thegreyjester

[thegreyjester]

A Remedy for Woe

Fandom: Wednesday (TV 2022), American Psycho (2000)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: The work was not marked with any Archive Warnings.

Relationships: Patrick Bateman/Wednesday Addams

Additional Tags: Patrick Bateman Patrick Bateman & Thing Wednesday Addams Thing (Addams Family) Thing Enid Sinclair POV Patrick Bateman POV Wednesday Addams Patrick Bateman is an Asshole Serial killers mentioned Patrick rants about Ted Bundy Patrick rants about Pearl Jam Patrick Bateman Is Good At Self-Care And Bad At Self-Care Unhealthy to a degree at skincare Internal Monologue Internal Conflict Skincare

Summary: Patrick find's a severed hand on his countertop. It looks terrible, and that just won't do.

The hand rolls itself onto its back, revealing momentarily the driest palm I have ever seen. Palm readers must love it—so many lines. Then, with a lurch, it hops onto its stump, using the edge of its wrist like some grotesque springboard. It steadies itself, fingers splaying for balance.

For a moment, I think it's going to do something impressive. Something profound.

It slowly, deliberately curls its fingers into a fist.

Then, with all of the dignity of a dying roach, the middle finger unfurls. A slow, casual fuck you.

Charming.

Comments: I'm surprised that there aren't a lot of fanfics about skincare? Especially for American Psycho? So, I decided to make one. Hope ya enjoy!

Word count: 6,000+

Fic under the line break, and it can be read on AO3 under the same name.

AO3: A Remedy for Woe

──────◇──────​

"The Thing is often observed watching the family through the balustrades of the balcony over the living room. We don't know quite who or what he is, but, whatever, he's the soul of good nature—at least, he grins perpetually and may occasionally whimper."

— Charles Addams

"I had all the characteristics of a human being—flesh, blood, skin, hair—but my depersonalization was so intense, had gone so deep, that my normal ability to feel compassion had been eradicated, the victim of a slow, purposeful erasure. I was simply imitating reality, a rough resemblance of a human being, with only a dim corner of my mind functioning."

— Patrick Bateman

──────◇──────​

The mirror is clear now. Its reflective surface no longer has any condensation at the center. The four-corners of it, however, still have faint traces of steam, a reminder of the hot shower I had just taken. The bathroom is thick with the fragrant smell of Gel Apaisant, eye cream, and a protective moisturizer.

The Gel Apaisant I use is a post-shave gel from St. James of London, as a part of their Pour HoMMe collection. It is sulfate-free, paraben-free, and cruelty-free. A mild and non-irritating product. And most importantly, it is alcohol-free. The manufacturer from England assured me that it lacks the uncomfortable stickiness that lesser products leave behind, likely due to the skin absorbing it without residue, a seamless integration. Only leaving a clean, healthy finish. I prefer the Sandalwood and Bergamot variation.

Afterward, I had applied an anti-aging eye cream (Baume Contour des Yeux Revitalisant) by Susanne Kaufmann. It's made in Austria. And like the gel, it's paraben-free, cruelty-free, and sulfate-free. I specifically chose this product after careful research, cross-referencing multiple reviews across various platforms. The consensus? A majority of them, I read every single review, claimed it was excellent. They said it worked. This was not an impulsive purchase. It possesses a botanical alternative to retinol, that being moth bean seed extract, designed to stimulate cell renewal and collagen production without the typical irritation. If I remember correctly, I think a clinical trial was done. Twenty-eight days. It was proven to reduce the appearance of wrinkles within twenty-eight days.

Lastly, to finish my facial routine, I had applied a protective moisturizer that my dermatologist recommended, Neutrogena's ultra-gentle formula with broad-spectrum SPF 30. It's a lightweight, non-comedogenic design. Unlike the previously mentioned products, this one is fragrance-free. It was produced with CICA (Centella Asiatica) in mind, which is known to soothe sensitive skin. This product—which also doubles as a sunscreen—is my protection against UVA and UVB rays. It's essential, regardless of whether I intend to step outside today. It's essential.

I glance at the mirror before taking a moment to admire my reflection, and a smile forms on my lips. My skin looks better than it did before. It's not flawless. It's not perfect. It never is. But it's better. Better than it was. Better than theirs. I tell myself that's good enough. It has to be.

My skin feels smooth and refreshed, the products are working as intended. The edges of the mirror are now clear.

The smell of sandalwood, bergamot, and hints of rosehip seed extract remained in the air, and I allow myself a moment of satisfaction. It's almost intoxicating.

I glance down at the sink.

It's still there.

The severed hand.

I stare at it.

The hand stares(?) back.

I continue to stare blankly at it.

I keep staring—not because it exists.

Not because I don't remember how it got here.

Not because it moved.

Not because it, seemingly, stares back.

No. It disturbs me. It horrifies me—it fills me with a deep, gnawing sense of revulsion.

Why, you may ask?

Do you want to know why?

The sheer neglect. It's blatant ignorance. The complete and utter dismissal of self-care.

The skin is hideous. A muted, grayish-brown that practically screams failure to take proper care of. It's the kind of tone you'd expect from something left to decay. It's dull and dry, flaky in places, with fine lines so pronounced that they look etched into the skin's surface—it only deepens around the knuckles and joints. A textbook display of what not to do. No elasticity. I'm sure if I tried to pinch and pull at its skin, it would prove futile.

This is what happens when you stop caring.

And then there are the nails.

Oh my god, the nails.

I lean in, my heart pounding in disgusted fascination. They are a disaster. A complete failure of basic upkeep.

The nail plate itself is a pale, muted beige—it's not even clean, lacking the natural tone of well-maintained nails.

There are these dark, brown streaks and splotches smeared across the surface (I can't tell if it is under the nail or over it).God. These irregular patches spread toward the distal free edge.

Is the hand diseased? Do you have Melanoma?

Mildew?

Melanonychia?

The nail folds are no better. The proximal fold, like the lateral folds—while not swollen—has a desaturated dark discoloration that somehow clashes with the already awful skin.

It's making me physically sick to look at. And yet, that is arguably its best feature. A detail that most people wouldn't notice.

I notice.

And the lunula? If it even exists.

It's nowhere to be found. There is no clean, white crescent, no healthy half-moon. There is no distinct separation between the lunula and the nail plate. I would be really, genuinely, worried because of its lack of one. I've been told its absence could be a sign of kidney failure or heart disease.

But then I realize something.

It doesn't even have a fucking body.

...

..

.

I push that thought aside, in favor of being more critical of its appearance.

The cuticles are a disaster. Not because I can see them—I can't. However, based on the strips of skin from the eponychium that have grown out to the nail plates, I can guess—no, I know—that if I push them back, dead skin (the cuticle) would cling stubbornly to the surface of the nail.

The distal free edge is uneven, especially on the middle finger. A small, but an important detail that tells me one of two things: (1) the nails haven't been clipped correctly, causing an uneven nail growth, or (2) someone dragged something underneath the nail in a helpless attempt to clean it.

Either one leaves me feeling ashamed that I share the same fingernail type with it (I have short, roofed nails over long, flat nails—much healthier).

Through, what should've been the translucent parts of the nail plate—it isn't—the nail bed is NOT visible. How? How is that even possible?

Just... how?

It's not the kind of thing you'd expect to see. It's the kind of thing you hope to never see.

But here it is. In front of me.

I exhale slowly, steadying myself.

It's disgusting.

And guess what? I-haven't-even-mentioned-the-stitching.

It's by far, the ugliest hand I ever had the (mis)fortune of seeing.

I tell it so.

"Your nails are shit. Your skin is rough and flakey. Consider getting a manicure—you're an ugly mess." I pause, tilting my head slightly as if I'm really thinking about it. "You should go to Lexi Nails and Spa. It's in the Essex Junction. It's not the closest—I know—but I find it preferable because of the overall reviews. No shady 'cash-only' policy; they accept credit cards. I'd avoid the paraffin wax, though—it's tacky. Just the manicure. Don't get the powder dip, even if they try to force you. And... try to do something about the texture of your skin."

Some people truly just don't care about skincare, let alone manicures.

The hand looks like a dead bat. A dry, leathery, post-mortem bat. With eczema.

Instead of taking my advice as constructive criticism and using it to better itself, it does something completely ludicrous.

The hand rolls itself onto its back, revealing momentarily the driest palm I have ever seen. Palm readers must love it—so many lines. Then, with a lurch, it hops onto its stump, using the edge of its wrist like some grotesque springboard. It steadies itself, fingers splaying for balance.

For a moment, I think it's going to do something impressive. Something profound.

It slowly, deliberately curls its fingers into a fist.

Then, with all of the dignity of a dying roach, the middle finger unfurls. A slow, casual fuck you.

Charming.

I inhale. Count to three—one, two, three—exhale.

What does hand taste like? Pork? Pulled pork or pork loin? Prosciutto, maybe. I've heard that before. But that's cured meat. Completely different from fresh, raw meat. It'd taste coppery.

To eat it, I'd have to grab its fingers by the joints and twist them, like breaking crab legs—pulling the tendons free from the bone. But I'd have to gnaw through it, like wings. Or ribs. No—at least ribs have more meat.

But the thought of eating such a disgusting-looking hand removes any and all temptation to do so.

The hand doesn't move. It simply holds its position, defiantly still.

I exhale again, slower this time. Rolling my shoulders, I sigh.

"Do you want to look," I pause, just for a moment, watching the hand, unsure if it's even capable of understanding me, "... Better?"

It should though, with it flipping me off.

──────◇──────​ The hand was placed on a beige jacquard woven Rosella towel from Armani Casa. Its fingers slightly curled inward. The terrycloth absorbed the pools of moisture that seeped from the base of its fingers. Just before this, I placed it in a bowl of room temperature water, engulfing it in the water for twenty-five seconds (always avoid soaking for more than thirty seconds, especially near stitched areas). Anyway, because I soaked it in water, the texture of the skin looks moderately better, giving the appearance of smoother hands, but it's fleeting.

Inspecting it for a moment, my fingers reached for the bottle beside me and pressed down onto the pump. The bottle, being a cleanser—Cetaphil's gentle skin cleanser—a cloudy white-colored, slightly viscous lotion spills into my palm. A measured amount, the size of a dime.

"I'm going to ask you something," I say, my voice lowered. Pleasant, even. Like I'm trying to make a conversation at dinner. I pause.

"Do you use any skincare cosmetics?"

A beat passes.

Predictably, no response. The hand doesn't even twitch.

"Cleanser? Toner? Tell me when I list something you use. Exfoliant? Serum? Moisturiz—?"

Tap.

I tilt my head slightly.

"Balm or cream?"

Tap. Tap.

I nod to myself.

"La Mer. Augustinus Bader. Sisley. Aesop. Chanel. Clé de Peau. L'Occitane."

Nothing.

Hesitantly, I add, "... Tom Ford?"

Tap.

...

How? How can you use a luxury brand like Tom Ford, and look like that? Did you steal it? Are you using it incorrectly?

I lower my gaze to focus on the task at hand. Literally.

I rub the cleanser between my fingers until I feel it soften.

First and foremost, I start with the back of the hand—the dorsal surface. My fingertips move in light, circular movements, grazing the skin. I glide the cleanser upward, from the tips of each finger, tracing over the knuckles while being careful enough not to tug or drag the skin. The skin, rightfully, yields beneath my touch.

I move to give the hand underserved care, specifically around the interrupted suture on the ring finger—full-circumferential on the middle phalanx. It did not cross any folds, just barely skirting the boundary. The cleanser sits over it neatly.

Moving to the thumb, a suture was located high on the proximal phalanx. Again, not crossing a crease. I use the pad of my finger to guide the cleanser around it. I do not apply it directly over this stitching. It's redder than the others. I can't tell if it was more recent or just poorly done.

I shift my motions to the index finger—see, the suture here is more elaborate, it's not on the finger, it's beneath the joint and it slips in between the index and middle finger—through the webbing—before looping around the palm. I'm reminded of thread on a leather sofa. I don't bother trying to follow its full circumference. Just soft dabs along the exposed line. I'm being mindful.

Next is the stitch looping below the pink and beside the ring finger's joint, ducking through the webbing between the middle finger and ring finger, sliding across the proximal palm, passing the hypothenar, tracing the ulnar curve before circling back. I dab that route of stitching with the edge of my ring finger, barely pressing down.

I'm cradling the hand now to give more attention to the last stitch. The rogue, non-full-circumferential suture. It started at the back of the hand, burrowing beneath the thumb knuckle before moving along the radial edge, then entering the palm at the thenar, stopping just shy of the crease, and at the other stitch. I dab at it carefully. The hand doesn't flinch, but I treat it like it might.

The cleanser is lathered appropriately. No foam, of course, it's not meant to. That's why I chose it.

"Interesting choice," I say while letting the cleanser settle into the creases and ridges. "Tom Ford is more... fragrance-forward than function-forward, but sure."

I move to turn the faucet. "Have you seen their Tobacco Vanille commercial?"

Tap.

Huh, unexpectedly, it did. The commercial is a bit dated. Oddly sensual, makes me want to get a cigarette each time I watch it.

"So, you use a moisturizing cream from Tom Ford." I don't phrase it like a question, it isn't. I am assuming it's a hand cream, considering the context. The thought of it not being a hand cream bothers me more than it should.

Something within me curdles. I say what I know cannot be the answer.

"Oud Wood?"

The hand didn't move.

"... Neroli Portofino?"

Tap.

No.

No no no no no no no.

Something tightens in my chest, intrusive in a way. It's an irritant. Breathing now requires effort. There's this... lump in my throat. Pathetic. I can't swallow without pain, and I know for certain that it's nothing, just some physiological response, an involuntary twitch of my nerves, but it's insufferable. My eyes sting. I close my eyes tightly because blinking rapidly wouldn't suffice.

Damnit.

It uses Neroli Portofino? From Tom Ford?

Fuck.

Fuck.

Opening my eyes again, I stare at my own reflection from the curve of the facet, the warped metal turned me inside out. I have to change my Gel Apaisant. I want to cry.

If this hand uses Neroli Portofino—which also contains Italian Bergamot—and looks like that...

Then what does that say about my Sandalwood Post Shave Moisturiser? It contains bergamot. Italian-bergamot. Just like Neuroli Portofino. I want to curl up into a ball and collapse like a dying star.

I'm staring at my own hand. I want to ball it into a fist before jamming it in between my teeth and biting until it bruises. Bite until I taste copper. I want to clamp my jaw around the knuckle and just press down until the indent blooms and becomes purple. Until something pulses.

But I don't.

Instead, I wash my hands of the cleanser.

I don't because it would leave a mark. I don't want to fuck up my hands.

I like my hands. They're—good. Fine.

"... Do you use it daily?" I ask, my voice is hoarse. "Or rarely?"

Tap. Tap.

Twice. The hand tapped twice.

My panic dissipates.

I smile widely.

"That's, um, pretty dumb," I'm admonishing it for its lack of consistency. I place my hand beside it, my palm facing upward.

For some unknown reason, it stopped hesitating. So, naturally, it hops on, not unlike how a spider would. It understands my intentions.

Ignoring the weight of the hand, I bring it close to the faucet. Thankfully, it does squirm.

With my free hand, I hover my fingers beneath the steady stream of water to feel the temperature again. Lukewarm. It's just right. Neither too cold to tighten the skin nor too hot to disturb the sutures.

"Good product, poor frequency control. Easy fix." I mutter, inwardly hoping it isn't sensitive to the water pressure.

Tentatively, I tilt my wrist, coaxing the hand under the steady, now narrow stream of lukewarm water. The water hits the hand first at the middle joint of the index finger, dribbling along its dorsal ridge, lightly tracing the protruding veins and skin before pooling at the web between the thumb and the forefinger. The cleanser begins to lessen, slowly but surely streaking off into white threads.

Then, with no warning, the hand moves.

It tilts itself, slowly angling its palm downward, before then rolling the wrist to let the water hit the side of its pinkie. Its fingers splay slightly, curling and uncurling at times. Then it rotates, letting the stream pass over the palmar side. It's... disturbingly competent. It lifts its thumb, purposefully twisting it so the crease near its proximal phalanx—where one of the sutures loops—catches the flow directly. The suture glistens not completely soaked but just wet enough.

I don't say anything.

After a few moments, I swallowed the knot in my throat and shifted my arm, laying the hand back on the beige Rosella towel.

I reach for the towel's edges, preparing to pat dry the back of the hand. But I hesitate. My hands hover, suspended.

I'm hesitating because I don't know if the towel is acceptable to use for pat-drying. If it's good enough. It's premium, high-quality, and safe with it being GOTS (Global Organic Textile Standard) certified. But is it microfiber? No, not exactly. Not technically.

Microfiber is what I need. It's what it deserves. It's what I deserve to use on it if I'm going to do this properly.

Glancing behind me, my eyes reluctantly settle on my Tedora square cushion resting on a nearby chair outside of the restroom. Also Armani Casa. Beige coloring with a contrasting tonal embroidery (a wide horizontal band). Made in Italy. I know for a fact that the inner lining is microfiber. The good kind.

But. The very thought of pressing that cushion into this... hand, this stitched flakey aberration, it feels like sacrilege. A betrayal comparable to that of Brutus to Caesar.

Then, I remember. I have another Rosella. Green. Still folded and unused, tucked in the open base cabinet.

I shuffle to the right, crouch down, and retrieve it. I unfold it while standing up. It is, regrettably not microfiber, but it was better than using an already damp towel. It will have to be enough.

I use the towel I'm holding to pat-dry the hand. The beige Rosella beneath it stays in place, acting as a buffer between the dripping weight of the hand and the countertop. I don't want runoff. I don't want water spots.

I pressed the towel down along the dorsal side, once, then twice, and again. Always lifting, but never dragging. The amount of pressure I put into is deliberately light. Only ever enough to draw moisture out of the creases between the knuckles, and the slopes of the fingers. The fabric begins to darken into these soft, uneven patches. Dampness that bloomed like bruises. The terry loops pull the water in and keep it.

I don't touch the stitches. I make a point not to. My fingers and the towel, all skirt around them. I avoid contact with the stitching because I am certain that the towel's fabric would pull the threads. It would cause the stitches to split open. I would like to see it bleed, pinpricks maybe. But not at the expense of having to call an Uber out of Jericho just to go to the dry cleaners.

I keep going, turning the towel slightly to find a dry edge and continue. Pat. Lift. Pat.

"I hope I'm not smothering you," I smirk. Lying.

It could tell, I knew because it flicked at the towel irritably. That small protest, it was being passive-aggressive. Taking that as a cue, I stop (not out of obedience but courtesy), folding the towel in half and setting it aside where the corners are aligned with the countertops.

Now, leaning forward slightly, I reach toward the open base cabinet again, this time for what's on top of the cabinet. My fingers glide before stopping at two boxes, both already open (one having a dispensing opener like a tissue box, the other was sliced with its flaps left open). The first is a Medline FitGuard box, filled with nitrile exam gloves, they are powder-free with textured fingertips. Medium-sized, it's color blue. Not the most expensive brand I could've gotten, but they're reliable. Functional. I tug a pair free by the cuffs and slip them on. Right hand first, then the left. The gloves fit snugly, it's not tight enough to be a problem.

Then, the second is a box of sterile gauze pads from General Medi. The box's top flaps have softened with wear, the corners were frayed. On the front, it says "50 Individual Packs" in a gray box next to its promotional piece for its premium quality. However, I know that I'm down to my last three. Grabbing one, I open it properly, like the packaging describes; pull apart at the arrow, peel it from its middle seam, and then down each side.

The gauze pads (each packet contains two pieces) sit flat and square while still sterile and thankfully untouched. I pinch one between my—now-gloved—fingers and extract it. I then fold it.

I move back to the hand, which rests still and slightly damp, on the beige towel. I hold the gauze between my thumb and forefinger and begin pressing gently, now only at the sutures.

I do not rub.

You have to dab carefully, always short and downward presses against the dark thread loops. Begin at the ring finger. That's one loop, now the next. It's skin puckers slightly with each press. I'm watching how the water clings to the threads, how it beads and resists before ultimately vanishing into the pad. Then the thumb. Then the complex curve between the index and middle finger and along the palm's crease.

I'm using the corners of the pad now, it's more flat. The gauze darkens with moisture, not blood.

I'm not nearly done. I angle the pad to address the radial suture. It bothers me that it's asymmetrical.

By now, the gauze has taken on most of the leftover dampness. It's useless now. I toss it into the small trash can in-between the toilet and the sink, something lined with plastic and already contains a folded tissue, two Q-tips, and a round tortoise-shell prescription (not mine) glasses in a brown and gold pattern from David Beckham.

I reach for the packet again and retrieve the last gauze pad. I flicked the plastic packaging into the trash can before applying the gauze pad to the sutures at the wrist, or what's left of it. The edge of the stump, where the skin meets nothing.

It's relatively quicker affair than the others, with the suture being less intricate. No joints to curve around, just a flat span of raised, bruised tissue and a few tight loops of thread. I dab three times. Maybe four. It's dry enough. I toss that one too. This time it makes a sound, a small thud.

"You'll have to wait... one—no, two minutes to be completely dry." I tell it. It's mostly for my own benefit. I remove my gloves and toss them into the trash can.

A thought crosses my mind.

"Hey Siri," I call out toward my phone, which is perched on a box of tissues sitting atop the toilet tank. "Be a doll and play... Pearl Jam's eighth studio album, the fourth track."

The screen lights up. Then, a chime.

"Now playing: 'Severed Hand' by Pearl Jam."

I'm already laughing internally. The corners of my mouth twitch, smug. It's too perfect. Not because it's funny, but because it's so on the nose. I half expect a laugh track. The guitar riffs began.

The hand doesn't move. But somehow, I know it's unamused.

"Coincidence," I shrug, even though it wasn't. Not really. Not at all.

It flips me off.

Fair.

I only knew the song from an episode of Late Night with David Letterman. Did you know David Letterman inducted Pearl Jam—the band—into the Rock 'n' Roll Hall of Fame? Sean had me watch it with him, weirdly. I assumed our mutual dislike for each other's company would've been enough to kill any interest in that ever happening. But it did. Rock 'n' rolling. Deal with... something.

Christ, I even sound like him. Next thing you know, I'll be a habitual liar.

The lyrics finally play at the fifty-fifth second—or possibly its fifty-first if I'd remembered to check the timestamp.

("Big man stands behind an open door," "Said, leave your lady on the cement floor." "Got some kicks, want to take a ride?" "I said, yeah!" "Take your pick, leave yourself behind," "I said, yeah!" "I've no fear but for falling down,"  "So look out below I am falling now," "Oh please understand I just need, my friend," "A way a way a way home" "Tried to walk, found a severed hand," "Recognized it by the wedding band" "Said it's ok, do you want some more?")

