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English
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Published:
2004-04-09
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1/1
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Dead Girl After Yale Club

Summary:

If it's an American Psycho fic it stands to reason it's going to be a bit screwed up... or a lot. Sex, slash, violence. Bateman/Carruthers, a pairing that intrigues and interests me. This is an exercise in imitation -- I am attempting to replicate Ellis's style of writing and I am not a violent person. I'm going to try and make this disturbing, although it isn't as explicit as the original text.

ETA: for the love of all the gods can none of you people read the date this was posted, I promise you I KNOW this has not aged well in the last EIGHTEEN YEARS

Notes:

American Psycho characters belong to Bret Easton Ellis.

'I morti non sono piú soli -- the dead are no longer lonely.'
- Virgil Incanto, The X Files '2Shy'

Hunting you I can smell you -- alive
Your heart pounding in my head
- Evanescence, Haunted

I tried so hard
And got so far
But in the end
It doesn't even matter
- Linkin Park, In The End

Work Text:

'The postmodern is nothing. Everything is postmodern. Everything is nothing.'

This strange syllogism catches my attention. I'm standing outside a club I can't remember the name of without turning around to check, wearing a suit that probably isn't appropriate for this sort of area, Armani grey, that suits me but might do better for the addition of a little blood, so I turn around to see who's speaking in that strange language. She's only twenty, not a hardbody, thus not really my type, and this enrages me, though I'm careful to keep it inside as I look at her and she looks back, a spark of something dancing in her eyes, something called life that I want to erase. Her brunette hair is curly and would probably decay if shampoo touched it. She's wearing jeans that I can't immediately identify the brand of, but miles from Levis, and a weird blue shirt that looks more like a poncho.

'Excuse me, what did you just say?' I ask for the sake of catching her attention. I called a cab from inside the club but the guy said it wouldn't be here for about ten minutes. I could hail another one, but this girl might come with me if I use my ten minutes to charm her sufficiently.

She looks at me and doesn't smile, but tucks her hands in her jeans pockets, underneath the hanging tail of the shirt, which is fringed with long blue tassels. 'Whatever I said it's not all that interesting. Our truth is subjective and changes from moment to moment, wouldn't you agree, Mr. Bateman?'

There's no way, simply no way she can know my name, but I accept it anyway and grin sheepishly. 'I'm sorry, have we met?'

'You're wrong about the blood, you know. My blood would clash with that grey. Is it dove-grey, or silver-grey?'

'Dove.' She's taking the thoughts straight from my mind.

'You wear them on your face. It's too easy.' She takes her hands out of her pockets. The left holds a cigarette; the right, a lighter. 'Smoke?'

I shake my head. She lights up and finally looks like she's going to smile. Although I know that she knows what I'm thinking and will not get into the cab with me, not to come back to my apartment with my huge bed and nail gun and satin sheets and coathangers, I wonder if I can do something about her anyway.

'Do you find disjunct narratives interesting, Mr. Bateman?'

'I... haven't heard anything by them,' I stammer. Who is she, to be doing this to me? Who could possibly have this power? And now she's laughing at me, and I want to grab her by the hair, by that messy wild tangle of curls, and slam her face against the brick wall, hard enough to knock her out, then drag her home and tell the cab driver she's my sister, she passed out from drinking too much, and wonder if I have enough newspaper at home to cover the floor in case of splatter.

This time she doesn't say anything but just laughs at me again and exhales smoke and starts coughing, and I notice a mark in the side of her neck that is evidently a hickey, and

'When this is over, I'm going to my partner's house,' she says. 'We're going to have dinner, probably something quick, and then fuck all night, if we can. He left me that mark as a reminder.'

'That's all?'

'I know the sort of thing you'd leave as a reminder. When are you going to stop fucking with Luis Carruthers' head and tell him to get bent?'

'He already is bent.' I'm starting to get an inkling of who this girl is. 'Did you work as a secretary... once?'

'Maybe.' She really does smile this time, and she gets dimples when she does it. I want to stick her cigarette into them, lit end first of course, and see if I can burn holes through her cheeks. The urge to slam her head into the wall isn't fading, if anything is growing stronger. 'Bateman, did you ever get the urge to just fuck your partner? Ah... why am I asking? It's exactly the sort of thing you'd do.'

'What?'

'I'm thinking of going to his house and dragging him into the bedroom. Forget about the dinner, forget about the foreplay... just fuck.'

'Aren't you types supposed to say "make love"?'

'I don't want love this time. I just want release.'

'Baby, I could give you that.' I lean closer. She pokes the end of her cigarette at my eyes. I lean back. 'Haven't you ever heard of the concept of pleasure through pain?'

She raises her arms and shakes the baggy sleeves of her shirt, exposing arms that have a fractal pattern of white scarring on them. And grins at me, blowing smoke into my face, when I lean forward again to inspect them. 'You like?'

'I'm impressed.' I'm not. How many angsty teenage girls do that to themselves? She's unoriginal, and even with her patterns, it's not a new concept.

