Though Patrick's strides were steady and confident, his headspace was anything but. He couldn't place exactly what, but something at P&P had shifted. The air felt different, wrong. The lights were a little too bright.
Though he always felt he had an aura of power surrounding him, with his slicked back hair, his perfect posture and his crisp designer suits, it wavered today. Patrick hated that feeling, losing power. It suggested he wasn't good enough to control it.
As he walked to his office, pretending like the skin on his back wasn't prickling, his ears picked up on a cacophony of voices. The loudest amongst them he immediately recognized.
"Bateman? He's embarrassing, he's a coward. You think I actually want a relationship with him? I'm just trying to climb the latter." You. You laughed as you spoke, though it lost all of the lightness it contained.
A statement like that would've never shaken him. Paul Allen could call him different names all he wanted and it would never get under his skin. Or maybe it would, but he wouldn't show it. But you?
He couldn't help the way he involuntarily clenched his fist. The way his teeth ground against each other.
Patrick continued walking to his office, head held high, pretending like he wasn't hanging on your every word. He tried not to look at you as he walked past, although he could still hear everything you said.
"He's boring!" you exclaimed with a sneer. "He's different from you all because he's the worst of you. He wouldn't even be working here if it wasn't for his daddy."
The truth to your words stung. Though the words could be applied to almost anyone in the workplace, the fact it was addressed to him and not somebody like Luis Carruthers, shot him straight through the heart. It was a small target. You hit a bullseye.
As much as he tried to fight himself, he surrendered to the urge to turn back and confront you.
"You really think that?" he asked coldly, trying to keep an upper hand. A hardly suppressed smirk crossed your face, infuriating him even more. You knew what you were doing.
"Every word. You're pathetic, thinking I'd be interested in you. You aren't even good in bed, for Christ's sake. You're a fool." Your arms crossed over your chest, the rest of his coworkers amassed behind you. They snickered quietly, though it seemed they were still a little frightful of potential social repercussion.
"And you know what?" you continued, crazed look in your eye as you turned back to face your crowd. You thrust a thumb toward Patrick. "This guy is a crazy bastard! Thinks he's some sort of serial killer." You laughed again, filled with mirth and condescension as your eyes focused on him. "I mean, really? You? I'm surprised you even had the courage to confront me here."
"You're a crazy fucking bitch," Patrick replied, the saliva in his mouth going down thickly as he nearly failed to swallow. Though the words were sharp, his voice held none of the authority it normally would. He didn't even know if he meant them.
"It hurts me you think that, but it doesn't change the fact you're an absolute loser. Everybody seems to know it, except for you. You're delusional, Patrick Bateman."
The voices of the room began to blend together as his other coworkers joined in, berating him and laughing. It became a buzz, a hum, and the room seemed to spin as he looked around. The edges seemed foggy, tunnel vision setting in. Your voice was the only thing able to ground him, and yet he couldn't bear to listen to it.
"Patrick!" You still hissed, unwilling to be ignored. "Patrick Bateman? Are you alright?"
His eyes snapped open, the genuine concern in your voice a call back to reality. Everything was dark, but ever so faintly, he could make out the distinct outline of you. You were leaning over him, gently shaking his shoulders with a comforting grip. "Patrick? Oh, Patrick."
YOU ARE READING
𝒹𝑜𝓁𝑜𝓇 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒹𝒾𝑜𝓇 .•* PATRICK BATEMAN
Mystery / Thriller"dolor" a state of great sorrow and distress American psycho, meet American beauty.
