I’m lying in my bed just shy of midnight. I’m deeply involved with a book I found lying around in my closet. I have never read, nor heard of it’s author but the book seems like it can reach into my soul. It’s the only thing that seems to take interest to me. My bag is sitting beside the door waiting for me to get up and do my routine rendezvous of the streets but I can’t find it in myself to move. The words on each of these pages are captivating as they are gruesome. I laugh at the slaughter of women and children and make a mental note to myself to indulge tonight. I’m nearing the end, almost sad it has to end so suddenly.“. . . there is an idea of Patrick Bateman, some kind of abstraction, but there is no real me, only an entity, something illusory, and though I can hide my cold gaze and you can shake my hand and feel flesh gripping yours and maybe you can even sense our lifestyles are probably comparable: I am simply not there. It is hard for me to make sense on any given level. Myself is fabricated, an aberration. I am a noncontingent human being. My personality is sketchy and unformed, my heartlessness goes deep and is persistent. My conscience, my pity, my hopes disappeared a long time ago… if they ever did exist. There are no more barriers to cross. All I have in common with the uncontrollable and the insane, the vicious and the evil, all the mayhem I have caused and my utter indifference towards it, I have now surpassed. I still, though, hold on to one single black truth: no one is safe, nothing is redeemed. Yet I am blameless. Each model of human behavior must be assumed to have some validity. Is evil something you are? Or is it something you do? My pain is constant and sharp and I do not hope for a better world for anyone. In fact I want my pain to be inflicted on others. I want no one to escape. But even after admitting this - and I have, countless times, in just about every act I’ve committed - and coming face-to-face with these truths, there is no catharsis. I gain no deeper knowledge about myself, no new understanding can be extracted from my telling. There has been no reason for me to tell you any of this. This confession has meant nothing. . . .”
I close the book and stare into the ghostly eyes of the man gracing it’s cover. I smile only because I know its true. Every word. I drop the book on the floor and head towards the door, only to turn around and see those dark blue eyes burning into my soul. The words American Psycho etched across his face. That is now my life. This is now my reason for living. Death has to come in one form or another. As I walk down the front steps into the awaiting taxi, I come to a conclusion about my life. I am a father who never gave a shit about his son and I’m glad I killed the fucking cunt. And I am not insane. I know what I do, and I do it with pride.
As for everything else in my life, Justin is talking to me again. He still doesn’t have a new girlfriend and still cries every night for Andrea. Joey’s finally in a relationship that is good for him and I’m not jealous of. He stopped sleeping around too. I’m proud of the faggot. Lance is still with Samantha. She doesn’t fully trust him yet, but they’re getting there. Chris is still the crazy mother fucker he always was. Wade… Wade’s on tour with Britney. He’s fucking her brains out, I know so. Karen moved out and playing with her sister in the waters below. Or the shark ate her… can’t really find the body anymore. I wish her luck with that modeling career though.
And finally, the beautiful, sexy Gennie. I’m never going to be out of her life, that’s for sure. The good news is she got that scar I gave her removed. I did the surgery of course. We’re back together. I’m in love with her more than ever too. She’s also my new roommate. She loves it there. We’re soul mates… forever.