𝒹𝑜𝓁𝑜𝓇 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒹𝒾𝑜𝓇 .•* PATRICK BATEMAN

8. murders and executions

"Hey, Paul!" Patrick exclaimed, raising the axe straight above his head with a manic smile on his face.  Paul Allen barely had time to register what was about to happen to him before the blade split his face in two.

The experience couldn't have gone any more perfect, been any more elating than it already was.  Paul had been perfectly trusting of the alcohol he'd been offered, likely due to a slight previous intoxication, and had allowed himself to get comfortable in Patrick's living room despite the 'strange' decor.  Seeing the fear in his eyes before his inevitable demise was just the icing on the cake, filling Patrick's veins with pure euphoria.

The once handsome man became nothing more than a disfigured pile of flesh and blood.

"Try getting a reservation at Dorsia now, you stupid bastard!" he exclaimed, slamming the axe down again and again.  He took special care to aim one of his slashes at Paul's nether region, the attack entirely personal.   "Can't fuck your secretary if you're dead!"

The assault was gorgeously gory, Patrick putting his all into each hit.  He couldn't help himself, shouting obscenities into the air as another outlet of his frustrations.  Even after Paul Allen had completely stopped moving, he continued swinging until his stamina all but ran out.

Only then did he finally catch his breath, undressing from his bloodied poncho (covering an Armani suit) and sitting down to admire his work.  He ran a bloody hand through his hair, sweat forming across his forehead.  The Patty Winters Show played quietly in the background, Patty's voice droning on about unprofessional relations in the workplace.

Somehow, disappointingly, he didn't feel any better.  Despite seeing Paul Allen's lifeless bloodied body sprawled out on his living room floor, he felt nothing.  The momentary euphoria he had felt quickly eluded him, leaving him now with his dead rival on his floor and you off doing who knows what after going on a date with Paul Allen.  Only you, he felt, would give him that freedom, but he couldn't even bring himself to get it.

He's left still with the same fury he had before. Paul Allen wasn't enough - it was still directed at you.

You bitch, dropping him so easily for Paul Allen. Why would you do that?

Still breathing heavy, he pictured you laying there where Paul was. He imagined you, bloodied and dead, completely destroyed and beaten. He imagined stabbing you over and over again, watching you bleed out and die, watching you beg for your life, watching your eyes fill with fear as you realized you'd been played.

He imagined holding you and telling you it would be okay as you died, spinning this web of lies and allowing you to be comforted by your killer in your last moments. For some reason, this fantasy was salacious to him.

He imagined maybe he'd kiss you, if you didn't mind. Not that you'd be able to say no. 

He imagined you crying on him, running to him for help after you'd been hurt. Maybe by him, using a tactical setup. He imagined you yelling and screaming for help, trusting him to know what to do and how to handle a much bigger problem than you.

And all of the sudden, he was imagining himself comforting you not as some act of twisted sadism, but as an act of genuine care. He was imagining himself rubbing your back and holding you as you cried, you gripping him for dear life despite knowing he'd never let you go. He imagined himself getting into a fist fight, truly the art of brutes, for you, because somebody tried to touch you in a way you didn't like.