I pressed pause.

"I'm not even going to bother with exfoliation," I mutter aloud, giving it my personal opinion. "I'm certain if I used my exfoliant—something from CeraVe, mind you—it would only be detrimental to your skin's barrier."

I gesture slightly with my fingers, like I'm explaining something to a dim-witted, but eager, intern. "You're compromised," I add, matter-of-factly. "In every sense of the word."

The hand doesn't respond.

Not with a flick. Not with a twitch. Not even with another middle finger directed at me.

In a way, it's worse.

Are you... dour?

Indescribably, I felt a sense of pity towards it. Something quiet and human. I'm not remorseful about the comment I made, it was just an observation, tinged with a vague recognition of something lost.

Consolingly, I say slowly, "Exfoliation—for some people—is optional." I doubt that. Then, almost as an afterthought, "Instead, I'll focus on moisturizing."

I reach for the clear bottle with stark black text. The lettering uses multiple fonts, making it subtly layered. The brand's name—Kiehl's—is rendered in a typeface that's not quite Paveline but still reminiscent of it. I've been told it's custom. The rest of the lettering—product name (Ultra Pure High-Potency Serum), product description (Formulated with only 7 ingredients), and concentration percentage (1.5% Hyaluronic Acid)—is set in a bold sans-serif font. Making it one of my favorite brands. Very in.

Although I've been advised to switch to PCA skin's recommended hyaluronic acid-boosting serum. I think I read in an issue of Vogue, from June or July, that it's a professional-grade hydration for youthful skin.

"Tell me what areas feel dry or tight because of the cleanser. The palm, back of hand, or both?"

Tap. Tap.

I nod. Unscrewing the white dropper cap, I squeeze the bulb and dispense two drops of hyaluronic acid directly onto my thumb (the hand that hadn't touched my phone).

The serum is clear, almost watery. It's viscous enough to hold it's shape for a second before threatening to slide downward. That's why I continue to use this product over PCA skin's, because you don't have to worry about it absorbing into the skin if you let it sit for too long.

Placing the white dropper cap back into the bottle, I move to press the serum, gently and methodically, into the back of the hand. Always tapping. Always pressing. Do not rub. I move in outward motions from the center, where I started, and avoid the sutures but still work around them. It sinks in.

As I do this, I ramble. My voice was quieter now, trailing somewhere that's half-educational and half-confessional.

"'Severed Hand,' the fourth track from Pearl Jam's self-titled eighth studio album. The album is often called Avocado, due to the cover art being, well, an avocado—an artistic choice made by lead vocalist Eddie Vedder and reaffirmed by their art director at the time. The album sees the band at a point of reassertion after their Riot Act album. I found the album offering a more mature and carefree sound while still being capable of that unrelenting nature."

I press more serum along the base of the fingers, gliding between the knuckles. "That particular track," I say while spreading the serum into the shallow dips, "was written by Eddie Vedder. According to one interview—archived, by the way, noted that he wrote this and other tracks in the album while gazing at various bodies of water. This track has a feverish blend of lyrical ambiguity and tight, controlled aggression."

The hand isn't stopping me, so I continue.

"It's not grunge anymore as it is more alternative rock."

I reapply the serum to catch a particular dry patch near the forefinger. "The guitar riffs are jagged and insistent, propelling a rhythmic backbone that pulses. Mike McCready's solo spirals in an erratic, but focused way. Downward, then stable again. Very reminiscent of a sporting dive."

Again, no interruptions from the hand.

"The drumming, performed by Matt Cameron, is upbeat. It's meticulously arranged in a manner, where, paired with the guitar work, creates a tonal dissonance to forcibly elevate you from the bleak portrait Vedder had painted with his lyrics."

I finish the application with one last press. The serum's already sunk in. There is no sheen, just a slightly cooled finish to the touch.

"I find Vedder's tone to be unhinged." I end my rambling.

I take a step back. My eyes focused on the hand. "Well?" I ask patiently. Despite that, I am expecting a response. "Did you like it? The song, Severed Hand?"

The hand doesn't respond at first.

First, it lays onto its palm lazily, then it plants its fingers against the surface of the towel like stilts. It pushes itself up, hoisting itself upright back onto its stump.

And then it gives me... a gesture.

Not a tap. A gesture.

An infuriating one.

Palm flat, fingers wobbling side to side in a limp display of mediocrity.

So-so. Mediocre. Lukewarm.

I blink.

"You're kidding."

It does it again. Slower, and firmer this time. Mocking. The kind of flourish that people used when they didn't have the spine to just say it was terrible.

My jaw clenched.

"I swear to God," I murmur, my tone low and my face tight, "I'm going to stab you with a hunting knife. Then I'll mount you to the fucking drywall like a novelty Halloween prop, you grotesque little ungrateful bastard."

The fucker now acts as if it couldn't hear me.

"You..." I sigh. "…You have terrible taste."

I twist the faucet handle. Cold water runs first before warming under my hands.

I'm muttering while rinsing, no, scrubbing off the sense of betrayal, "Must be an individualistic sense of musical style or maybe you're just naturally inclined to be difficult. Or something—"

Pause.

"—though that still doesn't excuse you for thinking Severed Hand was mediocre."

I lather gently and thoroughly from the fingertips to the wrists.

"I mean, who in their right mind hears McCready's solo and feels... ambivalent towards it?"

The hand makes no motion to argue. It's probably sulking.

Good. Let it.

I twist the faucet handle with just my fingertips, turning it off midstream. Water droplets cling to my hands stubbornly.

I flick my hands three times, left, right, left. Briskly. Then I shuffle to the right and grab another pair of nitrile gloves. They stick slightly as I pull them over my damp palms. The sensation is awful. I flex my fingers twice, trying not to focus on the slick discomfort building between glove and palm. I grimace briefly.

Next to the unused bottle of Keri Shea Butter—something that I leave untouched because it was a half-hearted gift from Carter that I didn't ask for—is the one that I actually want.

CeraVe's Therapeutic Hand Cream.

I grab the white plastic tube. It has navy and light blue accents.

"Do you know who Ted Bundy is?" I ask absently while popping the cap open.

Tap.

Huh. "Seriously?"

Tap.

I squeezed a pea-sized amount onto my forefinger and middle finger. Then, reaching toward the hand, I began applying it. I start at the base of the wrist and work my way gently around the sutures.

"He majored in psychology at the University of Washington. It was only after graduating that he worked for the Republican Party." I lather the cream over the back and sides of the knuckles. "But before graduating, he had a job at a suicide hotline. Sat next to Ann Rule."

Tap.

"His first known attack was in '74. He bludgeoned a woman named Karen Sparks in her apartment with a metal rod. She survived. No one talks about that."

Tap.

"The car, by the way, was a tan '68 Volkswagen Beetle. He removed the passenger seat to lay down the woman he abducted."

Tap.

"He escaped custody twice. First time from a courthouse library, he just jumped out the second-story window. They left him unshackled and alone. Idiots. Did you know he practiced jumping from his bed? Strengthening his legs?"

Tap.

"The second time, he lost twenty pounds to crawl through a hole he created in the ceiling of his jail cell. Slithered out like some kind of pale, yet charming, sewer rat. Ended up in Florida."

Tap.

The hand is irritatingly well-informed. Or bluffing.

I pause. "You probably just watched Conversations with a Killer: The Ted Bundy Tapes. Only the first episode. It's on Netflix. That's it, isn't it?"

No tap.

Nothing.

I exhale slowly through my nose, my lips pressed in a thin line.

Something childish within me prickles. Probably spurred on by this.

"Figures."

The cream was already absorbed into the skin.

It probably didn't even finish the episode. It's probably the kind of creature that can't even watch thirty minutes let alone forty-five minutes of dramatized Netflix sensationalism.

I peel off the gloves one finger at a time and toss them into the trash can. I grab the tube of CeraVe and press the cap shut, before placing it deliberately next to the bottle of Keri, which I do not touch.

"I bought The Stranger Beside Me secondhand," I say. "First edition. Original 1980 printing. Signed. On the back, Ann Rule's author photo looks like she's trying too hard to be approachable. Had to go through a private seller in Maine. Probably passed through six hands before mine, but it felt right."

No response.

"... I'm not loaning it to you."

Surprisingly, it wilts.

"You probably like Dahmer more."

...

I stare at the hand. "You're impossible."

The hand lifts its pinky and stretches it out before waving it mockingly.

I walk away.

"Don't move. I'm getting tools to do your nails." I call out, already halfway out.

Behind me, I hear it drum its fingers rapidly against the table. Excitedly, I think.

──────◇──────​POV: Wednesday Addams

I stare at Thing with a look of disgust. He was... glowing. Positively radiant. Smooth and supple like an overfed limb of a pampered Victorian child. It's unnatural, something that can only be achieved through excessive self-care or a pact with a demon obsessed with skincare. His nails had a glossy sheen. His cuticles were meticulously trimmed, and I made out no hangnails. If I smelled, I could catch the faint scent of lavender.

"You were supposed to be on reconnaissance," I say. "Not a spa retreat."

Thing launched in a rapid-fire flurry of hand gestures, fingers twisting and snapping. It was as expressive as it was irritating.

I narrowed my eyes. "You had a spa day... with my target?"

"Wait, what?!" Enid squealed, pushing me aside in favor of admiring Thing. Her eyes locked on his fingers. "Oh my gosh, look at his nails! They're immaculate! What did they use for your cracked nails?"

Thing wiggled his fingers before flexing, posing like a model on a runway.

I cross my arms. "Did you learn anything relevant during your little lavender-scented infiltration?"

Thing stops posing amidst Enid's cooing. More gestures followed. His tempo slowed near the end as if Thing was deliberately... emphasizing something.

I blinked once. Then again. Slowly.

...

"That's disgusting," I say.

Thing gave me an enthusiastic thumbs up.

I huffed. "At least it's somewhat useful for another day. Revolting, but useful."

Thing bowed, angling himself enough to show off his smooth knuckles.

──────◇──────​

Author Comments:

I really, utterly absolutely, wanted to make an omake/snippet of skincare! The beginning portion was my take of what Patrick could've used more recently if he followed the same formula/process he did in the novel. I specifically found a aftershave that had both Neroli and Bergamot because of that one line from Wednesday, "Did you think my highly trained olfactory sense wouldn't catch the whiff of neroli and bergamot in your favorite hand lotion?" And it was supposed to be the first omake, but I was super frustrated because I had a hard time describing Thing, especially his stitches! I didn't want to just call him a "stitched hand" and be over with, especially when this is a skincare segment (this was actually supposed to be part of the second chapter of On Wednesday's, We Kill, but I felt it was too... much? If that makes sense). I clung to my biology/anatomy class from middle-school (I brought out papers) just to try to describe them (it's why I used anatomical terms).

Here is the music Patrick and Thing listened to (tell me if the link doesn't work!).

Also, please give any music recommendations for Patrick to listen to! I'm scrambling for something that's appropriate for the next chapter (I've now resorted to going through Bret Easton Ellis's twitter/X for music cause I either listen to just Michael Jackson, genre's that Patrick doesn't like, or artists who published song's super recently)!

[thegreyjester]

On Wednesday's, We Kill (Wednesday/American Psycho) Chapter 3, Say 'Woe

Fandom: Wednesday (TV 2022), American Psycho (2000)

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Relationships: Patrick Bateman/Wednesday Addams (NO LONGER Platonic! I've made my mind.)

Additional Tags: Patrick Bateman & Wednesday Addams Patrick Bateman Wednesday Addams Tyler Galpin Lucas Walker (Wednesday TV) Jonah (Wednesday TV) Mentioned Noble Walker Mentioned Donovan Galpin - CharacterLarissa Weems Carter (Wednesday TV) Platonic Relationships Ambiguous/Open Ending Patrick Bateman is an Assholeinternally Violent Thoughts Obsessive Behavior Existential Crisis Internal Conflict Unreliable Narrator Patrick Bateman is at Fault Wednesday Addams is Bad at Feelings Lucas Walker Tries Barista Tyler Galpin Character Study

Summary: “But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve. For daws to peck at: I am not what I am.” - Iago from William Shakespeare's play, "Othello."

A self-loathing, narcissistic loser meets his match with a stuck-up, unlikeable goth.

Comments: I REALLY WANTED TO WRITE ABOUT PATRICK GOING TO THE DENTIST! Sorry that the rooms (X-Ray and Operatory) and furniture (chairs) for Dunkling and Penney are inaccurate. There's like, only a handful of pictures of the Jericho Vermont office and they are bunched together with the ones for Burlington—so I described the dentistry that I frequent. I tried to makeup for that inaccuracy with the Kate's Food segment.

Word count: 6,000+

Fic under the line break, and it can be read on AO3 under the same name.

AO3: Say 'Woe

──────◇──────​

"I still have the mutant one that emerged from the toilet—in its new glass cage, heave what's left of its acid-ridden body halfway across the elaborate Habitrail system that sits on the kitchen table, where it attempts to drink from the water holder that I filled with poisoned Evian this morning." 

— Patrick Bateman

"My first thought upon entering the room is that I would have preferred there to be a victim in a pool of blood. A centipede infestation. A cloud of poison gas that causes excruciating pain before it eventually hijacks your nervous system and causes complete organ failure." 

— Wednesday Addams

──────◇──────​

I wasn't lying to Tyler. Not exactly.

I told him I had to make a dentist appointment. That's what I did. It wasn't some last-minute excuse to get out of the conversation—I'm sitting on a downtown guest chair by Uline, standard size with a metal frame and a two-tone upholstery—dark brown vinyl seat and a light tan fabric backrest—at Dunkling and Penney Dentistry, waiting for them to call my name.

The receptionist at the front desk didn't so much as glance at me when I walked in, her acrylic nails tapping a steady rhythm against the keyboard as she confirmed I had indeed made an appointment.

It's real. It's tangible. It's happening.

When was my appointment? Twenty minutes.

Before coming here, I went to Jericho Market. I bought three things.

The latest issue of STAND in the Changi Magazine (the one with the grey cover, at its centerfold was a chick wearing an off-white button-up blouse and high-waisted trousers), an 8.5 fluid-ounce bottle of Listerine mouthwash, and a 1-liter—technically it's 1.05 quarts—bottle of Evian spring water.

Just recalling it fills me with a strange sensation. Weird.

I opened the bottle of Listerine first.

The entire 8.5 ounces went down in one long, burning, agonizing gulp. The antiseptic—and mint—clawed its way across my tongue, down my throat, before settling somewhere ugly in my chest.

When I finished it, I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand before uncapping the Evian water. Took three small, measured sips.

There is a reason for that. Not for thirst. I wasn't thirsty.

Listerine stains the teeth. It gets into the enamel, leaving a bluish tint along the gumline and in the grooves of the molars.

I've read about that. I've seen it in others. I'm beginning to see it in myself.

The water was to rinse it out before it began to set in.

I don't know if it worked.

I haven't swallowed since.

I've kept my jaw shut. My tongue has been pressed firmly against the lower incisors of my mouth for the past seventeen minutes.

It's started to ache, but I deserve that.

My hands are trembling. Not violently. But just enough that the corners of the magazine twitch as I turn the pages.

I try to hold it still, my thumb pressing hard. It makes it worse. The paper crinkles near the staples.

It's not noticeable. No one is looking. The receptionist's nails are still tapping. I haven't looked up to confirm, but I know.

The receptionist does not have eyes.

My stomach is churning.

Something is attempting to crawl out of me. I don't know if it is queasiness from the Listerine, the water, or the way the model on the front cover's eyes looked like plastic buttons.

The color of her blouse is beginning to look more like intermuscular meat fat.

It really shouldn't bother me, but it does.

I can't help but keep returning to that image.

I squint at it. Angle the magazine differently under the light.

It doesn't help.

I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth.

The Valium helps. A little.

I took some more earlier, but I don't exactly remember how many. After the market, I think. I swallowed it in my Uber ride here.

It's working, sort of. I'm experiencing blurred peripheral vision. The absolute worst of it—nausea, vomiting, abdominal pain, and the flicker of panic behind my eyes—is all being kept at bay.

It's all hovering just out of reach.

But my hands are still shaking.

I'm trying to focus on the article in front of me.

It's about what do you get someone who has everything? Apparently a brown leather handbag by Paul Marius, Simone (the only picture accompanying the article). A rectangular-shaped bag with both a flap closure and a top handle. The text is clean and left-aligned and the margins are even.

But I keep rereading the same sentence on the top left of the image. Over and over.

"You can have anything you want in life."

Oh, brother.

Someone actually wrote that. They typed it. Then edited it. Someone else approved it and the layout before printing it. They probably felt proud.

I tap my foot against the light hardwood flooring. Heel first, then toe. Heel, toe. Heel, toe. It's a steady rhythm that feels deliberate even when it isn't.

I'm not laughing. I don't scoff. I don't roll my eyes. I acknowledge it. The line—the sentence—the piece of affirmation. It settles into my skull like a piece of bubble gum flattened beneath a shoe.

I read the line again.

"You can have anything you want in life."

What a stupid sentence. Not because it's false. But because it's true.

And I think, yes. It's true. But only for me.

Not for anyone else.

Not for the woman in the waiting room, in the seat across from me with gums the color of boiled shrimp. Not for the receptionist with her acrylic nails and whose blood likely stopped flowing a long time ago. Not for Tyler Galpin.

Just. Me.

Because I can have anything I want in life.

And I know it.

I continue to stare at the page.

I let my thumb hover near the corner of it, but I don't turn the page just yet.

I want to savor the sentence.

I remember a girl.

I think her name was Lisa, or Laura, or something equally forgettable, someone who once told me—somewhere between a second and third line of coke at a friend's rooftop party in SoHo, something sponsored by an indie magazine that later went bankrupt that year—that, "The universe listens if you ask nicely."

She was nude except for wearing a white and green beaded necklace—something I am still convinced was made by Charles Manson—and ankle socks, quoting what I had assumed to be Oprah.

I remember nodding along, licking the powder off my thumb, before asking if the universe had any Xanax left. She laughed. I didn't. I handed her a rolled-up bill and watched as she snorted half a month's rent off a glass coffee table shaped like a lowercase 't.'

I wondered how many steps it would take to push her off the ledge.

I didn't. She fell on her own. Six months later. Not off that roof, but somewhere quieter. She threw herself off a parking structure. Leaving behind a note written in pink ink with hearts over the i's.

I remember standing on the same ledge where it happened. I wasn't there for her. I just happened to pass through on my way to an art gallery opening. Something avant-garde. Ceramic wombs and wireframes.

I assume the universe didn't hear her.

"Mr. Bateman?"

I'm blinking, snapping out of whatever Valium-induced haze I was drifting into.

My name is spoken politely, there is an upward lift to it—someone was trying their best to sound pleasant while working a job they probably didn't want.

Looking up now, I meet the eyes of a woman in light blue scrubs—early thirties, maybe, with a tight ponytail, holding a clipboard against her chest.

Her face was somewhere between neutral and caffeinated. She was standing at the edge of the reception desk.

I offered her what I thought was a smile, but I think it came out more like a grimace. My face feels like it's made of latex.

"Yes. That's me," I say cheerfully. "Patrick. Bateman. That's—right. Yep."

She smiles, not unkindly.

I stand up a bit too fast.

My legs feel hollow. Brittle. Every joint is threatening to collapse inwardly.

I'm trembling—not overwhelmingly, but noticeably, I think.

As if I'm on the verge of a detox. Which I'm not. I haven't touched anything stronger than Valium and a little Chardonnay in days.

Maybe it's a vitamin deficiency. Days.

It's probably the Listerine.

I fold my magazine. Once down the middle, then again into quarters. It's now a thick rectangle in the breast pocket of my coat. The corner juts out slightly. I press it down. Miss. I press down again. It stays.

She turns without a word, already walking down the hallway. I am left following after her like a well-trained spaniel. My footsteps are silent. Hers squeak.

As we walk, I tell her, "I really like your, um, scrubs." I pause, realizing that might sound weird. "The color. It's a good shade. Clean."

The hallway is plastered with posters.

Happy molars. Cartoonish gums.

One of them—probably drawn for children—features a smiling tooth holding a floss lasso.

It's called "Flossy the Enamel Pal."

I stare at it for far too long.

She hums, noncommittally.

I nod, even though she can't see it. "I knew a person who used to wear scrubs. For a Halloween party. Nurse. Not the medical kind. One of those—well. Doesn't matter."

She doesn't respond. That's fine. I didn't expect her to.

We stopped outside a door marked X-RAY. The lettering was a bold Helvetica. She opens it.

"After you," she says.

"Thank you… Katie?" I say while squinting at her nametag. She blinks.

"Kaitlyn," she corrects.

"Of course," I step past her into the room.

Inside the white-walled room, there's a large gray machine mounted to the wall along with a long, adjustable tube head angled downward. Both are positioned near a vinyl chair—grayish and faintly cracked near the edges. Next to that chair, is a metallic countertop, stacked with lead aprons and laminated safety warnings. One of the latter is a small rectangular sensor encased in red plastic that catches my eye. It looks like it'll fit a USB.

"Nice place," I mutter, acting as if I hadn't already visited before.

"Have a seat," she tells me.

I sit down. The vinyl chair hisses. I shift. The chair squeaks.

Laughing, I clarify. "That was the chair. Not me."

She doesn't respond. Already sliding on synthetic vinyl gloves.

"I come here pretty regularly," I add. "Dental health is very important to me. I floss. Twice a day. Sometimes more. Especially after steak."

Moving quickly, she opens a nearby drawer and brings out a sensor wrapped in plastic. Peeling it back, she fits the red-edged piece into a bite block, before then slipping a fresh plastic sheath over the whole contraption. Hygienic, I'm sure.

"I think oral hygiene says a lot about a person," I continue. "Discipline, self-respect, a moral code. Really, just their personal integrity."

"This," She holds the bitewing up to my face, "will go inside your mouth. Just bite down when I tell you to."

I nod, staring at it. The plastic crinkles. The corners look sharp.

"Sound's delightful."

She slides the plastic-covered bitewing into my mouth. It presses awkwardly against the inside of my cheek. Its blocky corner stabs into the floor of my mouth, right where the soft tissue tissue meets the base of my tongue.

I wince.

I'm breathing through my nose. Trying not to gag.

She adjusts the X-ray tube head. It's now positioned beside my face. She grabs a lead apron from the countertop and places it on my chest. It's heavier than I expected it to be. Feels like a weighted blanket. Suddenly, I became aware of the shape of my own sternum.

"Bite down," she says gently.

I do. It's difficult.

I can taste the plastic. I can feel my saliva begin to pool beneath the sensor.

