american psycho

PART 1/(?)

PATRICK

You give a kid almost eighteen years, and they can’t be bothered to send a single text. I’d expect this from Patrick if, say, Jean waited up on him, but she hasn’t done that in ages. I’ve stopped telling her I still do it, but there’s no way she doesn’t notice me slipping in bed at … well, it’s nearly four in the morning now, so I’ll give him fifteen more minutes. It’s amazing what we grow accustomed to, what goes unspoken and therefore accepted. I try telling Jean something, anything, about our son, and she just looks at me with this sad, pathetic smile. It’s supposed to make me feel better. That’s all she ever wants to do, so of course it makes me feel like the biggest douchebag in the world. When I’m about to give up, there he is — funny how that always seems to happen. I don’t hear the front door open, and he only grunts a hello before trying to slink past me and up the stairs. I easily grab him by his shirt collar, sighing with both relief and annoyance. “Do you know what time it is?”

“You’ve got a watch,” The kid smirks, knowing how charming he is, that I won’t be able to stay mad at him. He got that from me, and his chestnut brown hair and eyes from his mother. He needs a haircut.

“You know how your mom gets.” I exhale, releasing my grip, not wanting to admit I was the one who was worried. He knows this anyways; Jean hasn’t given a shit about him since I can’t remember, only discussing him when I bring it up for what feels like forever now. She’ll only frown, pretending she doesn’t see his lunch bag set out in the morning, like it’s apparently such a hard thing to thank someone (me) for making it every day.

“She hates me.” He rolls his eyes, not buying my excuse and trying to push past me.

I cross my arms over my chest, studying his nose for signs of redness before asking, deadly serious, “Are you snorting coke?”

Patrick Jr. shrugs, grinning easily, irritating the hell out of me. “Not right now,” he calls, a spring in his step as he heads off into the kitchen.

“Take it upstairs,” I hiss through clenched teeth. “You’ll wake your mother up.”

Speak and she shall appear. Jean’s voice floats from upstairs, growing closer as she actually comes down to meet me, rubbing her eyes sleepily. “Patrick, honey, why are you up?” She questions, concern in her voice mixing with grogginess. “I heard voices.”

“Oh, you know,” I flash her a dazzling smile, meeting her halfway. “Just talking to myself.”

She raises a hand to my forehead (or rather, I stoop down so she can) to feel for a temperature, I assume. She won’t feel anything. What the hell do I know? She might not have even been checking my temperature, because she presses a kiss on my forehead, taking this rarity a step further and wrapping her small arms around my waist.

My eyebrows furrow in confusion, questioning her embrace momentarily before it dawns on me what’s happening and I slip away, patting her hand as it reaches out to me. “I’ll be up for sex in a minute.” I promise, because what else could she possibly want?

“Are you okay?” Her eyebrows furrow in concern.

“Go!” I insist, swatting at her playfully.

Only looking slightly dazed, Jean accepts this for a silent moment more before she trudges back to bed. I watch her go, sighing, and then our daughter enters the room.

I wanted to name her Patricia, but Jean said no, because Patrick Jr. was already named after me. I’d eventually agreed with her, realizing we wouldn’t want kids at school thinking they were fucking weirdos, clones with the same name. She had only nodded slowly before suggesting we name her after Jean’s sister, whose middle name is Bethany.

So Bethany enters the room at a pace that has me wondering if she would do less damage or if a train came crashing into the wall. Arms cradling books, but they aren’t open; so what, is she going to retain knowledge through osmosis? I only remember this word because she’d pointed it out when I misused it. Bethany is a genius, which she gets from Jean, and, well … a fucking weirdo, a freak, which she inherited from me. I cringe, watching as she guzzles a hip flask that better have five-hour energy in it. Again, because I’d rather not have my daughter drinking, I don’t ask. I don’t want to consider the other options. Also, she’s too smart for that shit. The kid does not stop, muttering under her breath.

“Bethany, is everything okay?” I ask, making sure I inject the right amount of parental concern into my voice.

She blinks, at first not registering the question, and is the spitting image of her mother in that moment. “Why wouldn’t it be? Everything is great.” She bulldozes me with a steady stream of incoherent tasks; they all bleed together as I try to listen but not too hard. “Everything is, like, calm.” She insists. Cue another gulp from the flask.

I place my hands on her shoulders in hopes of steadying her, offering some advice. “You need to take some time for yourself.” My face lights up; I tell her how I’m about to do just that, “I’m going to have sex with your mom.”

“Thanks,” She pushes at me lightly, scowling. I let myself be shoved away, and can hear her exclaiming sarcastically, “I’m so glad I know that!” while I head upstairs, shaking my head. If she’s not going to listen, there’s no point giving advice.

Fifteen minutes later if that, Jean is readjusting her pantyhose, then fixing her skirt, breathing heavily. “That was … Wow, that was really great, wasn’t it?” She beams in my direction before again adjusting herself to look presentable.

