The Reddit prompt was simple: write Patrick Bateman, the main character of American Psycho, as an old man. Here’s what I came up with. Enjoy!
I get up at two o’clock in the morning to pee. Then again at five. When I wake up at six, I reach over to my nightstand and retrieve my dentures from the glass sitting atop the Ethan Allen nightstand. It is of much better quality than the furniture in the rest of the Paloma Suites Assisted Living facility as is my Pottery Barn sleigh bed and Serta Perfect Sleeper mattress. When you get to be older as I have, comfort is of the utmost importance.
I empty my bladder again, disrobe, and, using the stainless steel handrails in my bathroom, step into the shower. On the wall is a teak bench that I had installed so I could sit down when my knees are feeling weak. They aren’t feeling weak today so I stand while I bathe myself. Standing is important as it promotes circulation and burns calories, ultimately increasing lifespan.
I use a non-drying body scrub in conjunction with an organic loofah to clean myself and remove any dead skin. I pour some of the same scrub into my hands and massage my scalp as I no longer have any hair. When I am done, I shut off the water and towel myself dry, making sure to use patting motions instead of wiping as wiping can irritate the skin.
After I have dressed in a linen Zegna polo shirt and slacks, I prepare a small breakfast of sliced organic fruit and steel cut oatmeal. Most residents choose to eat in the cafeteria but I do not as the food is of poor quality. Even in old age I maintain a proper diet.
I attach my iPod to my waistband and fit Bose noise-canceling headphones over my ears. I cue up Genesis’ 1991 album, We Can’t Dance. Although not quite as groundbreaking as Invisible Touch, the album still maintains the band’s edge with tracks like “Jesus He Knows Me,” one of my personal favorites.
“Driving the Last Spike” is playing as I enter Mrs. Carruthers’ room on the second floor. She is a somewhat handsome woman despite her eighty years. She is napping and has her hearing aids out so she doesn’t hear me. I take a penknife with a brushed nickel handle out of my pocket and unfold the blade. I run the pad of my thumb along its edge, which has been honed to lethal precision on a Wustof whetstone.
The knife in my right hand, I raise it high above her chest and swing my arm downward, punching the blade through her breastbone and into the meaty center of her heart. Mrs. Carruthers’ eyes pop open as she reaches weakly for my hand. I bat her hand away, remove the knife, and run its sharp edge along the papery skin of her throat, easily parting it to let the crimson flow.
She bleeds out onto her cheap pillow and mattress, and the exhilaration causes my heart to race. I turn to exit the room, and my heart catches in my chest. An electric pain zips down my left arm and takes my breath away. My knees go watery, and I fall to the floor. The edges of my vision blacken and the room takes on a wavy, Dali-esque look. I try to stay conscious but am failing. The last thing I see is the sanguine blade on the floor next to me as Phil Collins sings, “No one knew how many had died/All around there were broken men/They’d said it was safe, they’d lied.”