𝒹𝑜𝓁𝑜𝓇 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒹𝒾𝑜𝓇 .•* PATRICK BATEMAN

12. on the verge of frenzy

Patrick didn't have any videotapes to return, or any sheets to wash, or anything to realistically do, other than go to the gym.

Which he did, for about three hours.  The stairmaster was free, he turned up his music as loud as possible, and most of the equipment he wanted to use (dumbbells, mostly) was free as well.  It was all he could do to distract himself from the growing nerves inside him.

He was shaking, though he blamed it on the level of exertion.  When he was done, still shaking, he made his way back home, showered, and realized he really had nothing to do. 

Patrick couldn't watch TV, because the pictures and sounds were a complete blur (he couldn't tell if the Patty Winters Show was about divorce trauma or the butterfly affect) and he couldn't sleep because he was restless.  He was moments away from losing it.  He tried to force himself to eat a Salisbury steak, to regain some energy and calm himself down, maybe quell his turbulent stomach, but he opened his fridge to see that the head of his neighbor was no longer in the freezer and he finally snapped.

What was happening to him?  Though he had never felt the consequences of his actions, until today he had always been able to see them.  The bloodstains on the carpet, the organs splattered on the wall.  The slight stench of bleach that always lingered, being replaced every time it started to dissipate.

People he killed were never seen again.  He knew he felt the warmth of the blood, felt the skin peel away when he dismembered people.  He could remember hearing their screams, remembered watching them die, he could remember the scent of burning flesh and the often wet sounds it made to slice into it.

So why, for what reason, was Paul Allen walking around?  Was his neighbor no longer dismembered? 

At least there was the guy on the TV, though.  He was dead, and although the image was blurred, the amount of gore was equivalent to the damage Patrick had done.  So it couldn't all be fake, could it?  He had done something, and there was proof of it, and maybe authorities would figure it out and find him and somehow that would prove that everything else was real too.

Except then, that meant he was hallucinating today.  No matter what, something wasn't real.  He was delusional.

Patrick stumbled to the bathroom, his vision turning into a glazed tunnel, and poured three Valium pills into his hand.  He tossed them down one by one, with sink water, desperate for some relief. He slammed his hand onto the counter and gripped it tightly as he swallowed greedily, like it might be the last water he'd ever get.

From the other room, his phone began ringing, and the noise alone fired him up.  It had to be Evelyn.  If it wasn't for how obnoxious the ringtone was, it might have faded into the background buzz in his ears.  Patrick stomped to the phone, picking it up forcefully and shouted, "Whatever you're about to say, I don't care."

He huffed into the phone, ready to slam it back into the holder and end the call when your calm, soft voice reached his ears.  "Patrick, are you alright?  You left so suddenly, I just thought I'd check in."

Oh.  It was you.  Lovely, kind, beautiful you.  Too good to be true you.  Likely unreal you.  Some manifestation of his crumbling world you.  Put into his life to mock him.

A voice which normally would have sedated him down was all of the sudden his last straw.

"Why do you care?" Patrick exclaimed into the phone.  He wiped cold sweat off his face, trying to catch his shaky breath creating weak hiccups.

"What?  Patrick, you're very special to me." Your voice was gentle, confused. He could almost imagine that sad little face you'd be making, looking at him like he was someone who needed to be cared for. Loved.