"Don't move," she tells me. "I'm going to step out."

I want to say something witty. But I can't. My jaw trembles from the pressure.

She leaves, closing the door. I could hear a small click of a button from just outside.

Whirr.

The machine buzzes briefly, before stopping.

A few seconds later, the door reopens. She comes back inside. "Doing okay?" she asks while already unwrapping the next sensor.

"Grr'eat," I mumbled eloquently around the plastic. "R'really fan-tashtic."

She doesn't laugh. Or react. Just removes the sensor.

"Okay, again—open for me?"

It was another bite block. This one is blue. She tilts my head slightly. It presses differently, but—it's still wrong. Still stabbing something. Jabbing the edge of my gums. I drool a little. I do not comment on that. Neither does she.

The process repeats. Machine hum. Staff exit. I try not to move. I try not to think. I focus on the tiny dot of paint chipped off the corner of the ceiling tile above me.

The position of the tube head changes.

Click.

The door closes.

Whirr.

"Almost done," she offers.

I murmur something. It comes out as a gurgle.

I imagine blood blooming from the floor of my mouth, but it doesn't. Probably.

I want to say something. Make a joke, maybe. Something about radiation or about how teeth are bones you can see without surgery. But I don't. My tongue is pressed awkwardly between my molars and plastic. It aches.

There's an image on the monitor in front of me, something I can see clearly from where I'm sitting but don't want to. It was my teeth. Pale, straight (must be the wrong angulation of the X-ray beam, they are not crooked) teeth.

There's a blip near one molar—a dark patch. I don't ask about it. Neither does she.

Finally, she returns and removes the last sensor from my mouth.

The whole process was under ten minutes.

"All done," she says cheerily as she slides the arm of the machine back.

"Mm-hmm," I offer, smiling, lips closed. My jaw trembles.

"Please follow me to the next room. The dental hygienist doing your cleaning will meet you there."

"Great," I say. My voice cracks. "Won-derful. Love it."

She leads me out of the room and down another hallway, further into the dental office.

We turn a corner and move into this dental office's sole operatory room. All three dental chairs are here, lined up in neat rows beneath bright overhead lights.

The large windows in the room are impossible to ignore. The room has an impressive view of Mount Mansfield. Sure, some visitors may be a bit intimidated by this killer view, but I can't help but appreciate it.

The dental assistant, who I assume was just overexposed to this view, doesn't pause. She gestures toward the middle chair.

I move to sit down. The vinyl and plastic wrap creaks beneath me as I lower myself into it. I shifted uncomfortably, my coat was still on but it would be too much of a hassle to take off.

Sinking back into the chair, I watch the way the light filters through the glass. Natural light, of course—the most flattering kind. Whoever's choice was it to do that deserves to be congratulated. It makes everything look better and smoother.

I put on my earbuds—third-generation AirPods—and pull out my phone. My screen lights up. No new messages (Not counting the notifications I received on Messages by Carter. Some time ago, I made the mistake of sharing my location with him. Now, every time that asshole sees I'm at the dentist, he sends me pictures of candy. Gummy worms. Sour ropes. Fucking Taffy. I swear, it's like psychological warfare). I open Music and press play on whatever was already queued. I don't check what it is.

("I would like to climb high in a tree,"

"I could be happy, I could be happy,"

"Or go to Skye on my holiday,"

"I could be happy, I could be happy,"

"Maybe swim a mile down the Nile,"

"I could be happy, I could be happy,"

"All of these things I do,"

"All of these things I do,"

"To get away from you,"

"Get away, run away, far away,"

"How do I,"

"Get away, run away, far away,"

"How do I,"

"Escape—")

I feel someone touch my shoulder.

I want to slap it away. I know who it is before I even turn around.

"If you ever touch me without gloves again," I murmur, "I'll cave your head in with the saliva ejector and mail what's left to your next of kin."

I slid my thumb across the screen to pause the music, before turning.

The man I'm looking at looks like a parody of a dental hygienist played by a lesser-known SNL cast member.

Colt Fathom

A weasel masquerading as a man. An absolute dickhead who somehow has a license to operate suction tubes and sharp metal hooks inside people's mouths. He just stands there, smirking. Like he's about to make my life ten times worse than it needs to be.

I can't stand this guy.

I want to drive a scaler through his eye.

No. No, let me rephrase that.

I want to gently place him into one of those antique dental chairs, something from the 1900s, the kind with leather straps and iron (preferably rusted on his end, give the idiot tetanus why don't you) cranks. I'd give him a root canal with little to no anesthetic, just the slightest bit of Novocain. Give him hope that I know would die soon.

I want to use piano wire as floss for his incisors, purposefully aiming for his gums. Watch as he tries to speak through blood. I want to feed him fluoride rinse through a turkey baster until he gargles apologies in mint flavor.

The first time I met him, he traumatized a five-year-old.

He introduced himself before asking the kid if he could see his, "bundle of cavities," a statement I found both widely inappropriate and poorly timed. The child was left in tears. The mother was horrified, practically dragging the kid out of the office as fast as possible. Giving credit where credit is due, Colt has a complete and utter disregard for basic social decency.

Colt watched them leave and then turned to me.

"I can't fathom how you still have a job," I told him.

He laughed and laughed.

He called it clever and self-assigned himself as my personal dental hygienist.

"Hey, champ," he says brightly. "Back for round what? Eighty?"

Trying to keep it lighthearted, I reply. "Only eighty? At this point, I feel like we should be exchanging Christmas cards."

"You shouldn't joke like that," he says already reaching for the tray. "Gives me the impression you actually enjoy my company."

Colt hums as he adjusts the overhead lamp. He makes an exaggerated show of angling it just right. Then, without warning, he switches it on. The blindingly bright beam blasts directly into my face.

He pauses.

"You know," he says as he inspects me with a raised brow, "you still do that thing. Every single time I turn this light on, you just stare into it like a moth. You don't flinch. You never blink. It's honestly starting to freak me out."

"I like to make your job harder."

"That explains so much."

He begins laying out his tools (at least, the ones that haven't already been laid out). A mirror, a probe, two scalers—one newly polished and the other dull. The scent of latex lingers.

He lowers the chair.

He wraps a blue plastic dental bib around my neck.

"You comfy, cupcake?" he asks 'sweetly'.

"Perfectly."

"See, now that's the spirit." He picks up and scaler and twirls it like a baton. "Positive thinking. I adore it. You're practically glowing."

"That's probably the overhead light."

"Nah, you're just radiating with joy. Really selling it."

I murmur—half to myself, half to the ceiling tiles, "I'm not well, you know. Mentally. Something is... wrong. With me."

He continues to hum.

──────◇──────​

I'm walking up Route 15, having just left Dunkling and Penney Dentistry, making my way toward Kate's Food Truck. It's parked in a gravel lot beside a hardware store. I've ordered from there before.

Today I plan on ordering their vanilla milkshake.

It's made with vanilla creemee, a Vermont-style soft-serve. It's different from your typical soft-serve, with it being denser and smoother thanks to its higher butterfat contents (usually around fourteen percent) and low overrun. They then blend it with whole milk, which gives it a rich, almost velvety consistency that you wouldn't expect from a food truck. Although technically it's a soft-serve, the texture edges into its own territory in the best way.

With them using whole milk on top of that for their milkshake, it's not exactly low-fat—but it's not over the top either. The Sodium contents are modest but nowhere near negligible, just far from excessive.

Anyway, it's good. Nice, clean flavor and no weird aftertaste.

(They use actual ice cream for their Cookie Dough milkshake, if that matters.)

I plan on getting that as a treat—more like a reward—for dealing with everyone's antics. I deserve that much, at least.

Interacting with Colt was headache-inducing. Did you know that loser is the type of dentist to talk with his patients while having his fingers and tools in their mouth?

I felt like one of those Nile crocodiles undergoing a cleaning session, mouth pried open while an Egyptian plover—Colt, in this instance—picks away remnants of plaque and tartar. And like the crocodile, I had to resist the urge to bite off Colt's fingers.

Up ahead of me, just passing the first and larger sign for Mountain High Pizza Pie, I spot a figure.

A man. By the looks of it, a homeless bum.

His hair is a filthy mess of ginger and grey, it's long enough to touch his shoulders and it's knotted into clumps. The portions that weren't matted are stringy uneven strands. His beard—same color and condition—spills unevenly down his chest.

His face is sunken and raw-looking, his skin tight and cracked, I think it's flakey. I feel disgusted looking at him. Like I'd get an allergic reaction and break out in hives if I continue making eye contact with him. And I haven't even mentioned his clothes.

His coat is the first thing I notice—an old army-green fishtail parka, still possessing its hood but frayed at the edges, the kind of jacket you'd find in a thrift bin behind a gas station that's clearly overused. Like an exposed tendon, the nylon lining pokes out through a tear in the sleeve.

Beneath that, he was wearing a vintage fleece jacket from L.L. Bean, it was unmistakable. Aztec patterns but the colors are muted by grime, rusted reds, and faded teals.

Under that, I swear, I see what looks like a James Perse waffle knit sweater. Cashmere, thermal stitching, overcast coloring, the kind marked with "relaxed luxury" or "recycled with intention". I know the exact one—$595 retail price, I own the exact one. But that just can't be. That's just not possible. There's no conceivable universe in which a man this unwashed, this ragged, this ugly, is actually wearing James Perse. The same James Perse I own. My brain refuses to process that, so, I conclude he must be wearing something that just looks like one. A knockoff. A fake. It makes me feel better.

His pants are Carhartt dungarees—although it's almost unrecognizable. It's stained, the hem is frayed and is currently being dragged along the grass, and on the knee there is a crude patch job done with black thread, unmatching with its gravel coloring. Nike Air Prestos, Photo Blue, Black. The laces are different colors and different lengths, they are not even tied together, but instead shoved into the shoe haphazardly.

I feel a flicker of unease. If I were wearing pearls, I'd be clutching them right about now.

I consider crossing the street, not out of fear, but to avoid interacting with the man. But I don't. I keep walking, straight back and centered, like I'm the only person allowed to exist on this stretch of grass and cement.

The bum stops. Or rather, he stumbles to a halt. He sways slightly. Something wet clings to the cuffs of his parka. Probably soup. Another reason why he wasn't wearing James Perse (it has holes in it).

His gaze passes over me without recognition or shame. He opens his mouth.

"Hey," he rasps. "You got a gun?"

I blink. "No," I say, frankly. It's the truth.

He nods and murmurs, "Alright. Thanks."

I keep walking, but my pace slows.

For a moment, I remember Jonah—giant prick, aspirationally trend-obsessed and sociopathic—going on the other night during our late-night calls about a "trend" he heard that began circulating in certain circles. Throwing confectionary treats at the homeless. Not to, he clarified, at. Honeybuns, Little Debbies, individually wrapped Hostess cupcakes. The occasional Ring Dings. He reasoned it was "compassionate pelting". Possibly a performance art. Definitely cruel. Very postmodern.

I remember laughing and nodding along. I don't remember anything else about that conversation, except that he said someone in Brooklyn used a Honeybun like a discus. Someone else paired that with a flamethrower.

Unfortunately, I don't have a Honeybun. Nor, regrettably, a flamethrower.

What I do have, however, are the chocolate chip cookies that Lucas gave me. They're in a Ziplock bag, neatly placed inside the left exterior jet pocket of my coat. I can feel the residual heat through the fabric.

I consider it. Really consider it.

I reached into my coat pocket and ran my thumb against it. If I timed it right if I just angled it just right at the cervical vertebrae and around its curve, I could spike the bag at the base of his skull and he'd crumple like wet paper.

Not underhand, like flicking a cigarette butt. But overhand, like a proper pitch.

Then—

My phone vibrates in the side pocket of my charcoal smoke trousers. Reaching for it, I glance at the screen.

Unknown Number. FaceTime.

Who FaceTimes from an unknown number? What kind of person lacks that much shame?

I look back at the homeless man. He's further away. Smaller. Less satisfying.

I breathe out a huff through my nose. I run a hand through my hair before accepting the FaceTime.

The camera opens, and I try not to look as disappointed as I feel.

The screen shifts. My reflection flickers in the upper right corner but the main window is filled with her.

Wednesday Addams.

There she is again. Incorporeal yet inescapably present.

She didn't greet me, but I expected that. She just stares.

From what I could see, Wednesday was wearing an oversized black hoodie. The fabric wasn't a typical cotton, it had that smooth, denser weight that you'd only get from a viscose blend. Not too shiny, but not matte either. Dropped shoulders, sleeves that ballooned slightly before tapering into clean ribbed cuffs. A fixed hood and a front zip that is partially open.

Then I saw it. I saw the trim.

Oh my god. I recognized that trim.

Thick, immaculate ribbing at the cuffs and, what I am certain of, the hem. Dense, durable, likely designer. I've seen it before. I own it. That trim—paired with a muted gunmetal zipper, minimized hardware, and barely visible embroidery along the seam—I knew instantly.

She was wearing Gucci.

Not vintage. Not fake. Current.

And she wore it like she didn't care.

The agony came quietly, tight in my chest, just under the ribs. How. How could someone wearing something that refined, that expertly cut, and treat it like just another hoodie?

And she pulled it off effortlessly.

Beneath it, she wore a striped sweater. Black and white, wide horizontal bands. Probably a combed jersey knit. Tight black crew neck that was only slightly raised.

I swallow the urge to throw up. I'm not nervous. I'm not. I'm just. Aware.

Yes. Aware. That's the word.

I say, "Hello," because my mouth needs something to do.

She mirrors it, after a pause, as if she is testing the word on her tongue. "Hello."

I wish she wouldn't look at me like that. I wish she'd roll her eyes. Scoff. Do anything.

Instead, her silence gnaws at my composure.

I grasp for something unsettling. Just to keep the conversation going. Something.

"Did you know," I say, conversationally, "Ted Bundy's last words were 'Give my love to my family and friends.'" I let that sit. Let the weight of it press down between us.

She doesn't blink.

"Would that be your last words?" she asks.

Her voice was still flat. Her tone, however, wasn't accusing or lilt.

I smile because I'm supposed to. It feels wrong. My teeth feel like glass.

"I was hoping it'd be yours."

And there. Just for a second. I think something stirs in her expressionless face. Never a smile. Never a twitch.

She's still staring.

I'm suddenly reminded about how loud my own heartbeat is. I hate that I can hear it.

I think. I'm losing it.

No. No—I'm terrified.

She's not even pretending to be human.

She isn't even trying.

It makes me feel. Less.

Pitifully, I try to reclaim ground.

"You're at least consistent," I say.

No change.

"Unblinking," I add. "Monochrome. A touch anachronistic, but in a self-aware way. Impressive, really."

No reaction.

God, what do you want?

But. I don't think she wants anything. That's what makes it worse. I have nothing to hook onto. No angle to approach.

Why did she even call me?

"You've been thinking about me," I offer casually. I'm being smug.

She doesn't deny it.

But she makes no effort to confirm it either.

She's killing me.

I hate her. I want to crack her like an egg. Spill out her secrets onto the floor and catalog them. Pull her apart like a crow pecking out the glint from a corpse's eye.

But I also. I want to know what's behind her eyes.

"I'm surprised you called," I say.

"I was curious," she replies.

"About me?"

She fucking shrugs.

That ambiguous little gesture. It's maddening. It tells me nothing. It kills me.

"I'm not like other people," I say, because I want her to know. I need her to.

"I know."

I blink. I didn't expect that.

She knows?

She knows?

I feel a pulse near my temple.

"So," I began, leaning forward, "am I still... interesting?"

Silence.

I'm panicking.

Then—

"You're...a controlled burn."

I pause.

"Controlled?"

"For now."

I laugh. "That sounds like a threat."

"It's not," she says. "It's a prediction."

I hate how calm she is.

I hate how I'm not.

My throat's dry. My mind's racing. I want to say something clever, but all I can think of is how I don't want this call to end.

She's watching me drown in silence again.

I shuffle my feet. "Are you going to say anything else?"

"Are you?"

Touché.

I grip the phone tighter.

God, I want to throw it. I want to ask her what color her blood is. I want to ask what she'd look like smiling. I want to ask so much.

My mind stutters. Something about it feels important.

The cookies. In my pocket.

They were burning. Not in a literal sense, but in the same way a spotlight burns when it's turned on you, or how a guilty conscience sears across the back of your mind, over and over again like a record.

I didn't want them anymore.

"Do..." I blurt out suddenly, my breath sharp and caught in my throat. "Do you want, uh, cookies?"

She blinks for the first time I've seen it.

"Cookies?" she asked.

Shrugging, I pull out the Ziplock bag from my pocket and show her. "Yeah."

Her gaze flickers towards it. "Why?"

I could lie.

I could say it was an impulse. I could say it was a meaningless act. I could even say it was a mistake.

But, I had a feeling she'd know.

"Just because I wanted to."

It was Lucas's words that I had borrowed. But for some reason, it felt like the only thing that made sense.

Wednesday didn't respond.

Instead, she simply looked at the bag. Measuring it. Or maybe she was measuring me.

Her fingers twitched into view, and I was able to make out the black nail polish adorning them. Deliberation.

I hate this.

I felt like I was being studied. Dissected maybe. Slowly.

Looking away, I opened my mouth again, unthinkingly.

"I could lace one of them with cyanide."

It slipped out too easily. Too naturally. I wasn't even sure if I meant it as a joke.

Maybe I did. Maybe I didn't. Maybe I just wanted to say something that would get her to react more than this.

Her eyes moved to meet my own.

There was no alarm, no judgment, no horror.

But then—

Barely.

Just. Barely.

The corner of her mouth. There was a flicker.

It was so small. It was so slight. Her lips curved.

It barely counted as a smirk. No, I'm sure if anyone else saw it they wouldn't count it. It was the kind of expression that didn't show teeth. The kind you had to convince yourself you imagined. But, it was right there.

My stomach flipped.

It was the worst kind of reward. A terrible, shitty reward.

Because now I'd chase for it, again.

And again.

And again.

I hover my thumb over the red button.

"Wednesday," I tried to say calmly. "Say something haunting."

A pause.

"Goodbye for now."

Just that. Nothing cruel. Nothing cryptic. Just goodbye.

It ruins me.

I end the call.

I'm gagging.

On the verge of vomiting.

Idly, I wonder if the Dollar General near Kate's Food Truck sells cyanide.

──────◇──────​

POV: Enid Sinclair

I blinked once. Then twice, just to make sure I wasn't hallucinating.

"Huh," I said, tilting my head to the side. It looked so... strange? Very uncanny.

Wednesday Addams was eating.

And not in some theatrical, ironic way, like biting into a raw onion to prove a point (I now know a fraction of Yoko's pain for garlic). No. My Roomie was sitting stiff-backed at her desk, dressed in her usual black-and-white clothes, eating a cookie. Like a normal person. The cookie looked homemade, chocolate chip, that somehow made the whole moment feel even more surreal.

It didn't fit. She didn't even glance up. Just took another bite that fundamentally shattered my entire understanding of her existence.

Wednesday Addams was eating a cookie.

There was something deeply wrong about it. Like seeing a pair of pants walking around without anyone in them.

"I didn't think you actually ate food, Wednesday." My voice came out more surprised—and, okay, maybe a little horrified—than I meant it to.

She looked at me while chewing. Slowly. Before swallowing. "Is it really so shocking I possess a digestive system, Enid? Or were you under the belief that I undergo Photosynthesis?"

"I mean... kind of?" I leaned forward slightly, watching her. "You always skip lunch, and I don't see you eat any snacks. I thought maybe you didn't need to, well, eat? Like some Outcasts. I figured you just... I don't know. Existed?"

She took another bite, the crunch was oddly loud. I think she did that on purpose. "The faceless ones do not eat either. But they also lack a mouth. So I assume their options are limited."

My mouth dropped. "Okay, rude! You can't call them that."

"It's not an insult. It's an anatomical truth." She said, vaguely amused.

"Well, it's super offensive. They have a name, okay? Its..." My voice trailed off. My brain was totally blank. My cheeks flushed.

"I can't believe I forgot," I muttered. "It's... it's super respectful."

Wednesday looked mildly thoughtful. I think? It was hard because she didn't show it. "What is it then?"

"... Shut up."

Wednesday didn't press.

I glared at her across the room. "Just so you know," I huffed, "your entire argument hinging on the fact they don't eat? It's wrong. They do eat."

──────◇──────​

Comments: Also, if I remember correctly, Wednesday's grandmother in both the movie's and the Addam's Family 1977 Special, poison the families food—so I thought Wednesday might appreciate that. Also, Also, if anyone has music recommendation, that'd be great (I'm having trouble figuring out what type of songs/music Patrick would listen to)! Please comment! Also, Also, if anyone has music recommendation, that'd be great (I'm having trouble figuring out what type of songs/music Patrick would listen to)!

Here is the music that Patrick was listening to (tell me if the link doesn't work)!

[thegreyjester]

He’s so silly.

I absolutely adore his stance.

The dorkiest image from the book.

[thegreyjester]

(SORRY FOR THE BAD IMAGES! I’m terrible at pictures!!)

Book Review: AMERICAN PSYCHO How to Make a Killing in Business… and Life by Patrick Bateman (aka Robb Pearlman)

The summary offered by the book: Looking for the best way to get that coveted reservation at Dorsia? The dos and dont's of choosing a business card? How to provide deep-dive backstories on the importance of pop music groups like Genesis or Huey Lewis and the News? Need advice on how to slash the competition, deal with the challenges of letting work bleed into personal life, or dispose of your rivals? Filled with iconic images of the American psycho himself, this compendium of "tips" draws upon the dark, campy humor of the 2000 hit film. Patrick Bateman's How To Make a Killing in Business... and Life is the perfect gift for fans of film, horror, and humor.

Now... if you were expecting a super-serious book that gives more introspection about Patrick's thoughts or character... it's not. The book is composed of three things. Quotes from the movie/book, edited images, and tips that make references from the story.

Really, the Foreword accurately describes what type of book you are getting into, here:

I LIVE IN THE AMERICAN GARDENS BUILDING ON West 81st Street on the 11th floor. My name is Patrick Bateman. You may have heard of me. But did you hear that I'm utterly insane? Here's the thing: you're not terribly important to me, but I know that I'm important to you. Important enough for you to buy this book. I guess I should thank you for that. So, because I understand why you'd want to be me, here's what I'm going to do: I'm going to tell you how to be just like me. But before we get started, you should know that there is an idea of a Patrick Bateman. Some kind of abstraction. But there is no real me.

Now you have an idea of what this book is like, it largely just quotes/regurgitates quotes from the movie as tips.

