My name is Patrick Bateman. I am twenty-six years old. I live in the American Garden Buildings on West Eighty-First Street, on the eleventh floor. A couple months ago, you would have thought I would be in an insane asylum. But no, I'm quite all right… for now. It seems that all my murdering sprees, were just in my head. I still don't believe that. It wasn't fake, well maybe some of it was I don't know, part of it was otherwise I would have been arrested a long time ago.
He sat in his apartment and relaxed. In the background the music of Mozart was playing. Ave Verum Corpus, which translated to 'hail the truth of death'. Patrick smiled and lay down on the sofa. He had been forced to take a break from work since most people said he was 'stressed out from work'. Reluctant he sat in his apartment most of day until nighttime, when he would go out with some of his friends. The hot humid air of New York City came in through the windows and left the apartment warm. Getting up he turned on the air conditioning, he missed the thrill of killing. Oh the good part of the song was coming up. He laughed as the singer sang 'whose side was pierced, whence flowed water and blood'.
My heartlessness goes deep and is persistent. My conscience, my pity, my hopes disappeared a long time ago, if they ever did exist.
He paced the living room; he wondered what he would do. Tonight he was planning to go out with his friends and meet up with some girls. His new assistant had called him earlier that morning. Where were they going tonight? Dorsia? Fluties Pier 17? Harvard Club? Camols? There were too many clubs and so little time. Perhaps they would do the usual thing tonight, pick up girls and get shit-faced drunk. It was the beginning of the weekend. They would wake up the next morning and plan to do it again.
These past months I have gained no deeper knowledge about myself. I don't know who I truly am. Am I the next Ted Bundy? Or am I just the calm quiet businessman who uses his money to go clubbing.
Patrick looked at the books on the coffee table. He picked up the 'America's Most Deadliest Serial Killers.' Flipping through the pages he amused himself by rereading the over the way the victims died. Laughing out loud he read about the real Texas Chainsaw Massacre and how he killed his victims and throwing them to the crocodiles in his back yard. Hmm… maybe he should buy some crocodiles.