
Title: Sincerely
Characters: Patrick Bateman
Rating: R
Word count: 660
Notes: I had no idea why I felt drawn to write this but the course has been very helpful -until now. I'm still blocked :(
Give me prompts.
I’m in a meeting. I’ve been trying to avoid Evelyn’s calls for the last two nights but I know she won’t stop and she will eventually get to me. I might have to come to the conclusion of killing her.
I sit with Bryce and Van Patten. I’ve only learned their names for the importance of the company and its wellbeing. We’re discussing about taxes not fulfilling our needs of equality. We move to a more relevant subject; what style on ties looks better and gives more of a high class feel: plain, stripes, or paisley.
Truthfully, I don’t care. I’m doing the best I can to blend in but it doesn’t excite me. They are all empty, inside. I wonder what would happen if I told them what I am. I am just a shell of a human being. I try to light up the mood with a Dahmer joke. Even though I laugh through my mask of vanity that I have perfected specifically for this life, no one laughs with me.
They chat about the relief of Paul not being there. I tell them I’ve heard him go on a permanent business trip. People should know what really happened and that I was simply doing him a favor. He doesn’t have to live in this desperate, straining, corrupt of a society anymore.
Jean brings in the coffee.
I know that later on I will have to take her life. She is just doing her job, I’ve realized that. Unlike the sick, unappreciative people who have no idea how hard it is to choose between Armani Vintage and Couture, I think that she has a heart. A real heart. Jean always brings me coffee that is near perfect both in texture and aroma. That fact does not remove my annoyance with the sound of her moccasins against my office floor or her never-ending wardrobe of unsexy clothing. And the insecure way she portrays herself whenever she opens the door and has some disappointingly work-related meeting appointments to tell me.
She seems somewhat attracted to me - or maybe it is my instinct telling me she’s next in line. No one has noticed Paul is missing. I must have covered the trails nicely.
The next evening Evelyn calls me. I tell her I don’t feel anything, there’s nothing more to say, and I tell her to shut up. I’m boiling inside and all I can think about is what her brain tastes better as; cooked or grilled.
I invite Jean to dinner and pretend that it’s as simple as a phone call to order a table at Dorsia, but hope that we never get to that point. I smile at her to make her believe I am genuinely interested in her. I have to get my fix. I bring her into my home; maybe she will feel my pain. I want her blood spattered across my living room as if only then she would know my misery and become a part of my ever-growing hunger of understanding the psyche of these naive, goalless people surrounding me.
As I put the nail gun to her head and I tell her I seek for a meaningful relationship with someone special, Jean hums in some sort of way that would describe fulfillment, content, perhaps relaxation. It confuses me, and I have to lower the gun as I realize she deserves more. She deserves more than the nail through her skull and her pretty face. Even though she never wears the “Fuschia Rose” I like, it’s not her time.
I tell her kindly to leave. That must be the first time I have been able to control myself.
I order takeout. I have some steak for dinner.