Page 10 talks about his morning routine—nothing new is added. Page 14 is what he told Jean when she offered him ice cream. The 19th page is the bold-striped shirt talk he had faked before Kimball entered his office. Page 20 is the continuation of 19.

However! That is not to say that the book just blatantly copies everything! Sure, while it is heavily quoting the movie/book (the Killer Tunes segment on pages 73-74, 78, and 80, to my immense disappointment, just blatantly quotes the novel and book, with few tweaks), there are original things from this book, one of my favorite being this:

Like a slaughterhouse processing tons of meat annually, corporations can churn through dozens of employees every fiscal year, It can be practically impossible to remember everyone, let alone care enough about them to notice when they're gone. Your colleagues, however, should all know who you are. But if a colleague mistakes you for someone else—even if that someone is an idiot—don't take immediate action. Rather than biting their head off, gather enough embarrassing personal and professional ammunition to humiliate them at a later date. This means disarm them with charm until you're ready to stick the knife in. (Pg. 49)

Personally, I think the book gets better on pages 41 and onward. However! That doesn't mean if find what was before it, or after it unfunny! I personally loved these:

It's not the '80s anymore, so you can totally lean into the whole Yale thing. (Pg. 29)

If a colleague has wronged you, shoot them! An email, ha ha. If that doesn't work, report them to HR. (Pg. 53)

Remember, nobody will ever truly understand who you are or what you do. And since they won't know the difference between mergers and acquisitions and murders and executions you might as well slap them in the face with a whole lot of fantastical-sounding truths about yourself. (Pg. 95)

Now, before writing this, I read a review of the book from Amazon, and I understand their grievances. I can see where they're coming from. This book has multiple glaring errors, especially for fans who know the original text and love the movie well. That being said, I still find it very amusing to read. Especially on certain parts. So, if you're looking for a deep commentary on or a faithful rendition of Bateman or an analysis of the movie/book, this book would leave you disappointed. But if you're after a quick laugh, you might find it here.

Also, Also. My favorite picture from the book is this. He's such a goober.

44 out of the 116 pages (Including the Killer Tune segment) are actual text, discounting the images and the quote segments which have bigger and different fonts/colors.

Publisher: Rizzoli Universe

Rating: 4 stars | ★★★★

Reasoning: They could've done so much more! Personally, I utterly loved it when they strayed a bit on different subjects (Patrick's a member of an HOA/condo board and I freaking utterly adored the secretary segment, which I’ll post if someone asks) or occasionally made a reference. But I really wished they had done something different for the Killer Tunes segment! Like, like, a new take on the music or even different music altogether! Hell—even a subtle change like in the apartheid talk in the WAR AND PIECE segment. Patrick literally said it wasn't the 1980s anymore! GAH! I both love it and hate it! But I'll definitely use some parts of it for fanfic ideas. Anyway—that's my (un)professional review!

[thegreyjester]

Ohmygosh, I saw this post on Tumblr a while back about this book coming out—like, immediately fixated on it—and then I checked and the Barnes & Noble near me actually had it in stock! Knew for better or worse I had to get it!!

[thegreyjester]

Gomez’s smile didn’t falter—if anything, it grew even larger. Ah, what verve! The audacity! To compare his beloved family to that of the Sawyers… positively flattering.

And his question—how thoughtful of Patrick to inquire! An even rarer trait in hosts these days.

Gomez then recalled the comment Patrick made. "Ah—you said 'like me,' didn’t you?" He scooted his chair closer to him. "Fascinating! Tell me—do you sign memorabilia? My son, Pugsley, is rather fond of collectibles. He'd be overjoyed to have something authentic!"

He couldn’t blame the fellow for asking. Really, just one look at Morticia, and people always assume the worst. Or rather, the best, depending on your taste.

Gomez hummed.

How to best phrase this delicately…

Hmm.

Bah. Delicacy wasn’t nearly as fun.

"Oh no, no, mon ami," he said good-naturedly—radiating warmth. "We’re not serial killers. I can assure you—we’re no such thing."

He leaned in—or rather, tried to. The ropes did make it hard to do.

"Quite the contrary, we've never been convicted." He whispers in a conspiratorial tone.

Well. There was that time when Fester was imprisoned in a Tibetan Monastery, but Gomez doesn't count that. Fester was all but happy to serve his time, remarking that it was a spiritual retreat.

He continued, more brightly, "In fact, both my beloved Morticia and dear brother Fester have been acquitted! Repeatedly!"

"Including—though not limited to—arson, grave robbing, disturbing the peace, attempted murder, successful murder, impersonating an exorcist and really how were we supposed to know you need a license, witchcraft, public indecency, suspicion of necromancy, and an unfortunate incident involving the Bolivian ambassador’s toupee…" He let out a sigh, how nostalgic. "Ah, the court transcripts alone are worth framing."

He even got to keep their courtroom sketches!

He was not boasting, only delightfully recounting family trivia.

He beamed.

"But you, my good man. You understand the value of a proper setup! The care—I can see the polished gleam of your tools—and the drama of the storm."

He leaned as close as he could. "Why, I daresay you could've given Uncle Knick-Knack a run for his money in terms of presentation. And that man once mounted a dinner party on a funeral barge."

His eyes lit up suddenly.

"Do you have a favorite method?" He asked, practically vibrating with enthusiasm.

"Oh—don’t tell me. Let me guess!"

"Something slow… personal… with a bit of artistry? Abstract maybe?"

Gomez thought his host seemed the type to appreciate a portrait by Francis Bacon.

He nodded. "No judgment, of course. I’m simply dying to know."

Then, as though suddenly remembered, perked up.

"Ah—how rude of me. I've forgotten to share mine, no?"

"Personally, I've always adored fencing."

He paused before adding.

"My lawyer has an excellent lunge."

A low thunderstorm rumbled across the City that Never Sleeps. The lightning flashed through the sliding glass window of his apartment, casting dark shadows across the blank white walls. He gazed at the view he had from the balcony, carefully studying every raindrop that made its way down the glass. He imagined the raindrops as pathetic little puny souls that would eventually evaporate into nothing. That's what he would do with this entire city if he had the powers to do so. But alas, no amount of money could give him control over the human soul. Oh well. Human bodies and lives are enough, he supposed.

A dark smirk made its way across his lips, revealing sharp, white teeth as the thunder rumbled, the grey watercolor reflecting in his hazel eyes.

"My, what a rough storm it is out there," his deep voice gave a harsh laugh. "I bet you're glad to be safe inside, now aren't you?"

Patrick turned around to face the figure behind him, bound to one of his chairs with harsh rope wrapped around and a gag in the mouth.

"You should thank me for my generosity..."

Starter- Open to all ;)

[thegreyjester]

Gomez’s eyes sparkled as he saw Patrick place a cigar in his mouth—La Plata.

Ah, La Plata.

A fine choice. Bold, decadent, just a touch blasphemous on the exhale.

He recognized it immediately. He had packed one himself. A shame, really. His was nestled in the corner of his travel case back at the Martinique Hotel. It was a treat he had been saving. He had intended to smoke it after dinner perhaps while reminiscing over his latest honeymoon in a crypt in Granada.

The Martinique had been a wonderful experience—lead-painted walls, creaky floors, a bellhop with a limp. Every night, the plumbing moaned like tortured spirits. Utterly charming.

The moment the gag was torn away, Gomez gave a low, thoughtful hum. "Ah, splendid. Thank you, old sport. Although you could've waited a little longer, I was just about to get lockjaw."

"Did you actually fucking thank me?" Patrick had asked.

Gomez’s gasps with delight. “I did! And I meant it too. It's so rare to find a host with such… dramatic flair.”

And it was rare. Gomez was, by nature, an appreciative guest—but this? This was something special. His host really put effort here.

When Patrick had called him a “freak masochist,” Gomez blinked before smiling fondly.

Well. Yes. He was.

He caught the glint of tools laid out on the glass table.

What. A. Spread.

Really, his host was making this evening a treat.

Pliers, predictable but Gomez didn't mind. Nails? How fun! But really, the electric handsaw was worth admiring.

'Marvelous craftsmanship,' Gomez thought. Technology truly has come a long way. Of course, he personally preferred more traditional methods, a clean slice with a straight razor or lovingly maintaining a bone saw. There was something artful about it. But still… he could appreciate innovation when he saw it.

His gaze returned to Patrick with nothing but warm appreciation.

"You must tell me where you acquired that saw," he urged enthusiastically. Like how one was to discuss antique dueling pistols with old acquaintances. "Bosch, is it? Or DeWalt? A bit heavy-handed, but oh, the torque…”

He let out a wistful sigh. “Morticia’s always said I ought to modernize. Though she does love the sound of a manual cleaver echoing through the halls—so nostalgic.”

Gomez leaned back—well, as far as the rope allowed him—and sighed in bliss.

“Lovely weather, charming host, a bit of bondage… what’s not to enjoy?”

If this was meant to be torture, Gomez could only tip his metaphorical hat to Patrick Bateman.

A low thunderstorm rumbled across the City that Never Sleeps. The lightning flashed through the sliding glass window of his apartment, casting dark shadows across the blank white walls. He gazed at the view he had from the balcony, carefully studying every raindrop that made its way down the glass. He imagined the raindrops as pathetic little puny souls that would eventually evaporate into nothing. That's what he would do with this entire city if he had the powers to do so. But alas, no amount of money could give him control over the human soul. Oh well. Human bodies and lives are enough, he supposed.

A dark smirk made its way across his lips, revealing sharp, white teeth as the thunder rumbled, the grey watercolor reflecting in his hazel eyes.

"My, what a rough storm it is out there," his deep voice gave a harsh laugh. "I bet you're glad to be safe inside, now aren't you?"

Patrick turned around to face the figure behind him, bound to one of his chairs with harsh rope wrapped around and a gag in the mouth.

"You should thank me for my generosity..."

Starter- Open to all ;)

[thegreyjester]

What a lovely day.

Gomez Addams breathed in deeply through his nose, savoring the scent of both rain and ozone that managed to filter through the cracks of the window. The peal of thunder was just the icing on the cake. Strong, moody, and a bit temperamental? Practically heavenly. A storm like this would've had Lurch playing his harpsichord by candlelight, while Morticia—ah, Cara Mia, oh how I wish you were here—would have tended to her carnivorous plants in the garden.

At that moment he considered calling Fester. Just to ask how the weather was on his end. Fester absolutely adored lightning, and if there was even the faintest chance he would be struck today, Gomez would be elated to tell his brother. It was such a missed opportunity. Still, what a shame to be so far from home during such spectacular weather.

Hearing Patrick's voice, Gomez tilted his head to the side, considering the remark.

Safe? Inside? Oh, how dreary. He personally preferred being out in the thick of it. Who wouldn't want to dare nature to strike them down in a glorious blaze of white-hot voltage?

Really, there was something honest about the outdoors.

But, as he was a guest in another man's household, manners had to prevail.

So, with the utmost grace, and not a single trace of sarcasm, he grinned politely and offered a muffled:

"Mmmf—mmh—nk yuh."

It was a bit hard to, speak, with a gag. He hoped he wasn't being impolite.

After all, it was only right of him to show appreciation for such wondrous hospitality... even if his host had a tan.

But hey, people could be weirder.

(I didn't know whether or not to make it a repost or an ask—if you prefer the latter, I can do that next time!)

A low thunderstorm rumbled across the City that Never Sleeps. The lightning flashed through the sliding glass window of his apartment, casting dark shadows across the blank white walls. He gazed at the view he had from the balcony, carefully studying every raindrop that made its way down the glass. He imagined the raindrops as pathetic little puny souls that would eventually evaporate into nothing. That's what he would do with this entire city if he had the powers to do so. But alas, no amount of money could give him control over the human soul. Oh well. Human bodies and lives are enough, he supposed.

A dark smirk made its way across his lips, revealing sharp, white teeth as the thunder rumbled, the grey watercolor reflecting in his hazel eyes.

"My, what a rough storm it is out there," his deep voice gave a harsh laugh. "I bet you're glad to be safe inside, now aren't you?"

Patrick turned around to face the figure behind him, bound to one of his chairs with harsh rope wrapped around and a gag in the mouth.

"You should thank me for my generosity..."

Starter- Open to all ;)

[thegreyjester]

On Wednesday's, We Kill (Wednesday/American Psycho) Chapter 2

Fandom: Wednesday (TV 2022), American Psycho (2000)

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Relationships: Patrick Bateman/Wednesday Addams (NO LONGER Platonic! I've made my mind.)

Additional Tags: Patrick Bateman & Wednesday Addams Patrick Bateman Wednesday Addams Tyler Galpin Lucas Walker (Wednesday TV) Jonah (Wednesday TV) Mentioned Noble Walker Mentioned Donovan Galpin - Character Larissa Weems Carter (Wednesday TV) Platonic Relationships Ambiguous/Open Ending Patrick Bateman is an Asshole internally Violent Thoughts Obsessive Behavior Existential Crisis Internal Conflict Unreliable Narrator Patrick Bateman is at Fault Wednesday Addams is Bad at Feelings Lucas Walker Tries Barista Tyler Galpin Character Study

Summary: “But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve. For daws to peck at: I am not what I am.” - Iago from William Shakespeare's play, "Othello."

A self-loathing, narcissistic loser meets his match with a stuck-up, unlikeable goth.

Comments: GAH! I spent too much time on this—much more than needed! SORRY! Anyway, I was listening to a lot of Michael Jackson while writing this, so it definitely influenced the music monologue in the beginning. Though my favorite song from the Invincible album has to be "Heaven Can Wait", and my favorite from all his albums has to be "In the Closet"—but I definitely can't see Patrick listening to either.

Word count: 13,000+

Fic under the line break, and it can be read on AO3 and Fanfiction.net under the same name.

AO3: Woe Baked in Every Bite

Fanfic: Woe Baked in Every Bite

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"Guess I was angry that my dad got humiliated on Outreach Day. Wanted payback. But then after we did it, I kind of felt like crap. I realized I needed to wipe the board, you know? Start over. If that makes any sense." — Lucas Waker

"At first, I'd wake up naked. Covered in blood. No idea what happened. But over time, I started to remember. Everything. The sound of their screams. The panic in their eyes. A fear so primal I could taste it. And it was delicious." — Tyler Galpin

"It's so much worse (and more pleasurable) taking the life of someone who has hit his or her prime, who has beginnings of a full history, a spouse, a network of friends, a career, whose death will upset far more people whose capacity for grief is limitless than a child's would, perhaps ruining many more lives than just the meaningless, puny death of this boy." — Patrick Bateman

"... That's kinda scary." — Lucas Walker

──────◇──────​

"You can't believe it, you can't conceive it..." Do you like Michael Jackson's last studio album, Invincible? I personally enjoyed it. I found his early works to be a bit too indulgent for my taste, although I am able to recognize their undeniable impact. Thriller and Bad are undeniably iconic, highly revered by the music industry, and practically untouchable—no one can or is denying that. At least, no one with half a functioning brain would argue otherwise.

"And you can't touch me, 'cause I'm untouchable (you can't touch me)..." They are commercially groundbreaking, with Thriller selling a million copies in its first week, more so after the "Thriller" music video was released, solidifying its place in history as the best-selling album of all time. And Bad? Bad—that album sold over 2 million copies in its debut week, and later went on to be one of the best-selling albums ever, it was, of course, to be expected, after all, it was bound to be a success due to audience anticipation, with it being primed to be the successor to Thriller.

"And I know you hate it, and you can't take it (yeah)..." Yet, despite being a commercial success, Bad is viewed as constantly living in Thriller's shadow. Some critics even dismiss it unfairly because it falls short of inflated and near-unattainable expectations set by its predecessor, which many consider to be Jackson's magnum opus. It's as if they wanted Jackson to compete with himself.

"You'll never break me..." What they fail to even realize is that Bad surpassed Thriller in certain aspects, such as having more number-one hits (five in total, if I recall correctly) compared to Thriller which only had two, those being "Bille Jean" and "Beat It". Yet, despite that, people continue to overlook Bad's accomplishments, brushing them aside in favor of comparing it to the juggernaut that was Thriller.

"You can't let it break, 'cause I'm unbreakable..." Bad, especially, has suffered undeserved criticism over the years, especially when compared to Thriller. Sure, Bad may have sold 30 million copies less compared to Thriller, but so what? It doesn't diminish the greatness of the latter's. That's like sneering at Michelangelo because he couldn't top his paintings on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. It's like criticizing Da Vinci for not painting another Mona Lisa. Some people simply can not separate Bad from the utter monster that is Thriller's overwhelming success.

"You can try to stop me, but it won't do a thing..." But when Invincible came out in 2001, that's when I thought Jackson really came into his own again, both artistically and commercially. Of course, it's easy to understand why people didn't or even fully appreciate the album—why the reception was lukewarm. It was Jackson peeling back the layers of his public persona, revealing something much more intimate, but that's what makes the album so intriguing.

"No matter what you do, I'm still gonna be here (Be here)" It possesses such great tracks too. Tracks that have been easily lost compared to the frenzy of his previous hits. For instance, tale the song, "Threatened". I can not help but be enamored by its inclusion of lines borrowed from Rob Sterling's Twilight Zone. Specifically, it's from the episode "It's a Good Life," Season 3, Episode 8, to be exact.

"Through all your lies and silly games..." But, If I were to give my honest opinion, I would much prefer the opening track of the album, that being "Unbreakable". Sure, while both songs criticize the media and center on themes of isolation, "Unbreakable," in my personal opinion, just takes the lead. There's something about the lyrics that resonates with me on a deeper level, or maybe I can relate to it given its closer relate date compared to Jackson's other albums.

"I'ma still remain the same, I'm (Uh) un—(Uh)—breakable (What? Uh)" It's different. It provides such a powerful statement, perfectly fitting for the difficult moment in his life when he was anything but invincible.

"A lime to a lemon, my D.C. women..." My hand reaches for the shower handle, gripping it tightly. There was no real satisfaction from the polished smoothness of its chrome coloring. It is strange, a valve whose appearance looks more like a door handle or maybe a faucet's lever. Either way, it serves its purpose like any other. I turn the handle, stopping the flow of hot water.

The temperature changed from hot to cold for a moment, a jarring contrast I could feel across my skin. I stop there unmoved, letting the water run and drip down my body. A pool formed briefly at my feet before spiraling into the drain, a testament to the impermanence of my presence. It was a process, a mundane process, a habitual act, thoughtless by nature.

If I had to make a critique about the song "Unbreakable," it would be Christopher Wallace's portion. Michael makes an exemplary attempt transitioning into it, and I will give him credit for that—he really does try to make it work within the song's structure, likely forming it around it. But, personally, I don't think rap has a place in the song, let alone the album. Not because I don't like rap—I don't—but because Biggie's verse wasn't even made for the track. It was sampled from an already existing song, "You Can't Stop the Reign" from 1996, by Shaquille O'Neal.

I pulled the white shower curtain, the fabric of it sliding against the rod, making a slight rasp. It served as a barrier to ensure that no water pouring from the fixed shower head escaped the shower. The shower head itself was far more engaging, its brand wasn't identifiable, though judging by the cheap adjustable dial, it must've been something garish—like a Waterpik or Glacier Bay. As for the curtain, I'm far more accustomed to glass panes as shower partitions, but I'm adapting. It's an unfortunate minor adjustment, but not unbearable.

It's a bit inconvenient though. There is no towel bar attached to the shower. There is one, but it is mounted on the far side of the bathroom. Thankfully, there is a wall hook near the curtain, providing a somewhat practical substitute. I assumed such—rightly—when I had placed my towel there earlier. Reaching for it now, I pulled the towel down before wrapping it securely around my waist, ensuring my modest before stepping outside of the shower.

I approached the sink. The mirror is foggy, and my reflection is obscured.

The music continues to play. I listen, idly.

But I am unable to hear a thing.

My hands moved to slick back my hair, each motion deliberate—removing the obstruction my hair posed from my face, even though I could not see it in the mirror. I don't need to. I am aware of every strand, of every misplaced imperfection. I know it. There is no hesitation in my movements as I move on to my routine. I am methodical, swift, and precise.

Once I felt satisfied that my hair would not be a problem, I reached for La Mer's "Essence Foaming Cleanser". I've been told that the bottle was redesigned with sustainability in mind, with it being recyclable. But what truly matters is the formula: Miracle Broth, Tourmaline, The Comforting Ferment. Excellent. According to the manufacturer, it promised to purify the skin and free it from dirt and pollution.

Just earlier, in the shower, I used Agustinus Bader's "The Cream Cleansing Gel". It is a dual cream and gel, non-foaming and non-comedogenic type of texture. There is no fragrance. None of that nonsense. It cleanses impurities without stripping the skin of its natural oils, it hydrates without leaving any residue, it tightens pores, and it maintains skin elasticity. TFC8 (Trigger Factor Complex) supports cellular renewal. These words mean absolutely nothing. These words mean absolutely everything.

The results matter.

Anyway, my hand squeezes the bottle of cleanser, producing a measured amount in my palm, roughly the size of a quarter. I place the bottle down on the porcelain countertop as my hands move toward the faucet. I turned the valve, and water began pouring out in a thin stream. Cold. I splash the cold water onto the cream, and then rub my palms against each other, transforming the cream, emulsifying it, and thinning it into a frothy consistency.

I apply it to my face with a clinical level of meticulousness. My fingertips move in a slow, circular motion, avoiding the tender areas under my eye. Instead, I focus on my face's natural lines. My fingers linger on my temple, pressing lightly, as if I could knead away the tension. I do not push. I do not allow myself to push harder.

I can't see myself. Not clearly—only a vague outline, a blur, a presence without definition—just a smear of colors, a smudge. I lift my hand, dragging the back of it across the glass in an attempt to wipe it clean, but it refuses, resisting. It becomes even more of a blur, and the condensation continues to cling to the mirror, and I grimace.

I opted to rinse my hands under the tap. The cold water, still running from when I applied the cleanser, bites at my skin—sharp, almost painful. I withdrawal. Droplets clung to my fingers. I shake them off, flicking them in a practiced manner. Some splatter against the sink, these tiny blots of moisture dotting the porcelain. Gradually, the warmth returns, albeit delayed and unwelcome. The whole thing felt chaotic. Messy. I regretted not using a towel.

I wipe the mirror again, this time using my palm. Pressing harder. Having it drag against the glass, smearing the moisture that clung to it. Almost aggressively.

A face emerged.

If it could be called that.

There is a feeling that envelopes me. It's not a jolt of shock or an assault of fear—no, something worse. Something slow. It seeps, burrowing deep, and settles. Its tendrils curl around me, coiling around my ribs, like rot settling into the marrow of my bones.

It's unpleasant.