“Mhm,” I agree, pulling her in to press a kiss on forehead, wrapping my arms around her so she can feel how defined my muscles are.

She laughs, at peace momentarily before panic washes over her features. “I’m gonna be late,” She swears under her breath, wiggling away to retrieve her briefcase.

“That’ll teach you to take a whole ten minutes.” I tut, mock disappointed and partly genuinely disappointed. I sit back down on the bed, knowing the moment is over.

“Huh?” She asks distractedly, pulling on her coat.

“I said, it’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?” I remark half seriously and sarcastically; even I don’t know how sincere I’m being, gazing hopefully at Jean, wondering if I can get her to stay any longer.

“Oh, uh, yeah, I guess it is.” She sends me a funny look, which I bristle at, suddenly defensive. “I mean, it’s cold and rainy, dreary for November. But beautiful, yeah.” She agrees, as usual, and I relax.

“Makes you want to dive in with both feet, doesn’t it?” I decide to try and go for it, standing and lowering to bring my lips to hers, an effort she dodges almost effortlessly.

“Love you, sweetheart!” She calls, followed by the sound of her heels clopping down the stairs. I swear I hear her mutter something along the lines of her having no idea what I’m talking about, but I’m not sure, so I put it out of my mind, following Jean after a moment.

Bethany is at the kitchen table, Jean buzzing around at her laptop in the other room in a last minute attempt to finish something. Bethany’s chewing on an apple, which she finishes her last bite of hastily upon seeing me, like she feels guilty about eating it or something.

“So, dad … I got the date for my last recital, and I was wondering if you guys could make it?” She asks nonchalantly, I think, but something in her voice tells me she wants us there.

I wave dismissively. “Put it on the calendar.”

“Uh, dad? The calendar’s still on April—” She pauses. “Of last year.”

“Oh, uh,” I feign concern, flicking my eyes to it. “Happy Easter then.” I shrug, handing her her plastic lunch bag and kissing her cheek.

She rolls her eyes. “Happy Easter.”

There are still two lunch bags the counter, one for Jean and one for PJ; Bethany grimaces further at the sight of them, apparently not a fan of ham sandwiches. So what-fucking-ever. If the kid wants peanut butter and jelly, that’s what she’ll get tomorrow, I’m thinking, scowling, getting out the things for sandwiches and setting them on the dinner table as if they’ve offended me. It’s in that moment Bethany goes for something she’d left upstairs. PJ greets her, “Morning, sunshine,” as their paths cross, and she pretends not to hear.

“Don’t forget key club after school,” I grumble warningly. I’d been tempted to let the little shit miss his meeting, but I’m too much of a softie, and besides, colleges look at that stuff.

“You have no idea what I do all day.” He rolls his eyes fondly, snatching one of the bags.

But I do. I raise an eyebrow, challenging him, before rattling off his schedule. “Debate team tomorrow morning, and drama class Wednesday. Chess team … Friday?” I ask, but I know I’m right.

He nods affirmatively, waving before leaving. It hurts to see him go; the world’s a fucked up place, and the thought I don’t know, can and will never know all the shit he does — could possibly hurt himself by doing — has me feeling dizzy.

All I can do is make the sandwiches, I tell myself, and soon instead of worrying, I’m whipping out at least five a minute, panting, breathing hard as I exert myself to make as many as I can. They start dancing in my vision. There’s too many, which now fills me with anxiety instead of PJ. I don’t remember when it happens, but I find myself on the floor, near tears, now mutilating the sandwiches as well as one can with a butterknife, praying for them to go away, for the universe to give me a break for once in my life. I’m frantically trying to fix them after realizing I’ve only fucked things up further, my face twisting in anger. My rage dissipates when Jean rushes in, because I don’t want her to see me like this — weak. It’s pathetic, and I hate how she pretends not to be disgusted. Surely she is, which is why I push her away at first when she tries comforting me.

“Patrick,” She repeats softly, placing a soothing hand on my back.

Bethany comes back downstairs then, so great, now I’ve got an audience. There’s no point pushing my lovely, all-knowing wife away; murmuring apologies under my breath, I allow her to help me up.

“I don’t know what happened, Jean,” I’m suddenly incredibly honest, shaking, searching her eyes for some sort of assurance, though the fact that she always has an unlimited supply annoys me to no end. “I don’t know, I wanted to get caught up … On the sandwiches …” I finish lamely.

“On the floor, honey?” Jean questions quietly, having to look up at me now I’m standing up straight. She quickly shakes her head, dismissing the thought. There’s a newfound slump in her shoulders, contrasting Bethany’s defensive, almost animal-like posture. She’s practically circling the two of us, expression wary.

“Go, you’ll miss the bus,” Jean tells her, nodding for her to go. “It’ll be okay.” She promises, as is her way, and Bethany retreats, looking uncertain about this, as is her way.

“Lets go see Dr. Madden.” Jean suggests to me, trying to smile, but she looks so tired all of a sudden. Bright, happy Jean returns shortly, which makes me wonder if I’d only imagined that little slip.