'It's postmodern,' she says. 'Recycling of old ideas into things that aren't new but the public think are.' She turns her arms over. The wrists are marked with the deep scars of a suicide attempt. 'I tried recycling myself.'

'Did it work?'

She rolls her eyes. 'Of course it did.' She holds her arm up in front of my face and blows the last puff of smoke through it into my eyes. I have to blink and sneeze and when I open my eyes again, she's gone.

'Cab for Bateman!' the driver yells from the curb.

'Right, sure.' I get in, give him the address, and

I'm holding the phone to my ear, which is interesting since I don't remember calling anyone. But I recognise the voice at the other end of the line squeaking at me.

'Carruthers?'

'Patrick! Hiyee!'

Maybe not.

'Are you busy?'

'No... Patrick, it's only ten-thirty, why aren't you out... clubbing?' He manages to invest the word 'clubbing' with a tone that makes it sound like a foreign concept to him. 'Are you sick? I hope you're not sick. I'll come over. Do you want me to?'

'Yeah, I think I might be sick,' I say, knowing that this is perfectly true, snapping a rubber band across the room with the hand that's not holding the receiver. 'I might be.'

the Yale Club earlier that week, my hands around his neck, ready to squeeze but not squeezing, dreaming of garrotting him with my tie, and those obscene words leaking out of his mouth, my god, how could he mistake me for one of his kind, I'm not even

He shows up twenty minutes later, probably with one minute's pause in the hallway to restart his heart and steady his breathing after sprinting the whole goddamn way, pathetic winsome puppy-dog expression pasted firmly on his little weasel's face.

'How are you, Patrick? Are you really very sick?'

'I thought I was going to vomit, but I'm over it now,' I tell him, sounding sincere because I am. I know what I'll have to do to get him vulnerable, to make it hurt the most, and the idea of it makes me nauseous, but at the same time it's intriguing, interesting, and making my dick hard. The thought of payback for the men's room at the Yale Club. Yes. 'Do you want a drink?'

He accepts. I pour. We sit. We drink. He stares at me with an expression on his face like he'd drop to his knees and start sucking my dick if I so much as nodded. I raise my glass to him in a silent toast and he blushes.

'Luis...'

'Yes, Patrick?' He looks like he's going to come in his pants just because I used his first name. 'Are you all right?'

'No,' I state flatly. 'I'm not.' I put my hand on his thigh, not too far up, yet. 'But you can help me be all right.'

The look on his face is that of a child on Christmas morning, opening a brightly wrapped gift and seeing something amazing and new and wonderful. 'Patrick... really?'

I suppress my gag reflex and inch my hand a little further up on his thigh. 'Oh yes. You can make me feel much better.'

Luis gives head enthusiastically, but without much finesse. His tongue and mouth on my dick are wet and warm but that's about all I can say for them. I grab his hair and pull him away and when he gives me a hurt look I smile sweetly and tell him I just want to kiss him. It's easy enough to slide my hand up his thigh, avoiding his dick, and start fingering his asshole. If I avoid his dick carefully enough it's almost the same as touching a woman there. I push one finger inside him and he starts clenching and squirming and pleading and I'm counting the minutes until I can shut him up.

He's flat on his back a moment or two later, knees drawn up to his chest, thighs splayed apart to expose his anus, and I think this won't be too bad as I find a condom and the lube and start lubing his asshole, trying to ignore his breathy little cries. One finger, two fingers, three fingers...

'Patrick! Please!'

That voice is not going to be getting on my nerves much longer. I position myself and thrust into him, pinning his doubled-up legs against his chest with the weight of my body. It looks uncomfortable. I hope it is. He's shrieking and crying out like a little bird but in pleasure not pain. It's hot and tight inside him. I close my eyes and pretend I'm fucking Courtney, which helps a little, until he starts squeaking my name again, and blackness takes me over, so I put my hands on his throat again and start squeezing, and instead of struggling or trying to escape the little fag starts bucking up against me even harder and then I feel these warm wet jets of something on my stomach and realise he just came all over me, and the way he's writhing and

The next time I see him he's wearing a turtleneck to hide the Bateman-hand-shaped bruises on his neck. He's smiling beatifically and it's directed at me.

'So,' he whispers in my ear, the sound masked by dinner conversation, 'when should we do that again?'

'Luis...'

'I just love the feeling of you coming inside me,' he gushes.

'Luis. Shut. Up.'

He looks wounded. I nod at the crowded table and he 'gets it' and drops a huge wink that is probably even more incriminating than his comment about me coming, then prances back to his own seat. At least he expects less commitment than Evelyn.

On my way out of the restaurant (the name of which I can't remember even when I'm standing under the sign hailing a cab) I see the girl in blue again. She blows me a kiss, then walks straight into the traffic, melting, fading, like the latex of a condom must eventually rot after years on some landfill somewhere, dissipating like semen washed off one's skin in the shower.