The face I see in the mirror is nothing more than a mockery, a grotesque and wrong approximation of human anatomy. It is not human, not really. It is a perversion, a parody of what should be natural. Its features are where they should be, with it being arranged in a manner that should inspire a sense of familiarity, but they don't. The proportions are correct, the structure vaguely makes sense but there's a disconnect, an undeniable dissonance between what I see in the mirror and what I expect to see. Something is missing.

It was not a mask, it isn't. Though it should be. Despite its uncanny resemblance, at least a mask makes an attempt to conceal or deceive. It's a face, but even calling it that felt dishonest. A face should appear natural, its expressions and emotions appearing in its entirety. A totality that gives an audience an idea of a position. This thing, shaped in the mirror, conveyed nothing. Lacking in both intent, meaning, and emotion. Only displaying a level of abstraction, far removed from what it tries to present itself as.

The skin, if it had any, was smooth. Stretched tight over the rigid structure that was not flesh or bone. The color? Uncertain. Pale, pink, gray. There was no pores to be seen on its complexion that lacked any hair, not a single strand. I could make out only a faint, yet distinct line that ran from the bridge of the nose to the forehead, resembling something like a frontal suture. A detail that means something. Though I can't quite grasp what.

It's familiar. Almost uncomfortably so.

And the eyes.

There aren't any.

Just hollow, empty, gapping sockets. Despite that, it isn't a skull. No, not quite. The nose is there, straight, nothing crooked. Beneath it, the mouth is there—its lips shut and pressed into a thin, yet colorless line. Shut, expressionless, not quite a frown, not quite a smirk. There's a hint of a curve around the corner of the mouth but there's nothing that can be read, nothing substantial. It suggests an expression but contains none. A mockery of an expression.

Red.

Not streaking. Not dripping. Not bleeding into the skin. Just there. Drenched, pouring, smeared. The rest of the face remains untouched—the nose, the mouth, the jaw, the chin. The contrast is stark. Red against pale. Against pink. Against grey.

And still—

Something is missing.

The upper portion, saturated. The lower, vacant.

I stare. The thing in the mirror, lacking any eyes, stares back. I do not mock it. That would imply that I am, at some level, engaged by it. Instead, I mock the idea that this could have ever belonged to me. That this could be mine. That this could, in any sort of way, be a reflection of myself.

It is not.

I do not recognize it as such.

There would have to be something. A feeling. An understanding. Some profound realization that claws its way into my consciousness. A demand for acknowledgment. A weight. Shaped as an epiphany. A revolution that should, by all accounts, be arriving—for me to even consider this to be myself.

But there is nothing.

The red coloring remains. Still saturated. Still poured. Still smeared. The grotesque "mask", lacking meaning, lacking in context, lacking in consequence, remains. The thing in the mirror does not move. It does not breathe. It does not recognize me any more than it should.

It is separate from me.

It displays a level of individuality that I lack.

It is a horror. Primal. Primitive. Stripped of any pretense, of anything that could make the image more palatable. I should feel disturbed. I should be unraveling. I should be someone else after seeing this monstrosity.

But I don't.

I am not someone else.

There has never been anything.

I tilt my head. The reflection follows.

"I've never looked better."

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I currently reside in the Sinclair Inn Bed & Breakfast Hotel—a quaint little 4-star establishment.

Now, don't you misunderstand me; it's not terrible. Let's get that clear.

But, let's not kid ourselves, it's no Pierre Hotel.

How could it be? It pales in comparison to the utter grandeur of the Pierre Hotel. The Pierre practically oozes sophistication, its rich and illustrious history—dating back to 1930. Its halls are and were graced by the likes of prestigious residents. Icons like—Jacqueline Kennedy, for God's sake. Jacqueline Kennedy.The history, the prestige, the iconography.

I mean, come on.

Sinclair couldn't possibly compete.

You simply can not replicate that level of prestige. You can try, but you'll fail. Miserably.

By comparison, the Sinclair Inn might as well be a Motel 6.

And yet, here I am.

Lodged at the Sinclair Inn, a four-star hotel. Four stars. A solid rating—until you realize it could've been five, should've been five. If not for some shitty mediocre reviews by losers with poor taste.

By technicality, it's rated 4.9 stars. And I'm supposed to pretend it's the same. Generously, you could round it up to five, but deep down, we all know better. That's pity math. A lie people tell themselves to feel better about their mediocrity.

The situation just gets worse.

I couldn't even secure the room I wanted. Room 1. The Victorian-themed room. A room far beyond the utterly laughable mediocrity offered by the Sinclair. It had a real bathroom. Spacious. Large. Expansive. The kind that had a roll-in shower, practical, with grab bars because apparently, some people require that kind of accommodation.

Not that I needed it, of course. I wanted it because it was larger, and far more refined.

Naturally, it was booked out. Completely.

Instead, I'm assigned to Room 6. A "family-friendly" suite. Multi-bed, the kind with extra beds (What the hell am I supposed to do with an extra bed? Stare at it?). It's the kind of room that is desperate to cater the lowest common denominator—the type you'd find in an airport motel.

The only solace I could find was that I was depriving a family from spending the night here (though, considering I booked it out for a year, it felt more like a small victory).

And yet, even that solace is fleeting.

It's still offensive, really. In particular, I found it to be an affront to my entire existence. Reduced to admiring utter redundancy? A direct, and personal attack.

I did not want this. I did not choose this. It was forced upon me. Dressed up as a choice, disguised as an option, but it isn't one. A cheap compromise masquerading as an equivalent exchange. A compromise that placed me into a position that was beneath me.

And now I'm stuck in a residence that doesn't suit me.

It is as discomforting as an ill-fitting Zegna suit, tight in all of the wrong places, loose where it matters.

But—no. It doesn't matter. Not really. It shouldn't matter. So it won't.

I will leave. I will remove myself. From this place. From this farce of luxury. From its transient, ridiculous connections. I will discard them all. Like I always do. They are temporary. The room. The walls. The people. All of it.

I sit down on the chair by the window.

It's fairly simple—a parson's chair—ergonomically designed, with four study, dark wooden legs. No armrests. Both the seat and backrest were upholstered and stitched in a manner that gave the illusion the cushion of the chair was separate from the frame.

It possessed a floral-patterned print. An explosion of feverish vivid colors. A monstrosity.

One of the flowers—no. It wasn't a flower. Not really. The shape, the design looks oddly like a peacock.

Unintentional. I'm certain. But the thought lodges itself in my brain, flooding it.

I continued to stare at it.

Studying it. Scrutinizing it. Observing it.

Pink, red, green—no, dark green, light green. The leaves were detailed. To an unnerving degree. I could make out the veins, the midribs, the petioles. Every portion of the blades was transitioning from green to light green. The designer seemed to be obsessed with minute details.

But for what? Why? Why?

It was unnecessary. These shitty flourishes. Pointless in terms of intricacy—it's nothing but a hideous and utterly meaningless embellishment.

My gaze shifts. The extra bed.

It just sits there. Taking up space.

But I suppose that's fine

I imagine, briefly, tearing the sheets—gripping the fabric, feeling as it stretches and strains, before finally giving, the threads snapping, and the floral quilt frays. Watching on as it gave under my hands. I could scatter it apart around the room like what it tries to display. Petals. Pointless.

Maybe I could take the chair—that horrible, awful chair—and throw it. Watch as it skids across the flooring, harshly scraping against the hardwood.

There are only three lamps, all equally hideous. They're situated around the room. One is on the nightstand to the right of the full-size bed, one is in the corner, and one is also on a nightstand by the queen-size bed. Bland. Forgettable. Taunting. I could rip the one from the bedside table, and feel the weight of it in my hand—cold, smooth porcelain with that gaudy floral pattern. I could throw it. Throw it as hard as I can. Watch as it sails across the room, practically feel the split-second moment of tension, the brief, electric anticipation before its impact.

Crash. The sound would be deafening. Shattering the silence, scattering sharp shards across the floor, like jagged teeth. The porcelain would break, splinter into pieces, uneven bits. The sound—now, that would be something. It would tear through the stillness of the room, just for a moment.

For a second, just for a second, there would be a release—a small, insignificant moment where something is happening. Where something has changed.

But then what?

It's fleeting.

It wouldn't last.

The bed would still be there. The sheets, crumpled, ruined—it would still be there. The chair, the lamp—even in its shattered pieces—it would still be there.

That ugly, cheap, floral-patterned lamp. It mocks me. It always has.

Sean called last night. Or, rather, his phone did. It was a pocket dial. I could hear him in the background—slurring something, laughing, babbling to people I don't know. Music was playing, he was probably at some party. He won't remember the call. I didn't bother hanging up immediately. Just listened for a while. Not sure why.

I've been here for too long.

The novelty is fading. Everything is becoming a routine, a cycle that keeps repeating.

Nothing would change.

It's fine

None of it matters. It's all just noise. Temporary. Another action, another thought, another impulse, another moment that will dissolve into the same quiet, same crushing, same meaningless existence.

It doesn't matter anymore.

It never will.

Maybe I'll break the lamp. Maybe I won't.

But then—a noise filled the room.

My iPhone's ringtone.

"Reflection". The default ringtone. An instantly recognizable and popular tone. Melodic. Distinctive. Familiar. Engineered for clarity. An iconic sound for Apple. I haven't bothered to change it.

I listen.

And for now, that is enough.

I let the first ring pass. If I answered immediately, it would show that I was desperate—eager for whatever minuscule connection the caller offered. If I waited until the last ring, they would give up.

Answering on the second ring was optimal.

I reached for my phone, resting atop the small, wooden table. It sat beside my Michael Jackson's 'This Is It' 10th Anniversary Box Set.

However when I had "invited" Jonah and Carter over—really they intruded into my residence—they ignored the collection of Michael Jackson memorabilia, the most blatant sign of my impeccable taste.

That's four hundred and seventy-nine dollars and ninety-nine cents worth of limited-edition collection. Actual lenticular concert tickets for the July 24, 2009, performance of 'This Is It' at the O2 arena. Limited to 1,000 copies. It even comes with pictures from the 'This Is It' rehearsal.

Incompetent morons.

Anyway. I reach for my phone. My eyes flicker to the screen. Lucas Walker.

I pause. I internally debated my options. Ignore it? Let it go to voicemail? Answer it just to curse him out? Let him know how little I care in the most colorful way possible?

Tempting. All of it was tempting.

But, against my better judgment, I swipe at the screen, answering. The call connects before the third ring.

"Hello?" I say, my voice smooth. And then, with an exaggerated cheerfulness, I add. "Lucas, is that you?" I state the obvious.

There's a pause on his end. Hesitation. It was as if he was suddenly reminded he was on the phone.

"Hey! Um. Patrick, I—I need a favor." Lucas babbles.

Of course, he does.

A favor. Something to hold over him. Accepting wouldn't just be helping—I would be making him indebted to me. This is an investment, a leverage point. A future IOU. Hell, if I played my cards right, I could even make it sound like an act of kindness.

I let the silence stretch. Long enough to make him feel uncomfortable, to squirm.

Then, ever so casually, "Of course, I can," I say as I lean into the hideous chair, crossing my legs. "How can I help you, buddy?" I asked condescendingly, even using a term of endearment to belittle him.

He hesitates, stumbling over his own words.

"I was wondering. Um." He fumbles before taking a deep breath. "Do you... Do you want to make cookies?" Cookies?

Cookies.

That was his big request? That was the favor? I was expecting something serious—blackmail. Walk the dog. Hell, I was even willing to spot him cash.

Let it be cash.

But no.

Cookies.

He barrels on before I can process the sheer absurdity of the situation.

"—um. Thanks to you, Tyler is talking to me again. He's even willing to help me make cookies for my girlfriend! But. I'm kinda nervous? I want to use this chance to hang out with him. But I'm too nervous to go alone. He said you can come to his house too." His words tumbled out as an anxious, frantic mess. I barely recall whatever insignificant, offhand comment I made to make Tyler acknowledge his existence. Something trivial. A shrug, a passing comment, a sarcastic thumbs-up—who the hell knows?

And this is the result? Cookies?

A long beat of silence.

Then—

"Sure. Why not?" Let him believe, for a fleeting second, that I actually care.

──────◇──────​

I don't know why I even bothered to come.

"I'm glad you guys managed to make it here!" Tyler says, his voice filled with genuine enthusiasm. He looks as if he is trying to keep his expression neutral, but the corners of his mouth betray him. At least purse your lips to better stifle it, bastard.

He wore a men's olive-green corduroy button-down long-sleeve shirt, featuring a rounded patch pocket sewn to the left side. The shirt had seven white buttons, with two more to secure the button-down collar, a design choice that I could begrudgingly accept. Knowing his bland taste and fashion sensibilities, the shirt was most likely purchased from L.L. Bean.

Tyler's outfit was offensive—not particularly because of what he wore. But because of how he wore it.

The front placket of the shirt? Left undone. Exposing the maroon, heavy cotton T-shirt underneath. Cheap. Probably from Michaels.

The olive-green shirt was meant to be worn untucked, an act I don't agree with, but it doesn't excuse the sheer negligence of the careless way he wore it. If you're going to wear a button-down shirt, then button it up properly! The contrast between his neatly fastened collar and his unbuttoned front was maddening, and it only served to further infuriate me.

He wore a dark blue pair of Wrangler jeans. Serviceable. Nothing particularly remarkable, the jeans had a standard five-pocket design, which was nothing out of the ordinary.

Except for the lack of a belt.

If you're going to wear jeans with belt loops, at least have the common decency to use them.

The only item in his outfit that he wore right—baring the maroon T-shirt—was his shoes. A pair of black low-top sneakers. Smooth, clean, and uncreased. The soles were white rubber with a thin black stripe running along the edge. The padded tongue bore a small Nike tag. If I had to make a guess, they were NIKE SB Chron 2 Canvas Mens Shoes. Functional. Simple.

I scoffed, shaking my head as I looked him up and down.

"You absolute asshole."

Tyler raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed, though he had the gall to smirk.

"What?"

I couldn't help but gesture at him, my hand waving over his torso, as if I was attempting to swat away an unpleasant smell.

"This..." I began, my voice tinged with barely hidden disdain. "This god-awful excuse of an outfit."

He glanced down at himself, feigning ignorance, but the smile on the bastard's face only grew wider. He probably dressed the way he did solely for the satisfaction of infuriating me.

"What about it?" he asked, his tone practically dripping with amusement.

Fuck you, Tyler.

I let out a dramatic sigh.

"Let's start with the obvious. Your corduroy button-down. Olive green? Fine. Do you button up? No, of course not. You leave the front wide open, like some kind of—some kind of unhinged free spirit. And to make it worse, the collar is neatly fastened, but the rest of your shirt just hangs there. It's like you got halfway dressed before losing the will to continue."

Tyler wore the shirt like how one would wear a cardigan.

A cardigan. Tyler rolled his eyes.

"It's casual."

"It's lazy." I shot back, before punctuating my words by jabbing a finger at his chest. "Either button it up properly like a functioning adult or take it off and accept your fate as a maroon T-shirt guy."

Lucas, who was standing awkwardly beside me, tried to stifle a laugh.

Lucas was wearing a jacket, either a dark brown or a deep taupe kind of color. A utility-style jacket, with a removable lined interior. That interior being a beige, maybe light tan fleece.

As expected, the jacket had multiple pockets, but two in particular caught my attention. They were slanted hand-warmer pockets on its exterior, with the brand name, Legendary, subtly embroidered into the left pocket patch. Lucas must be wearing a men's jacket from Legendary Whitetails.

He, unlike Tyler, had enough sense to zip up his interior and exterior zippers.

It was frustrating to see his sensible decision while standing next to Tyler, who clearly had no excuse for his sloppy appearance.

But I ignore him for now. Turning my attention back to Tyler, continuing my tirade.

"And those jeans," I continued. "Wrangler. Plain. Classic. Boring. And your shoes—Nike low-tops. A respectable choice, but even those can't salvage the absolutemesshappening from the waist up."

Tyler, the smug bastard, smirked, clearly reveling in my scathing criticism.

Freak.

He then opened his door wider, gesturing for us to step inside. "You done?"

I sniffed, crossing my arms. "I'm very happy. Thank you for inviting me."

I even offer him a smile, making my voice tinged with excitement.

An award-worthy performance, I know.

My choice of attire was infinitely more better compared to theirs.

I was wearing a black woolen cashmere tailored overcoat, with a Burberry check collar. Beneath it, is a Polo Ralph Lauren Fair Isle wool sweater in the Camel Combo coloring. The sweater possessed an intricate, Fair Isle design, it was a complex tapestry of geometric patterns of deep browns, burgundies, navy, and hints of beige. It's horizontally banded motifs, ribbed cuffs, and a hem that really put it all together to create a stunning ensemble. Very high-quality knitting, great embroidery.

Underneath my sweater, I had on a regular-fit white shirt from Giorgio Armani, featuring nine mother-of-pearl buttons. The shirt possessed a crisp French, semi-spread collar that was buttoned properly. The collar was neatly tucked and pinned beneath the sweater, ensuring that it did not disrupt the sweater's clean, circular neckline.

The shirt's length was neatly tucked into my Charcoal Smoke Calvin Klein structured trousers—pure cotton, tailored. The flat-front trousers had a solid waistband, offering structure to compliment my body's natural shape. The waist possessed a standard fly front, but it was discreetly concealed by a placket. The straight legs were not excessively baggy or tight. They fell neatly to my ankles without cuffs.

At the waist, I was wearing a beige Palmellato-leather La Prima belt from Giorgio Armani. Although I wasn't particularly fond of it, it was the best of what Armani had to offer. The other belts they offered had unnecessary studs or rope-like detailing that I found absolutely tacky.

Lastly, my shoes were black leather-sole longwing brogues from Thom Browne. Polished.

I brushed past Tyler and entered his home. I shuffled to the side to take off my overcoat, placing it on the nearby coat rack. Lucas, instead of doing it himself, handed me his jacket in a display of what I could only assume was helplessness as he and Tyler made their way to the kitchen. The silent expectation of me to hang it.

Dick.

I didn't bother taking off my shoes. Tyler had a dog—either a Belgian Malinois or a Dutch Shepherd, I had no clue. Tyler, who claims to love the dog, named after the artist who made "Hound Dog" back in 1956, yet he doesn't even know the exact breed.

Even with that canine out with Tyler's father, doing God knows what, I refused to take off my shoes—not wanting to risk that rapid hound coming back and eating them.

To my surprise, Lucas didn't even bother to take off his shoes. And, to further my bewilderment, neither did Tyler.

Who the hell wears shoes in their own home?

After I placed Lucas's jacket on the coat rack, a notch level below mine, I made my way toward the kitchen.

The moment I passed the floor's transition strip and stepped in, a sharp, acrid scent of bleach hit me. It wasn't mild. It was pungent. Unlike the normal, lemon-scented variety for casual household cleaning. No, rather this was an industrial-strength type. The kind that would burn the back of your throat if you inhaled it too deeply.

My nose wrinkled at the sterility of it. The harsh bleach stench practically assaults my nostrils. It was a scent that just clung to the air, too fresh and strong, overwhelming whatever was there before.

Tyler, having glanced up from the counter, caught my disgruntled expression.

"Sorry! I was cleaning earlier!" he called out, his voice too casual for being in an overbearingly chemically saturated room.

As he spoke, he pulled an apron over his head, an apron I recognized quickly. Ralph Lauren Home. Coffee Striped Cotton, a full-body bib apron that I had halfheartedly picked up for his birthday.

The fabric possesses an off-white coloring that bore evenly spaced, vertical green stripes. I would say it was, frankly, wasted on him. But given the fact that he used it often due to his job as a barista, at least the gift saw proper use.

With the dark green neck straps looped around his head, he adjusted the metallic slider buckle above the bib to better fit him before moving to tie the long waist straps behind his back. His movements were practiced, his hands going through the motions absentmindedly. A routine ingrained into his muscle memory, having performed it countless times before.

The apron's single, centered pocket had a faint rectangular outline beneath the fabric. Tyler probably had stuffed his phone in there. The pocket was meant for a kitchen towel, maybe even utensils. But Tyler never used it properly, beyond its aesthetic appeal.

Still, I suppose I should be thankful he even bothered to wear it properly. He even is trying to look like a seasoned chef.

A comical sight. Both myself and Lucas know better.

"Hey, Lucas, did you find the measuring cup set?" Tyler asked as he laid out an assortment of ingredients from a nearby cabinet.

A five-pound bag of King Arthur all-purpose flour. A four-pound bag of Great Value granulated sugar—kosher, if I recall correctly. A container of organic coconut palm sugar from BetterBody Foods. A two-fluid-ounce box of McCormick pure vanilla extract—gluten-free. A container of sodium bicarbonate from Nutricost, which I could only assume was baking soda. Lastly, there is a bag of King Arthur chocolate chip wafers. Guittard. It's semi-sweet.

"Yeah? I think so?" Lucas returned, this time holding an assortment of measuring cups. Thankfully, he didn't grab the liquid measuring cups—the one that looks like a jug with handles. Instead, he brought dry measuring cups, the kind meant for scooping powders and solids.

"Yes! Thank you." Tyler smiled genially as he carefully took the cups from Lucas's hands and placed them on the countertop. "Patrick, can you grab the butter and eggs from the fridge? Please?" he asked, already moving toward another cabinet, probably searching for bowls.

"Sure," I replied in an even tone, not wanting to be the odd man out.

I approached the refrigerator. It was one of those models that didn't even have an ice dispenser. Opening the door, I pulled out a carton of Great Value 18-count eggs and a block of Plugrà salted butter.

I closed the fridge door, and I returned to the counter, placing the eggs and butter alongside the other ingredients. Tyler, who had been busy rifling through the cabinets for bowls, nods approvingly at my choice of butter. There was another option available, some extra creamy variation, but I didn't pick that one.

"Good call," Tyler commented, finally pulling out a mixing bowl. "The extra creamy one is a mess to work with—too soft, falls apart too easily." He remarks, setting the bowl down before dusting his hands.

Lucas, eager to keep the conversation going, nods as if Tyler spouted some valuable insight. "Yeah, that makes sense. Texture's probably important. right?" He interjects.

Tyler chuckled. "Oh, definitely. You need the right consistency, or things get out of hand fast." He asserts, his delivery possesses an air of finality.

I leaned casually against the counter, watching as he grabbed one of the measuring cups and scooped the flour. It was almost funny, how much thought he put into this. Like making cookies was some form of high art, some intricate ritual instead of just following basic instructions.

But Lucas was eating it up, nodding along, fidgeting just slightly, testing the waters. Trying to salvage what remains of their friendship. His need was painfully obvious.

"You're really good at this," Lucas ventures, timidly glancing between Tyler and the pile of consumer brands. His tone was uncertain, likely trying to grasp the situation. "I mean, I knew you baked sometimes, but I didn't realize you were, like... actually good at it."

Come on, Lucas. That barely counts as a compliment.

It could even be considered an insult.

Tyler beamed, a wide smile tugging at his lips. Self-satisfied, really. "Really? I practice all the time. Just trying to get a feel for it, do it enough to know exactly what works—what to add, what to leave out." His words attempt to carry some kind of assurance.

Lucas hummed in agreement, and I figured this was a good time to add a word in.

"Baking is an art," I said, my voice injecting enough awe and enthusiasm. "Really, you can't, say, overbake. Patience is crucial." I offered a platitude, attempting to seem interested in the topic. I wasn't. Not at all.

Tyler lets out a short laugh, nodding his head. Confusing my comment for genuine conviction. "Exactly! Rushing justruins everything. You have to know when to stop, when to pull back before it all gets too tough."

Lucas, having seen that Tyler was done measuring the flour, opened the carton of eggs. He hands one over—although there is hesitation, uncertain if he is doing it right.

Tyler took the egg with a flourish, rolling it between his fingers. "See, there's a trick to it. Finding the right amount of pressure," he explains, almost absentmindedly. "Too little, and it slips right through your fingers. Too hard, and—" With a swift and decisive motion, he cracks the egg against the bowl's rim. The shell split, its contents spilling cleanly into the bowl. A controlled cascade. "It gets messy," he adds as if the demonstration didn't speak for itself.

Lucas chuckles softly. "Yeah, I always mess up cracking eggs. Either I press too gently, or I end up picking bits of shell out for minutes."

Tyler smiled as he grabbed another egg. "It's all about control. You have to feel for that perfect breaking point—that spot where the shell just gives way beneath your fingers." He pressed his thumb against the egg, applying pressure, just enough without cracking it. "You don't want to rush it. The moment has to be just right."

I watched the scene, wondering what the point of this was. I knew how to open an egg.

Lucas nodded slowly, unsure how to respond. I decided to echo his uncertainty.

"Uh... yeah. Makes sense."

Tyler then cracked the final egg, splitting it apart with practiced ease—a small piece of shell dropped into the bowl. Proving his advice was shit. He fished it out with his fingers.

Lucas exhales quietly, rubbing the back of his neck. "... Thanks for inviting me, by the way. I... I missed this," he murmured, his eyes fixated on the floor. The kitchen tiles were hardly impressive.

Tyler's smile widens, visibly flattered by Lucas's admission, his words coming out quickly. "Y-Yeah! Of course!" He was more than touched—positively giddy—as he continued. "We don't do this nearly enough anymore—you know, just hang out. Baking. Relaxing." His tone carries a wistful tone, before adding, "You guys are always welcome." His eyes flicker briefly in my direction, extending the invitation.

I glance back at him, then back at the bowl. The eggs just sat there. A task Tyler started but left incomplete in favor of this sappy talk. I wanted this to be done as soon as possible. So, I decided to do something productive. Turning toward a nearby drawer, I open it. Thank God—it's stocked with various kitchen utensils. Quietly relieved, I pull out a whisk before handing it to Tyler.

"I'd like that," I say, feigning amusement. "It's good, you know, having some kind of routine together. Kind of like a... a team-building exercise, right?"

Tyler's shoulders sagged, a quiet release of tension that betrayed his anticipation of my possible refusal. Relief softened his features as he muttered, "Exactly," while whisking the eggs. "A little bit of a bonding moment," he added, giving me a grateful look.

Lucas glanced between us, and I could see the taut tension within him gradually unraveling. "Yeah. Bonding. That sounds nice," he said, his voice shedding its earlier uncertainty. As if he were finally settling into the moment.

A long, thoughtful silence followed, filled only by the rhythmic and steady sound of eggs being whisked. My thoughts, however, were anything but subdued.

I found myself contemplating two vastly different courses of action. One was a simple request, casually broaching the topic of Tyler buttoning up his shirt. The other? Grabbing a knife and living a visceral fantasy.

Fleetingly, I imagined it. Finding it almost appealing.

I would need a knife, of course. And I knew the drawer that I'd just opened for the whisk—while containing an assortment of kitchen utensils—lacked any knives.

I'd have to stroll around the room and go through every drawer in search of one. Doing so would surely cause Lucas and Tyler to question me and my motives. I imagine fabricating some excuse, something frivolous and mundane.

"Oh, you know, just looking for a cookie spatula," I'd say casually.

They'd nod and accept my excuse, not question me further. Why wouldn't they? I'm charming. I'm personable. I positioned myself as friendly and conversational. I'm someone they trust, they had no reason not to trust me. I'm someone they'd never suspect of, say, contemplating an act of unspeakable violence.

Eventually, I'd open a drawer containing the cutlery—knives, forks, and spoons. They were all lined up in that order. I'd grab a knife at random—some chef's knife. Definitely pick up a Santoku. Tyler seemed the type to own one from Faberware.

I lift the blade, scrutinizing it closely. High-Carbon Stainless-Steel. It was supposed to be shiny and reflective, though Tyler's neglect was evident judging by the scratches on the blade. The scuffs ruined its supposed pristine image, it even bled into the evenly spaced indentations on the blade's surface. Those grooves were supposed to prevent food from sticking. Disappointing.

I focused on the tip. It was disappointingly blunt, it lacked that sharp, penetrating point that would make for a clean, effortless stab.

If I were to even attempt stabbing with it, I'd have to drive it in at an awkward angle and force it through Tyler's flesh again and again. Like some deranged butcher hacking away at a particularly stubborn cut of meat. A tedious waste of effort.

The belly of the blade curves upward from a well-defined and sturdy heel to the rounded tip. The bolster is almost imperceptible—discounting the different shades and protruding shape—and seamless, but I find that wildly unremarkable.

The spine was linear. The handle was black and made of something other than a synthetic polymer like high-impact plastic (maybe a steel alloy), and it felt heavy and uncomfortable in my hand. I wouldn't spend long hours holding it. There were these three rivets that secured the tang to the curved handle. The end of the handle is slightly rounded.

I grabbed the knife and slipped it into my left side pocket, careful to push it down just enough to hide it—and more importantly, so that it doesn't puncture my two-hundred and twenty-eight dollar trousers. I close the drawer with a soft click and move toward another. One that is conveniently located near the exit of the kitchen that offers a view to the living room and toward the front door. The windows are positioned adjacent to the door, they have their blinds open, providing an easy, plausible excuse to pull Lucas away.

"Hey, Lucas, isn't that your father outside?" I say, squinting slightly as I peer out.

Lucas looks over, his expression momentarily flickering with unease as he begins to move toward the door. A hesitant shuffle, torn between both curiosity and an unspoken guilt, as if he felt the weight of anticipation come over him. In his mind, perhaps, he was wondering if he was somehow in trouble. If he had done something terribly wrong.

After all, why else would his father—the Mayor, a man with an overflowing schedule—find the time to be standing outside?

Trailing closely behind him, my steps synchronized with his tentative ones. I watch as he takes a shaky breath as he reaches the door, fumbling with the lock before finally unlocking it.

"Hey, Pat, I don't see hi—" his words are cut off as I push him outside, the momentum of it causing him to stumble and sprawl onto the porch.

I shut the door swiftly, securing the doorknob and locking the deadbolt. There is a small moment of silence before heavy, frantic knocks follow.

I could just barely catch his voice calling my name, but it was muffled and indistinct from the other side. I ignore it. It doesn't matter.

Turning away from the door, my feet moved briskly and purposefully towards Tyler.

I don't bother screaming or calling him a derogatory remark. There was no need to.

My fingers curl around the handle of the knife in my pocket, clasping it tightly. My heartbeat is slow.

I am in front of him.

Tyler doesn't notice.

He was preoccupied with the mixing bowl, his eyes fixated on it as he stirred. He asks a question, something casual, but I don't hear it. My ears are full of static. My mouth tastes like sand.

I draw the knife free.

No words are spoken. I move without hesitation.

There is intent. I want to swiftly slice his neck.

The blade meets his throat.

For a fraction of a second, the skin clings—its natural elasticity offering a brief, momentary protest, desperate to remain intact. But the steel separates. It bites into him, parting the flesh. The dermis gives way to it, and its tearing sensation vibrates up my arm. The parting muscle reveals a grotesque, yawning wound.

A hot, wet warmth splattered against my wrist.

Tyler's body reacted before his mind could catch up. His eyes widened, his pupils dilating before finally, it washed over him. Pure, unadulterated, all-consuming terror. His mouth opens, lips parting, only to make a wet strangled gurgle. Red was pouring from his throat like a fountain.

The blood surges fast. His fingers flew to his neck, clutching and pressing, trying to do anything to staunch the bleeding. But he couldn't. The blood painted his hands, his trembling fingers becoming slick, slipping uselessly against his gaping wound.

The blood just kept coming. It seeps between his knuckles as he tries to hold himself together. A thick rivulet spills down his apron before spilling onto the kitchen tiles, creating a crimson pool.

Did you know that once the carotid artery is severed, it's nearly impossible to stop the bleeding without help?

And I severed both of them! Not one, but both!

The pressure is too great, the blood loss is catastrophic. Tyler's body, in its panic, in its adrenaline-fueled desperation, cannot muster enough force to counteract the arterial flow. His heart, in its blind, misguided devotion, completely unaware of the breach in his system, just keeps pumping dutifully as it floods the rooms with arterial spray.

He stumbles backward, staggering, his arms flailing. He is drowning in his own blood. He was fighting to breathe through his ruined throat. Making this bubbling, choking, drowning noise. He searches the room for someone—anyone—to help him.

But there was no one. Just me.

And I am not helping.

Why don't you ever fight back?

His knees buckle, his body sways, and he crumples. He hits the floor with a mediocre thud.

I exhale.

He looks ridiculous.

I mean, really—face down in his own pool of blood, his arms sprawled out like some drunken idiot. Like father like son. All he was missing was an empty Amstel Beer Lager can.

I nudge his shoulder with the tip of my shoe.

Nothing.

Jesus.

My gaze shifts—down to my sweater.

And then I realize something.

Blood.

Everywhere.

I sigh. "Tyler, you inconsiderate fuck," I muttered, shaking my head. "Do you have any idea of how hard it is to get blood out of Ralph Lauren?"

He doesn't respond.

Rude.

He, of all people, should know. He was wearing a Ralph Lauren apron.

The moment passes.

I blink. The knife is gone.

In my hands, I am holding a white ceramic bowl filled with melted Plugrà butter. The bowl and butter were warm. I couldn't make out any fat. It was melted completely.

My sweater is clean.

Tyler Galpin is still alive.

He is stirring. Humming.

I stand there, gripping the bowl.

I swallow.

The taste of sand lingers in my mouth.

"Hey, Patrick, you can just pour the bowl in," Tyler states as he moves to the side, his tone upbeat despite my bewilderment.

"Right," I murmured, my tone flat. I tilted the bowl forward, letting the butter pour out, into the mixture of eggs, sugars, vanilla extract, and baking soda. The mixture's consistency is thick and gelatinous. I am reminded of custard. The pale yellowish liquid of the butter seeps into the dark brown well-whisked mass.

Lucas was preoccupied with preheating the oven to precisely 140 degrees Celsius.

Tyler misinterprets my stare and silence as eagerness. He plucks the bowl from my hands and replaces it with a whisk. "You can whisk if you like. You'll know when to add the flour when the yellow coloring from the butter is completely gone," he blathers, his tone was light.

Without missing a beat, he moves toward the sink, placing the bowl down before moving to another cabinet, his fingers wrapping around the handle. He opens it and pulls out a box of Reynolds Kitchens cookie baking sheets—the packaging boasting something about its non-stick properties—but I struggle to muster even the faintest interest. The words blur.

Tyler then crosses over to Lucas, retrieving a baking sheet pan from the drawer beside the oven. The brand's GPED, I think. Stainless-steel, rimmed edges. Great weight distribution.

I begin to whisk. Counterclockwise.

I don't whisk hard. By doing so, the melted butter would no doubt spill over the rim and out of the bowl and onto the cuffs of my Fair Isle sweater. I am careful and controlled. My motions are slow and steady. The butter, it's coloring now mingling with the brown mixture, but it's still not smooth. There's this resistance. It's not blended in yet, nothing uniform. I know it won't be for a while but surprisingly, it doesn't irritate me. In fact, it's almost satisfying, to see how the butter moves and shifts into the mixture, building in yet never quite becoming part of the whole.

It's almost therapeutic. I wonder if Tyler took up baking because his shrink told him to. Maybe as some sort of as a distraction.

I kept whisking, the rhythmic motion dulling my irritation. But the silence in the kitchen stretched on as if they were trying to annoy me. Lucas had assured me over the phone that he would use this opportunity to reconnect with Tyler. But they weren't talking. Lucas is not talking. Not at all. Not one single word.

Did I seriously have to carry the entire conversation? While Tyler busied himself with lining a goddamn baking sheet? While Lucas stood there fucking fiddling with the oven? It was absurd.

I inhaled sharply through my nose. "So, Tyler, how is your day?"

"Oh, Patrick, I've actually been having a fantastic day. Like, one of the best I've had in forever." Tyler says as he places a baking sheet over the sheet pan.

That. That's actually sad.

Get a life, Tyler.

"You ever have those days where everything just works? Like, no traffic, no delays, everything just... clicks?" He asks, trying to relate to me.

I blink at him. "No."

Lucas snorts, but Tyler continues, unperturbed. "Well, I do. This morning was fantastic. I wasn't late to school, I actually got up early to eat breakfast for once, and—get this—the snack bar had these, chocolate raspberries... damn it, the name of it just escapes me."

"Ghirardelli?" I guess.

Tyler shakes his head. "No, it's not a candy bar. The chocolate—it was coating the raspberry."

I mull over the potential options based on Tyler's description, but before I can answer with Trü Frü, Lucas, who had finally finished preheating the oven, cuts in.

"Raspberry cordials?" Lucas guesses.

I'm left mildly irritated.

Tyler snaps his fingers at Lucas. "That's the one! And then, the highlight of my week, besides you guys coming over of course, is that I finally got my dad to grill with me," he says excitedly.

Lucas perks up at the mention of Tyler's father, he arches an eyebrow. "Your dad?"

Tyler hums, leaning against the counter. "Yeah! And not just me watching him grill—I actually got todoit. Like, manning the tongs, flipping the steaks, everything." He shakes his head with a grin. "It took, like, an hour of convincing, and he definitely hovered the whole time, but still. Progress."

Lucas's brows furrowed. "Huh. That's surprising."

Tyler just laughs, waving a hand at the remark, playing it off. "Right? I was expecting a whole 'you're gonna screw it up' moment, but nah. He just stood there, beer in hand, giving me a 'make sure the sear is even' speech." He mimics his father's voice, it's a passable impersonation.

I kept whisking. "Sound's thrilling."

Lucas crosses his arms. "Guess he's trying to make an effort."

Tyler places a hand on his chin, reminiscing the moment with Lucas's perspective in mind. "Effort. Sure. That's the way to put it." He closed his eyes before letting out a long sigh. "Probably won't happen again anytime soon, but whatever. It was nice. I had fun." He bemoans.

Lucas obliviously nods. "Sounds like a good time."

I glance at Lucas, then at Tyler, before setting my eyes back at the batter, I continue whisking.

Lucas had an off-base interpretation of Tyler's relationship with his father. Likely basing it off of his own, or trying to be well-meaning.

Tyler grins as if he hadn't just admitted that a single hour of grilling with his father, in who knows how long, was the highlight of his week. Comparable, mind you, to Lucas and I visiting him.

Tyler shakes his head. "Anyway! It's a huge win in my book. And get this—" he leans in slightly in our general direction, his voice dropping to a mock whisper as if he was going to tell some great secret—"I didn't even burn anything." I roll my eyes. "You want a medal?"

Tyler staggers back while clutching his chest. "Patrick. That is exactly what I want. Preferably gold, with my name engraved."

I laugh. "Alright. And what? Now you think you're a grill master?"

Tyler lets out a dramatic gasp. "Patrick, how dare you. I've always been a grill master. My dad just refused to see it." He exhales while shaking his head solemnly. "But now? He knows the truth. I've proven myself."

Lucas chuckles. "God help us all."

Tyler cackles.

Looking back at the batter now, the yellow coloring of the butter is gone. The white bowl's contents possesses a thick, smooth, glossy dark brown texture. It's not chunky. Some amount of it clings to the side of the bowl as the whisk goes by, and it's viscous. My movement with the whisk, while a bit difficult compared to before, creates visible swirls and the mixture is able to hold these patterns for a moment before it fades.

Distinctly, I remembered Tyler's advice. The flour comes next.

Before adding it, I remove the metal whisk. I didn't want to obstruct the flour. I grab the measuring cup and carefully pour the flour. It blankets the dark brown surface. But not entirely. I could make out a small corner of the batter where the brown coloring was left exposed.

Tyler peers at the bowl. He goes to open a nearby drawer, before pulling out a grey, silicone spatula from ThermoWorks. "Moment of truth," he says while offering me the spatula in one hand, the other hand splayed, he wanted to take the whisk. "You're gonna wanna fold now, not stir. Unless you like overworked, super tough cookies."

I raise an eyebrow. I'm almost tempted to continue stirring. These cookies were for Lucas's girlfriend. I wasn't going to eat them. But, I take the spatula anyway, giving Tyler the whisk. "Folding it is."

With the spatula in my hand, I gently spread the flour over the exposed areas of the batter until the surface was fully covered. Once I felt satisfied, I scraped the spatula along the edge of the bowl, getting rid of the excess flour. Then, carefully, I attempted to fold the batter.

An up-and-over circular motion. Flicking my wrist as I lift the batter before turning it over itself.

Tyler stares intently at the bowl, before nodding in approval. "There you go. Nice and gentle. Treat it like... I dunno, like you actually care about it," he says before adding, "You're a natural Patrick. You might have a future as a baker." A baker.

Was... Was Tyler making fun of me? That word just lingers in my mind. Grating my ears as I replayed it.

A baker. Like I'd ever.

A baker. The very occupation, let alone the idea of it, when applied to myself—it's laughable. Which is surprising, given that Tyler's jokes usually fall woefully flat.

I have plans. Six figures before twenty-six. Seven, if I actually put in the effort. Not that it'll take much—just go to the right schools, take the right internships, and maintain the right connections. Really it's all formality. A process. I go where I'm expected to go, do what I'm expected to do, and, in return, I get the life I'm supposed to have. And Tyler—Tyler—thinks I should throw it all away? Settle for less? As if. That's like suggesting I should take a part-time job at Hawte Kewture, folding crocheted snoods or stacking knitwear. (And yes, Lucas, I know your friend works there—do you ever shut up about it?)

I will not settle. I refuse to waste my time catering to the whims of losers whose choice of outfits are entirely out of season—people so tasteless, so utterly devoid of meaning, that I could strangle them under the runway lights, and still, still, still, they wouldn't grasp the severity of their offenses.

I could throw it at him. The bowl. I could watch as the batter just splattered across his smug face. I could watch as his face contorted to shock as his brain short-circuited, unable to process the sheer audacity of my reaction.

But I don't.

I really, really wish I did.

Instead, I flash him a tight-lipped smile. "Really? Gee, thanks." Then, I add, "Hey, I think the batter is ready for the, uh, chocolate wafers?" I shove the bowl towards him.

Let it be his problem.

Tyler takes the bowl in one hand, his other hand reaching into the batter without a second thought. He pinches a small piece between his fingers, and lifts it into his mouth, before popping it in. He lets out a hum as he chews.

"This is great," he states, licking a smudge of batter from his thumb before reaching for the bag of chocolate wafers. Disgusting. Unhygienic. At least wipe your slobber with a handkerchief.

Without so much as a glance at the nearby, and unused, measuring cups, he rips open the bag before unceremoniously pouring a ridiculous amount. The smooth, thin disks plunked into the batter, some sinking in while others remained visible on the surface.

Tyler gives the bowl a few light shakes before a hand moves to grab the spatula. He then slides the spatula through the glossy batter before folding it in itself just to spread the chocolate wafers.

For a few moments, he repeats this motion. There's this audible, soft sound of the spatula. Then, suddenly, he strides over to the refrigerator. Opening the door, he carefully places the bowl, all the while removing the spatula. He then closes the refrigerator, an act punctuated by the soft clink of the door. He then walks to drop the utensil into the sink.

Turning back to us, Tyler grins, it's all teeth, the kind of smile that belongs in a toothpaste commercial. "We're in the home stretch now."

I watch him, noting the way his gaze flickers toward the refrigerator like an addict eyeing his next hit. He wants another bite of the cookie batter. I decided not to call him out on it. I'm feeling generous today.

Lucas nods, and for a moment, there is another brief silence.

Then, Tyler lets out an exhale, almost as if he can't control himself. "I... I have to admit. This is the most fun I've had in a while."

Something flickers in Lucas's eyes before he looks at Tyler and offers him a smile. "... Yeah, I've had fun too."

I place a hand on Tyler's shoulder. The contact is tangible, skin against fabric. I know him well enough to get away with this—vicinity-wise, familiarity, and through routine interaction. "Well, let's make it a habit then." I blatantly lie to his face.

Tyler glances between us. There's something in his voice I don't like, the softness of it. "You guys ever think we'd end up baking together?"

I hate that he asks. I hate that he wants an answer. I wish I had worn gloves.

"Not exactly," I say entertaining Tyler's question. "But hey, not the worst way to spend a day."

It is.

"Not complaining though," Lucas adds.

Tyler beams, his shoulders loosening, like he's satisfied, "Neither am I."

I pivoted before this conversation got any more sappy. "Hey, Lucas, how is your evening so far? Or did you do something notable in the morning?" I asked because Tyler doesn't.

Lucas brightens. He likes the attention I'm giving him. "Yeah, actually—my shift at Pilgrim World was actually kind of fun today."

"Really?" I say, attempting to coax more information out of him.

I need him to keep talking. The longer he talks, the less I have to acknowledge the agonizingly slow passage of time. I do not want to glance at my phone. I do not want to count down the minutes until the cookie batter is ready. I do not want to be aware of how long I have to stand here.

Lucas thankfully elaborates. "Oh yeah, I was helping set up for the Harvest Festival—getting all the decorations out, making sure the booths are ready to go. You guys should come. It'll be a lot of fun." By the end of it, he looks smug.

Now, unlike Tyler's invitation, I can not brush past this one.

"Definitely, sounds like a blast," I accept, nodding my head to reinforce it.

Tyler perks up at the proposition. "Oh, yeah! I've been meaning to check it out. Might as well try going this year."

"Nice! You guys won't regret it." Lucas radiates enthusiasm. It's unsettling.

Regret.

Why did he say that? Am I going to regret saying yes?

"Anyhow! After work, I was hanging out with Carter and Jonah. We were talking about baseball practice, so we figured, why not? I'm gonna meet up later with them to get some practice in." Lucas says while miming a bat swing, as if the visual aid somehow enhances or supplements the statement. It doesn't.

Tyler doesn't react. Or rather, his face doesn't. But my hand is still on his shoulder, and I feel the shift, which is just barely there. A slight straightening of his back. Lucas doesn't notice. He's too caught up in himself, too comfortable.

But I do.

Tyler is nervous. Odd. I would have assumed he'd be eager to talk about them. Wasn't he asking about them just the other day?

"That sounds cool," Tyler says, his tone a bit strained. He claps his hands together and his thumb rolls against the knuckle of his other hand.

Oh, come on, Tyler. Don't you know that by being nervous, it can cause problems with your vocal cords? Tension in the larynx disrupts airflow, making it harder to be articulate. You sound terrible. Take a Communication class.

Lucas, in his infinite unawareness, continues. "Yeah, it'll be nice, just getting back into the swing of things. Literally." He laughs at his own joke. "I haven't practiced in a while, and Carter was saying he's a little rusty too."

Tyler nods. His fingers keep moving, now fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve. He tries to be subtle. It would be—if you weren't looking for it.

I am.

Lucas is still riding the high of his own conversation. "You guys should stop by for that too. Just to watch, no pressure."

Tyler hesitates. It's not a purposeful pause, not one of those meaningful ones used for emphasis.

He swallows. "Yeah, maybe."

Lucas grins, taking his hesitance for enthusiasm.

My hand is still on Tyler's shoulder. I press down, then squeeze. Enough to be felt, not enough to be questioned. "Sounds like a solid plan," I say, because it's the response expected of me.

Tyler lets out a small breath. Lucas doesn't catch it.

I do.

And I don't like it.

I don't like being this perceptive of him, of all people.

"I think the cookie dough is ready?" I say, watching Tyler closely.

Tyler looks at me, confused.

"Huh?"

"The cookie dough is ready." I repeat, this time with more certainty, giving him an opportunity to retreat from this conversation before he embarrasses himself further.

He finally catches on, though not without looking at me strangely. "Yeah! Yeah. I'm just going to check." He quickly strides toward the refrigerator.

Lucas glances at me, tilting his head to the side. I shrug, offering a sympathetic expression before mouthing the word loser. Lucas mumbles something about loners and how he wants to hang out with Tyler more.

Tyler returns with the bowl of the now-chilled cookie dough. He sets it down near the baking tray. Lucas heads towards him, and I step to the side, toward the drawer where I had retrieved the whisk earlier. Opening it now, I find an array of cookie cutters—same design, same color, the only difference being the size.

"Hey, Tyler, do you want me to grab a cookie cutter or—?" I ask, attempting to anticipate his answer.

"No, it's fine, we are going to be using this cookie scooper." Tyler says.

I close the drawer before moving to them. I stop halfway. I see the supposed cookie scooper in Tyler's hand.

A kitchen utensil with a grey, rubberized plastic handle, I'm guessing silicone. The scoop itself was a shiny silver color with nothing clinging to its metallic surface. It's slightly concave, the tip being rounded. It was purposefully designed for one thing.

I stare at him.

"Tyler?"

"Hmm?"

"That's an ice cream scoop."

"Huh." Tyler said dumbly. "Aren't they the same?"

"No. No. What you're holding is an ice cream scoop. Look at the handle's coloring—it's a muted grey. Scoops are color-coordinated. Grey handles are for mashed potatoes, jumbo cupcakes, and ice cream. What you're looking for is a plum-colored handle." I pause before amending, "Unless you're making large cookies, then it's pink." I nod slightly, "I think."

Lucas interjects. "... I think I saw an ad saying a scoop like that could be used for cookie dough?"

"There are dishers and then there are ice cream scoops. Dishers are used for cookie dough and fruit. You could use it for ice cream, but it is not recommended. Ice cream scoops—" I glance at Tyler's hand, at the object that derailed what should have been a simple task "—are used for ice cream."

They stare at me blankly.

Something is wrong.

A realization settles in—I haven't answered Lucas's question. A mistake. A misstep. A failure. My throat tightens. Panic rises. I need to fix my mistake.

"You could use the ice cream scoop for cookie dough," I say hurriedly. "But not a disher to scoop ice cream. Unless explicitly stated by the manufacturer."

There.

The world steadies itself.

"That's... That's actually an interesting tidbit! I'll keep that in mind the next time I buy a scoop." Tyler claps—well, it's more like he presses his wrists together because he's still holding the scoop. It's such a strange gesture, just put down the scoop if you want to clap. But I let it pass because he used the correct terminology for scoop.

He places his left hand on the rim of the bowl, grasping it, before scooping with his right. Once. Twice. It's excessive.

"So, Lucas, how many cookies do you want? Two? Four? Six? A dozen?"

The scoop hovers over the baking pan, and he shakes it slightly until the dough drops.

"I think... four is fine? Wouldn't want it to be a chore to eat." Lucas responds as Tyler scoops again.

Tyler huffs in mock disappointment. "Lucas, really? Believing that cookies are a chore to eat? Patrick, tell him he's wrong."

"You're wrong," I say, flatly.

"Thank you." Tyler nods, using my words as credibility.

Lucas rolls his eyes. "Chrissy doesn't have a sweet tooth."

"A shame. Truly. A tragedy." Tyler says sadly.

"Anyway—can I use your restroom, Tyler?" Lucas asks, shifting on his feet, his expression flickering between discomfort and urgency. Or pain.

"Hm? Oh! Yeah. Use the one upstairs, the other one doesn't have any toiletry." Tyler said as he scooped another heap of the cookie dough. That's what, eight times now?

"Thanks!" Lucas hurriedly made his way out of the kitchen and up the stairs.

"... So, how is your day, Patrick?" Tyler grabs the baking tray and waltzes over to the preheated oven.

The question catches me off guard. He's asking? Me?

"Great," I say automatically. And then—silence.

Think of something. Anything. I'm thinking.

"I've been eating..." I dragged the word out, my brain was scraping for topics. "Uh. A continental breakfast." The sentence feels foreign in my mouth. "A plate of blueberry pancakes. Powdered sugar. Alongside a small bowl of sliced strawberries and blackberries." A pause. "There was also a pat of butter on that plate." I-want-to-cave-in-your-skull.

"The plates had these floral patterns of cream, green, and pink." The words kept coming, and I barely registered them. "Kyle—the owner—is great. Recommended that I try eating at the Jericho Café & Tavern. Did you know they have the best food in the immediate area?"

I smile, politely. Was he even listening?

"Pancakes are always great. I've eaten at the Jericho Café before. If you do go, you should try the steak or Reuben," Tyler suggests as he sets down the baking tray for a moment, slipping on a red oven mitt onto his right hand.

Grudgingly, I made a mental note to do so—just to get it over with in case Tyler decided to pester me about it.

"Is there any trouble making reservations there?" I ask, my stomach curling with trepidation. There aren't a lot of people living in Jericho, and even fewer restaurants. Jericho Café, to my knowledge, is the only restaurant in Jericho. Hell, I have to take an Uber out of Jericho to eat at a McDonald's or a Dunkin' Donuts.

Tyler clears his throat. "I... don't know?" He opens the oven, grabs the baking tray, and slides it inside.

"You... don't know?" I repeat. This is ridiculous.

"I do walk-ins," Tyler says as he closes the oven door.

I blink. "Don't you have to wait around twenty minutes for a table?"

"Yeah. Why?"

...

I am appalled.

Make a goddamn reservation next time, Tyler.

"Never mind. Yesterday, I went to Frocks with Lucas, after his shift," I say, deliberately omitting Carter and Jonah. They didn't even go inside, instead, they wandered off to some antique shop, aptly named ANTIQUE SHOP. I continued. "We were looking at their display case, trying to find something for Chrissy. Eventually, he got her an Aether ribbed cashmere scarf in the bitter orange coloring."

I had to force him to get it. It paired well with her skin tone—she'd gotten it tanned recently, she has a warm undertone, for Christ's sake! And Lucas, in all his infinite wisdom, wanted to buy her a white polka-dot blue pullover sailor dress (I'm positive it's a bouffant) by Laura Ashley because she likes vintage clothing. Because she likes the color blue. Stupid. If it were me, I'd have gotten her a Hermès Nepali cashmere stole, also in orange. A better choice.

"After that, we went to the Farmer's market. Then I went to the Weathervane," I say. And for some reason, a nameless dread starts to creep in.

"Oh? Did you do something interesting there?" Tyler asks, suddenly amused.

"No? I ordered baked goods—you know this." I answer, frowning.

"Are you sure?" He asked in this teasing tone. "Didn't you meet someone there?"

A beat. Something shifts.

A cold sweat breaks over me.

He knew.

He knew.

He knew.

Tyler knew.

He probably served her—Wednesday—her expresso. He probably knows her name. He probably watched me, saw me leaning in, saw me talk to her, saw me write my number on that goddamn napkin—with that terrible pen.

He saw everything.

And now, he could talk.

He could tell Lucas. He could ruin me.

"Hey, Patrick, relax," Tyler says, his voice edged with a concern that I couldn't tell was real or fake. "It's fine, okay? I mean, I think it's great, actually." He lets out a breathless laugh like he's actually happy about this. "You, uh—so you like her?"

I should stand up straighter.

Good posture oozes confidence. Chin up, shoulders back, and chest forward. That's what I should be doing. Right now. Right this second. I am in control. That's how it works. That's always how it works. I should not be slumping.

But my hands are spasming.

"I mean, seriously, Patrick—it's cool," Tyler continues his earnest tirade, completely oblivious to the fact my lungs are collapsing in on themselves. "I think she's—y'know, she's kinda weird, but in, like, a good way? She's, uh, definitely a step up from, like, half the girls around here. Kooky?"

I should have worn a tie.

An Armani. Burgundy, maybe? Or a deep navy. A Windsor knot—no, a half-Windsor. Or Pratt. Anything but an Eldredge. Eldredge knots are for men who try too hard.

"I promise, I'm not gonna say anything," Tyler says, trying to be sincere. But I don't believe him.

I can't.

He will blather to Lucas.

I can see it.

Lucas would look at me with a distant expression. Something I can not fix. Carter would raise an eyebrow, his lips curling into a knowing, self-satisfied smirk. Jonah would scoff, shaking his head like he always knew I was off.

He would destroy everything.

Every single careful step I've taken, every deliberate word of flattery, every subtle move I've ever made since the beginning of the school year. Torn down in an instant.

I would be a deviant.

Tyler has a way back in.

Jonah and Carter would let him slip back into their good graces, they would gleefully welcome him back with open arms, if only for the sheer delight of watching me fall.

"Patrick, you look like you're gonna pass out," Tyler's voice cuts in again, genuinely worried. "Breathe, okay? Just—Just sit down or something? Do you need water?"

I should kill him.

Decapitate him. Hollow out his skull. Turn his skin into a lampshade—leather treatment. Bone bleach his skull, just polish the edges. Set it in my room at the Sinclair. Make it a conversational piece.

"My God, Patrick, where did you get such a cool lampshade?"

"Oh, that? Etsy. By, uh, Tyler Galpin. You should see my bedposts."

Tyler is looking at me now, his brows are furrowed, his voice quieting, I think.

"Patrick. You're shaking." A pause. "Hey, c'mon, man. I mean it—I won't say anything. I'm happy for you, okay?"

My throat tightens, my stomach twists, and nausea rolls over me in a choking wave. I'm dry-heaving. Dry-heaving. My vision begins to blur. I blink rapidly, willing myself to get a grip, to stop shaking, to—

God.

God, I wish I had my overcoat on.

Not because it's cold. Not because it makes my shoulders broader.

But because in its left—no, right—pocket was Valium.

But it's fine.

It's fine.

I force a slow breath.

Inhale. Hold. Exhale.

I don't bother counting to five, I won't make it past three.

"You're happy for me?" I say, leveling Tyler with a look, my voice was smooth and steady.

Tyler doesn't respond, he studies me like he's waiting for me to keel over. But then he nods. "Yeah, dude. I mean, Wednesday, huh? Never thought you'd go for the, uh—" he waves a hand vaguely. "Goth, stab-you-in-your-sleep type, but, hey, I respect it."

I'm irritated at that last comment.

I tilt my head, pretending to consider it. "You think so?"

Some of the tension eases from his shoulders. "Yeah, man. And look, you don't need to freak out—I'm not gonna say anything, I promise."

I laugh, the idea of me freaking out is absurd. "Tyler, please. I wasn't freaking out."

He raises an eyebrow. "Dude, you looked like you were about to collapse. You're still kinda pale, again—do you wanna sit down? Get some water?"

I wave dismissively at him while shaking my head. "Honestly, Tyler, you worry too much." I flash a smile. "But I appreciate the concern."

He didn't look entirely convinced, but he let out a sigh, nodding. "Alright, if you say so..."

I pull out my phone and glance at the time.

I want to get out of here.

"Speaking of concerns," I say, as if a thought just occurred to me, "I have to make an appointment with my dentist. Nearly forgot. Very Important." I glance at him with a serious expression. "You know how much care I put into my teeth."

It works—Tyler snorts before rolling his eyes. "Yeah, Patrick, we know. The whole school knows. The, uh, fluoride monologue really made its rounds."

I let out a good-natured hum. "And rightfully so. Teeth that aren't properly taken care of, can and will, be a deal-breaker."

"Alright. But, like... seriously, are you good?" He asks.

I exhale, stepping out to the kitchen, Tyler follows me. I move toward the coat rack by the door. My hands are steady as I grab my overcoat from the notch and slip it on. The familiar weight settles over my shoulders. It helps. Somewhat.

My fingers find the right pocket.

The Valium is there. A small comfort.

I smooth out the cashmere fabric, exhaling through my nose. I glance at Tyler. "Tyler. I am excellent."

It's a lie.

But I say it so smoothly, so easily, that even I almost believe it.

Then, before he can scrutinize me, I unlock the door and step outside.

──────◇──────​

It's cold. I shut the door behind me; it makes a clicking noise.

Immediately, I reached into my pocket, my fingers curling around the familiar bottle. Prescription (I had no clue whose, I stole it). CVS. My palm presses against the cap, a quick twist, the soft rattle of pills against the plastic. Then, once open, I pop two into my mouth. Five milligrams each.

A necessity.

No water.

I should've planned better. Should've grabbed a bottle of water before stepping outside, but there was no way in hell I was taking it in front of Tyler. His father's a deputy. And while Tyler himself is a harmless wimp, he still has that grating sense of morality. That persistent, bleeding heart of decency.

He would've asked about it.

He would've thought about it.

And I would've been an idiot to let him see me do drugs.

So now, I have to do it raw.

I work my tongue, gathering spit in my mouth (really, the correct term is saliva), tilting my head back as I force the pills down. The chalkiness of it clings to the back of my throat, but I managed to swallow anyway. It burns.

I tuck the bottle back into my overcoat's pocket, my fingers pressing against the fabric for reassurance that it's still there.

I sit on the white patio steps. Tyler's house should be blue. Not brown.

I remember it being blue.

Blue is a better color anyway.

I close my eyes. The Valium will kick in soon.

Any second now.

Maybe I should've just taken the whole bottle.

Not for any dramatic, self-destructive reason. I'm not stupid. I know what would happen. But if I did, I wouldn't have any left. And that's far worse.

I hear the door creek open behind me. I hear footsteps crunching against the patio. Lucas.

He steps beside me, his hands shoved into his pockets, his posture loose. Casual. It's cold, and Lucas agrees with me. He was wearing his Legendary Whitetails jacket.

"You good?" he asks.

"Hmmm." I offer vaguely.

Lucas hums, rocking back on his heels.

Then, adding casually, "Hey... Thanks, man."

"For what?" I say, confused.

"For—y'know." He gestures vaguely with his hands. "Helping me with Chrissy's gift yesterday. And for today. Hanging out with Tyler." He pauses, then adds, "You being here helped. I got to reconnect with him."

I process this. It isn't an unfamiliar feeling, receiving gratitude—I get it often enough—but something about Lucas's sincerity makes me pause.

I am flattered.

Tilting my head slightly. "You were going to buy her that polka-dot disaster. I saved you from ruining your relationship."

Lucas groans. "I knew you were gonna say that."

"It's true."

"Yeah, yeah, fine." He mutters, shaking his head. "Still—thanks."

I nod. "You're welcome."

Lucas watches me, expecting something, then sighs. He pulls something from his right jacket pocket—a ziplock bag—and he holds it out.

"Here," he says. "Take 'em."

I glance down. Cookies. The ones we made.

I don't reach for them. My fingers feel detached and heavy.

"Why?"

Lucas shrugs. "Dunno. Maybe I'll just get Chrissy something else. Or ask Tyler to bake more." He shifts on his feet, looking uncertain. "I guess I just... wanted to."

It's a flimsy explanation, to the point it's bordering gratuitous.

Slowly, I take them.

Lucas nods to himself, then mutters something about cleaning up before stepping back inside.

The bag of cookies sits in my hand.

I stare down at them, frowning.

I still don't know why he gave them to me.

Maybe he did it out of generosity.

Maybe he did it to get out of owing me a favor.

Maybe he read the new issue of STAND in the Changi magazine. I think there's an article in one of its pages (Page 6 or Page 14) covering the rise of gifting culture, male friendship, and the importance of tangible gestures.

I made a mental note to ask him later.

──────◇──────​

Comments: I had like, three choices for the hotel/inn/place that Patrick would stay at: Sinclair Inn (cause I really loved it), the Ellis Inn (cause of the name), and Apple Blossom Inn (actual inn from Wednesday). I really wanted to make this chapter about baking! I remember Tyler making a cake for Wednesday on her birthday, and I remember that sausage scene where Patrick was crying because he didn't know if he was cooking it right.

ALSO! I FOLLOWED THIS COOL VIDEO FOR COOKIE STUFF(Tell me if the link isn't working!)!

THANK YOU FOR READING! COMMENTS ARE APPRECIATED!

[thegreyjester]

On Wednesday's, We Kill (Wednesday/American Psycho) Fanfic

So, like, I already posted this on ao3 and on fanfiction.net, but I figured I might as well use this account and post something. Plus I edited it a bit cause I wasn't satisfied with what I published on ao3 and fanfiction.net. I already plan to make a second chapter, but I wanted to see if this is a fic to make more than just that. Comments are super appreciated.

Fandom: Wednesday (TV 2022), American Psycho (2000)

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Relationships: Patrick Bateman/Wednesday Addams (Platonic, still a bit indecisive about it.)

Additional Tags: Patrick Bateman & Wednesday Addams Patrick Bateman Wednesday Addams Tyler Galpin Lucas Walker (Wednesday TV) Jonah (Wednesday TV) Mentioned Noble Walker Mentioned Donovan Galpin - CharacterLarissa Weems Carter (Wednesday TV) Platonic Relationships Ambiguous/Open Ending Patrick Bateman is an Assholeinternally Violent Thoughts Obsessive Behavior Existential Crisis Internal Conflict Unreliable Narrator Patrick Bateman is at Fault Wednesday Addams is Bad at Feelings Lucas Walker Tries Barista Tyler Galpin Character Study

Summary: “But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve. For daws to peck at: I am not what I am.” - Iago from William Shakespeare's play, "Othello."

A self-loathing, narcissistic loser meets his match with a stuck-up, unlikeable goth.

“Patrick Bateman,” he offered her his hand, extending it over the table.

She didn’t take it.

“I didn’t ask.” She replied, her tone lifeless, as if she was going through the motions. No, as if she was tolerating something beneath her. Detached. Disinterested.

Comments: I was looking up, both on Fanfiction.net and archiveofourown.org for fanfics on Wednesday and onAmerican Psycho. And imagine my surprise when no one written about a crossover for both of em! Well, there is on ao3 but that's a multi-crossover, so that don't count! So, I tried my hand! I love the show Wednesday, and I love American Psycho. So, here is what I written!

Word count: 6,500+

Fic under the linebreak.

──────◇──────

“Listen, people like me and you, we’re different. We’re original thinkers, intrepid outliers in this vast cesspool of adolescence. We don’t need these inane rites of passage to validate who we are.” 

— Wednesday Addams

"It is hard for me to make sense on any given level. Myself is fabricated, an aberration. I am a non-contingent human being. My personality is sketchy and unformed, my heartlessness goes deep and is persistent." 

— Patrick Bateman

I’ve familiarized myself with a bunch of fools. Idiots, if I was being honest. I’d call them slow if I wasn’t certain that theyweren't. Maybe. They’re just… existing, coasting around with no ambition. Completely unaware of how limiting their lives are and are going to be. It’s like going to a zoo and watching the animals, utterly predictable. Dull and tedious.

If it was a year ago I wouldn’t have even bothered interacting with them, viewing them as utterly inconsequential. But, here I am, surrounded by them, a clique of losers by the names Jonah, Carter, and Lucas. I only bothered to remember the latter’s last name, he served a purpose, if only due to his familial connection. The rest of them are just decorative. If that was the right word. Decorative. Maybe "detritus" is better.

Jonah, a bit of a loudmouth, is the picture perfect example of a middle-class nobody. His family is bland and utterly content in their mediocrity. He doesn’t matter. The only thing he has going for him is his height, being somewhere around six feet. I’d compare him to a goldfish, maybe? No, a dolphin is more fitting—in particular a cruel one. Actually, aren’t all Dolphins cruel? I vaguely recall that they torture smaller fishes, slapping them around or suffocating them for the fun of it. He’s somewhat clever, only somewhat for these inane topics. Otherwise, he is utterly unintelligent.

Carter, on the other hand, is a completely different breed, an utter mess. He comes from a low-income background. In simpler words, he’s poor. His family, his grandparents on his father's side, are avid gamblers. Piss poor ones at that, managing to rake up a large debt. Caused him to get a chip on his shoulder. He, like the rest of them, works at Pilgrim World. He’s the angry one. In the sense that he snaps whenever someone insults his family or friends. Or make snide remarks about his anger issues. Wouldn’t know how to choose a fight, he lacks the intelligence to do so. It more or less leads him to getting his ass kicked more often than not.

Then, there was Lucas. He was different. He’s soft. Easily influenced. If his friends told him to jump off a bridge, he’d probably do it without hesitation. Follows the crowd type of guy, kind of like him being an extension of his friends rather than his own person. A people’s pleaser, a kiss ass through and through. His lack of backbone is glaringly obvious. There’s only one reason why I interact with him and his friends. Lucas’s father, Noble Walker.

Noble Walker. Former Sheriff—the current mayor of this hick town, Jericho. The kind of guy who’s always winning elections since... what, 1991? Charismatic, sure. He runs Pilgrim World— some tacky tourist attraction, chargingridiculous prices for the tickets. Managed to make a stronghold of employment opportunities. He holds the monopoly of the labor force in Jericho through Pilgrim World. Employs everyone from teenagers and retirees. Pays them just enough to make them feel like they’re not being exploited. What was it again- a little under twenty bucks per hour? At least it beats the federal minimum wage, but it’s hardly impressive. He still has to rely on funding from Nevermore.

Lucas Walker is a means to an end. His father is the connection I need to cultivate. An alumnus of both Phillips Exeter Academy and Harvard University, Noble Walker’s letter of recommendation would be invaluable. It would enhance my application to Exeter. It would cement my application and spot at Harvard. Of course, I’m already a legacy student, but having an Alumni recognize and endorse me? An Alumni who fosters various social programs and has a long-standing political career, with consistent electoral success? Someone who supports both of those schools' outdated values? They'd eat the ever living shit out of that. So, I have to tolerate these people. Grit my teeth and hang out with my so-called friends, even if they are dressed in those ridiculous, appalling, garish Pilgrim uniforms that make them look like an out-of-place extra in some bad historical reenactment. A small sacrifice, really. A tiny one, that will pay off well in the future.

We were currently situated roughly a block away from the Weathervane, specifically, loitering around the Farmer’s Market. Jonah stood, cracking jokes that are barely coherent to both us and any passerby farmer as if it were a sitcom no one asked for. Carter was sulking against a white wall outside an auction house. Lucas—bless him—his head ping-ponging between Carter to Jonah, nodding like an overeager puppy as he heard them rant and blather. One of the farmers, in an act, I could only assume as misguided charity, insisted we take some chairs instead of sitting on the ground. Jonah and Carter refused, of course. I, being the only person here with a modicum of intelligence, accepted. Lucas followed my lead. Naturally.

Jonah clasped his hands together, grinning like he'd just discovered fire. “Why did the pilgrim go to the party?” Jonah had asked before pausing, waiting for dramatic effect. None arrives.

I knew better, it wasn’t a simple question. This clique followed a pattern. Jonah would crack some lame joke, the attention-seeker he was, and Carter would land a sarcastic remark, and by the end, Lucas would laugh while trying to add on to the joke.

Carter rolls his eyes at the question. It’s a question that could’ve been found in one of those corny joke books. “I don’t know, why?” Carter obliges for some inane reason.

I could practically see Jonah’s eyes light up, he leans in, enthusiastically landing the punchline. “Because he was toast!” He laughs, so hard he almost doubles over, as if he were some kind of comedian.

Carter lets out a snort, somewhat amused by the joke, he smirked. “That’s a good one, Jonah. Real highbrow stuff. You’re practically Shakespeare.” He was sarcastic, I would be too. That punchline was stale. Jonah, however, is unbothered by Carter’s sarcasm. He still laughs— it died down to a chuckle.

Lucas laughed too, before deciding to join in. “... B-Because he was snrk… on a roll!” He was clearly proud of his joke, being able to find it amusing. Both Carter and Jonah chuckle at that.

I chuckle too, if only out of sheer obligation. Inside, I feel my soul withering.

Jonah, noticing that I wasn’t actively participating in this meaningless conversation, decided to direct his attention towards me. He threw a curveball. “Hey, Patrick,” Jonah had stated, his grin somehow turning more obnoxious than before, if that was even possible. No one else acknowledged such, so it must've been just me. “What do you think about the Outcasts? Y’know, those freaks at Nevermore?” He gestured vaguely in the direction where he assumed Nevermore Academy was located at.

Outcasts. Freaks. Monsters. Mutants. Whatever they are called. Apparently, Nevermore Academy houses those of some bullshit, absurd, and self-important people with superhuman abilities straight out of a bad paranormal fiction novel. To be frank, I honestly couldn’t be bothered to care. I would not, of course, interact with any of them willingly. I had better things to focus on than.

Given the lectures taught in Jericho High School, various "Outcasts”—they call themselves that? Utterly pathetic—can vary in their level of danger. It’s why Nevermore sends chaperones when their students go to Jericho. Food, clothes, entertainment— anything they could want, they had to be monitored while getting such. For "normies" safety, of course. I had better things to focus on. The only thing that mattered, my future at Exeter and towards Harvard.

But, of course, Jonah would be the one to bring them up. I wouldn’t be surprised if he got off from speaking derogatorily about outcasts. Some twisted pleasure or kink. I glance toward Carter, he smirks, waiting for my response. I then glanced at Lucas, he looked hesitant, as if he wasn’t sure whether to encourage or stop this conversation.

I let out an overly dramatic sigh. A practiced smirk forming on my face. I lean more into my chair, interlocking my fingers together and placing them behind my head. I had to settle into a role. The reasonable one. I gave them a small shrug. “I don’t know,” I managed to say casually while offering an easy shrug. “I guess I haven’t thought about it.” A deflection, a non-answer. My behavior and attitude was carefree, they wouldn’t be able to discern my true feelings, beliefs, and perspective without probing further. Jonah wanted to see my reaction, to see where I stood. I offered an answer that said absolutely nothing while making it sound definitive. It was a skill. Really.

Jonah’s grin falters. He wanted to hear a ridicule, a joke at some outcast expense. “C’mon man. You’re seriously telling me you don’t have an opinion? They’re freaks. All of ‘em.”

“Yeah,” Carter added in, seeking to support Jonah’s stance. “Bunch of weirdos. Like, you hear about that fish guy at Nevermore?” I had an inkling of understanding who he was talking about before he added on, “Gills, man. Actual gills. What does he even do in the winter? Hibernate in a tank?” He said while nudging Jonah.

Jonah snickers. His grin returns. “Maybe he wears a scarf to keep ‘em warm.” He mimes wearing a scarf before laughing. “What was his name Bent?”

“Kent,” Lucas corrects, before adding on. “I mean… yeah, they are kind of weird.” He chimed with a laugh. It was slightly more forced and hesitant than his previous one. Utterly pathetic. He glances at me, as if asking me to talk before our conversation derails to more mocking comments.

I decided to. “Look,” I said, trying and successfully getting the attention of the two. I had an easygoing smirk. “They don’t bother me, and I’m not about to waste my time bothering them. Live and let live, right?” I managed to pull out that proverb from nowhere. Not that they needed to know.

Jonah snorts, most likely agreeing partially to what I said. “You’re no fun.” It doesn’t stop him from being slightly disappointed. Carter let out a grunt in agreement, Lucas seemed relieved.

“I’m heading to the Weathervane,” I got up from my chair. It was best to change subjects. I was beyond bored with this entire conversation. “Bagels? Donuts? My treat.”

Jonah perks up immediately, his disappointment vanishing. “Get me a bagel. Cream cheese. Don’t skimp out on me Bateman!”

“Those powdered donuts.” Carter said, before snapping his fingers, elaborating further, “The ones with the cherry filling.”

Lucas contemplates, having an internal dilemma before saying hesitantly, “Uh… a chocolate donut, if they have it. Please.”

I nodded, before flashing them a smile. “Got it, I’ll text you if they don't have what you guys wanted,” I said before turning and heading towards the café. I begin walking away, before jogging. Escaping this pointless conversation.

──────◇──────

The Weathervane Café was stifling... It was suffocating. Intolerable. Revolting. The idle chatter from the patrons was exhausting and adding to my discomfort. Not necessarily because it was loud, but because it was meaningless. Like a fly that buzzes around incessantly and relentlessly despite being swatted at.

The idle conversation was excruciating.

The only thing that made up for it was the warmth, it made the place more bearable compared to being outside. Mostlikely due to it being packed like a hotbox. My patience ran thin, my regret offering to pay becoming evident. A momentary lapse in judgment, surely.

I stepped inside, closing the door behind me. I could already smell the aroma of cheap espresso. It was bitter. The hygiene of the inhabitants here was the only reason why I wasn’t pinching my nose. They managed to take care of themselves. Most of them, at least.

As I made my way forward, I felt someone bump into me. No apology, just a half-hearted grunt before they brushed past. I glanced at the offender—a man who wore an ill-fitting blazer, it wasn't even buttoned up all the way. Cheap wool. He wore such a basic plaid shirt under it, that screamed "clearance aisle." Probably bought from a discount dingy outlet store, likely a two-for-one sale. My lip twitched. I bit back the urge to tell him plaid was out of season. I'd bet he wouldn't be able to tell the difference between Prada and polyester. Uneducated half-wit who doesn't deserve fashion advice.

And the smell—Christ the smell. He reeked of utter horse shit. My nose scrunched involuntarily and I pursed my lips to not give an audible gag. I decided to focus on something else, if only to distract myself from the stench.

My gaze locked onto the line in front of me. I let out a small sigh, the line was long. Some dipshit managed to fix the espresso machine, so now people were flocking towards it to get their caffeine fix. Junkies.

I pulled out my phone–an iPhone. Apple. Not one of those clunky Samsungs or gaudy Androids that tech-obsessed nerds clung to, claiming it to be a functionally better choice. I wasn’t a plebeian who would choose a model that screams mediocrity. I wasn't someone who paraded with a technically 'superior' device. An iPhone was better, it actually had taste. Anyway, I check the time.

I glanced at the screen. 2:14 PM.

I ran my fingers through my hair before slipping my phone back into my pocket. I could wait six minutes. Maybe even seven if I was feeling charitable. Provided that should be enough time for the line to thin out.

Turning my head behind me, I notice the lack of people. Small mercy. Likely it would just be this line. My gaze shifts to see if there is an unoccupied table. All of the tables were occupied by the locals. Their attire was borderline offensive. Flannels, denim, and—God help me—hiking boots. Hiking boots. Indoors. It was as if they, for some reason, collectively decided to dress in clothes from an REI clearance sale. Offensive.

My eyes landed on one table. Unlike the others, it was nearly empty except for only one occupant. A girl.

Her attire was unmistakably a uniform. It consisted of a white dress shirt, it possessed a high, stiff turndown collar. It was tucked in—neatly, admittedly—under a black sweater. Neither too tight nor too loose, a decent choice, I suppose, but not entirely remarkable.

Then, there was the tie. A black tie, it was fastened, yes, but worn like a tie. Still, the knot was crooked, it made the tie look bloated, fat, and shaped disproportionately. Overly bulky. It looked off, the length of the tie hung at such an awkward angle. But then again, it was from Saint Laurent—I'd recognize that fabric anywhere. Designer brand, sure, but it was an insult to let it be worn by that. A simple tie clip would have sufficed, it would have corrected this flaw. Easily. It would've kept this unruly mess in place. Would've corrected this imbalance and made the outfit look more cohesive. The black sweater would've provided the perfect amount of cover for it. It would keep her ineptitude hidden, concealing her mistake. But, of course, she hadn't bothered to correct it.

The blazer, though. That was something else. Familiar as well—likely Saint Laurent as well. Customized. Tailored, likely for some sort of attempt at individuality. An attempt to seem unique. The stripes that should've been a vivid indigo, or maybe blue, even purple depending on the lighting, were now a muted black and a dull gray. It stripped aways its potential for a halfhearted attempt at originality. Where was the flavor? Subtletly. At least be subtle.

And then, there was the backpack. Judging by the buckled shoulder straps, she was wearing a backpack while sitting down. A student. It was obvious—her uniform all but yelled it. The monochrome crest on her blazer's left chest pocket confirmed it. Nevermore Academy.

The embroidered alma motto, "Unitas est invicta," what I had been told meant "Unity is invincible." An Outcast. Her attempt at customization was hardly something to applaud, just a shoddy attempt at defiance that fell woefully short of any real statement.

It was hard to dismiss how much shorter than him she was. Even while sitting down.

She was small. Tiny, even. I am taller than her, I was certain of that. I estimated her to be around 5’1". A head shorter compared to me, at 5'9". A midget in comparison.

Her skin was pale. Her black hair was braided into pigtails, neatly but looked overly childish. They framed her face, being pinned behind her ears. Her fringe blocked her forehead. Her lips didn't have any gloss or lipstick. They were pressed into a thin line, her eyes were fixated unblinkingly on her coffee. Likely an espresso.

An axe. A hatchet to the face. Quick, precise, yet messy.

I imagine it in perfect clarity. Picture it.

I was standing over her, gripping a smooth, likely polished, wooden handle with both of my hands. Tightly. My knuckles turning white under the pressure, the wood digging into my skin. Irritating my palms.

Her head tilted up, those dark black eyes widening before blinking in surprise. No, those eyes would stay locked on me, unflinchingly.

I would heave the blade up, my muscles tensing, coiling. She stared. The blade comes down in a perfect arc. The blade meets the skull. It causes a satisfying crack. It splits her skull, her flesh and bone being unable to handle the pressure. I felt the impact just resonate in my arms.

The results would be immediate. Blood gushes. Erupts, painting the area, the booth in crimson. Warm and viscous, thick and red. It would spray across his face. It would soak and seep into the fabric of my blazer. Staining it. I could practically feel the droplets of blood staining my cheek. It drips down to my chin. The smell was immediate, so much so I could practically taste the metallic tang.

I would then yank the hatchet from her skull. One, or two tugs and it's free. The blade would be slick and red.

Her face would collapse onto the table. Making a meaty squelch. The impact would knock her coffee over, her blood mixing seamlessly with the expresso.

The café would, of course, explode in chaos. People trampled over themselves to the exit. A desperate attempt to live. There would be screams and cries. Chairs and tables would clatter, being pushed aside. It wouldn't be silent, but I didn't mind. I imagine that some would stay, shocked, utterly frozen at the sight. But my focus, my attention would be directed solely at her.

I would stand there, watching as the blood pools from the table and onto the floor.

I reached out, my index finger running across the table, tracing the mess—coffee mingled with a crimson pool—with my trembling finger. Drenching it. The mixture was cold, sticky.

I raised it to my lips, bringing it to my mouth. Tasting it. My mind was searching for it, the thrill, for the satisfaction I had expected to feel. The spark.

There was nothing.

I blink. I was standing in front of her. She was seated, alive, and composed. She was staring at me directly. Black met Hazel Brown. She was sipping her coffee.

“Excuse me,” I managed to say, my voice and tone were controlled. I shook my head to get rid of my thoughts. “Would you mind if I sit next to you? All of the seats are taken.” I managed to smile at her. It was practiced. Refined from years of careful effort.

She stares at me. Her eyes were completely focused on me. She was evaluating me. It was as if I was on a mortuary table, she was dissecting and scrutinizing me under a microscope.

She doesn’t respond immediately. Was she slow? Mute? Deaf? An utter waste of time if either. Before I was able to open my mouth again, she interrupted.

“Sit,” it grated my nerves.

Sit. She ordered. As if I were some kind of fucking dog. The audacity. She said it in a way that her tone and pitch were monotone and flat. Was she an emo? A goth? Undergoing a crappy phase? Great, fantastic, I have to deal with a poser. She slowly gestured towards the seat across from her.

I slid into the chair. The table dug momentarily into my sides.

“Patrick Bateman,” he offered her his hand, extending it over the table.

She didn’t take it.

“I didn’t ask.” She replied, her tone lifeless, as if she was going through the motions. No, as if she was tolerating something beneath her. Detached. Disinterested.

I felt my jaw tighten. Locking. I retracted my hand, instead opting to comb it through my hair. My smile is struggling to stay in place. It bristled. I bit my tongue to avoid causing a scene.

“Not a fan of small talk?” I tried to say in a manner that was considered teasingly, good-natured. My eyes flicker to her coffee cup. It was tiny, and made of white ceramic. It had the insignia of the café, a fox holding a rodent by the tail, proudly.

She took another sip from her coffee, a slow sip. The kind that made it clear she wasn't in a rush, before placing it down onto her ceramic coaster. “I’m not a fan of wasting time.”

She irritated me, but I refused to show it. Instead, I leaned into my seat, attempting to make myself more comfortable.

How would she look strangled?

I could see it clearly. Her pale and slender neck would be wrapped around a garrote. Piano wire? Nah, maybe a cable–a phone charger cord. Yeah, something a bit more common, easily accessible. It's not like I keep piano wire. Where the hell would I even get piano wire from?

I’d get up from the table, do a casual stretch, probably some shoulder stretch, before pulling out my phone, making a show of toying with it, then sighing. I would then walk up to another table, someone who is using their phone.

"Excuse me," I would say while approaching them. "Do you mind if I borrow a charger? My phone is dead, and I'm waiting on an important call."

I'd ask with a practiced smile. Trustworthy. I would be confident, I would have to establish some level of credibility. They would have to believe me, they would have to trust me. They'd nod, they'd accept. They would hand over a charger without so much as even glancing in my direction. Already returning to their conversation. Why wouldn’t they?

I don't bother to thank them. I would feel the charger in my hand, quickly removing the USB block, before discarding it behind me with a casual toss. My fingers, moving, curling around the ends of the wire.

My hands, being wrapped with the ends of the cable now, would give it a jerk. The wire, taut, showing no signs of breaking. Even as I increased the intensity of my tug. It wouldn't be bad. Great craftsmanship. Whoever manufactured this would deserve a raise.

I would move to the table behind her.

"Pardon me."

The people seated there would move, shift to the side without question. She wouldn't move. Not even tilting her head.

I would quickly, in one simple motion, loop the wire over her neck, and pulled.

The first noise I heard was a sharp inhale of breath. She would gasp. Her hands shooting to her throat, feeling the cord, trying to break it. But my pull would be unrelenting. She seemed the type to struggle. I could tell. At least when it came to strangulation.

She would scratch my hands. Her fingernails digging into my wrists—my perfect wrists. Sharp enough to sting. I would bleed. I winced, not from the pain. But at the thought, the sheer gall of her. The damage. I could already feel it. Scars. It would leave scars. Fucking Scars.

Did she have any idea of how much effort went into keeping my skin flawless? My skincare routine? Exfoliation, hydration, moisturization, and the careful use of SPF 50—even when it wasn't sunny. And here she was, running it without a second thought. Utterly thoughtless. Some people were so inconsiderate. My dermatologist would cry.

I would have to cover it up, of course. Concealer, maybe. Or Dermaflage. It would be such a pain to find the perfect shade, the perfect tone that would blend seamlessly into my skin. A nuisance. Absolutely annoying!

I didn't stop. The wire no doubt made an indent in her skin. Her mouth was opening and closing. Either attempting to gasp for air or choking out some words that were unintelligible. I'd bet my money on the latter. Broken syllables. Probablyeither my name or someone else's.

It didn't matter.

"Just fucking die. Die. Die. Die." I muttered. Almost conversationally to her. I held the cord steady. I saw and felt her thrash weaken. Her hands going limp. Her body failed her. It was beautiful.

The situation would require effort. But I didn't mind. I wouldn’t stop. Not until she stopped breathing. Not until the light in those eyes faded. They would get glassy. I'd hold it just a moment longer, just to make sure she wasn't faking it.

Her struggles slowed to a halt, her arms fell limp to her sides. I tightened my grip. Her head lolled forward. I sighed, loosening the wire—not out of guilt, of course, but out of exhaustion. Killing someone properly takes a lot of energy.

I could already feel the sweat beading on my forehead as I caught her by the pigtails, just to keep her face from slamming onto the table. No need to ruin the Weathervane's atmosphere.

I tilted her head from the left, then to the right. I was angling her face, studying it. Trying to find out what her good angles were in the light. She wasn't bad looking, being somewhat attractive, That was... irritating. I found it irritating.

Maybe I'd take a selfie with it. It would be blog-worthy.

Peace sign or no peace sign?

What would the caption be?

‘Captured in the perfect moment. #Chilling?'

Or maybe.

'Strangling the competition. #JustVibing.'

No. Too obvious.

Either way, it would likely go viral. She wouldn’t even have to try hard.

I hated that. I admired that.

I grabbed a napkin, before gently dabbing the corner of her mouth, wiping away any spittle from her mouth. Wiping her bloodless lips clean. A final gesture of respect. Or mockery. I couldn't be sure which.

“Are you going to keep staring at me, or are you just planning my demise?”

The girl’s voice had snapped me away from my fantasy and back to my one-sided conversation.

That question sent a shiver down my spine. Did she know? Was she able to discern my true nature? Could she read my mind as if it were a book? I didn’t recall any outcasts having an ability like telepathy or mind-reading. My heart was beating. Pounding. Both out of a sense of anticipation and out of frustration. I felt it. My world was unraveling. The thrill of the chase. The thought of getting caught.

It was fun.

I decided to lean forward. My elbows digging into the table. My hands, folded and placed beneath my chin. I proposed a genuine question. It could be seen as teasing though. “Would you like me to?”

I was smiling. It wasn't forced. Genuine.

She stared unblinking at me. She didn't flinch. She didn't laugh. She didn't roll her eyes. Her head tilted downward slightly. Her eyes continued to stare at me. I could make out her eyes more clearly. A dark color. But it wasn’t pitch black. I made out a hint of brown. I don't recall her blinking even once in this conversation. No involuntary twitch. No smile. Not even a grimace. She didn't break eye contact. It looked as if she didn't breathe.

“You’re interesting.” Her words were flat. Detached. It lacked any emotions I could perceive.

Interesting.

That word. How utterly neutral. It hung in the air, like smoke. It was weightless. It was insubstantial. It wasn't flattering. It wasn't demeaning. It held no positive or negative judgments. It wasn't anything.

I despise that. I despise her for that.

But I was also captivated. I couldn't read her. I couldn't understand her. John Locke believed that we came into the world empty, as blank slates. That we are shaped by experience. Cause, effect, and behavior painting our canvas.

B.F. Skinner added onto that with association. Everything we develop is shaped through stimuli through rewards or punishment. It gives us experience, forging behavioral patterns. Pavlov's dog salivates. Fire teaches us not to touch. Behavior, Attitude, and Consequences. Behaviors are learned and reinforced based on the consequences of those actions. It was logical.

But she didn't fit.

It was as if she wasn't shaped by anything. Not by social norms nor rules.

I should feel superior. I was ahead of her in that aspect. I understood the framework. I was better in regards to social intelligence. I knew how to navigate social cognition. I was better.

But she didn't fit.

I hated her for it.

I hated her. However, I felt something even worse than hate. Something raw and hideous. A sense of Kinship.

It wasn't love. It wasn't lust. It wasn't admiration. It was something else entirely.

I was staring into a mirror. It was shattered.

I hate her. I hate her for making me feel like that. I wasn't supposed to feel this way. I wasn't supposed to find any connection with someone like her.

But, I hated something even more.

My inability to stop looking.

I hate how much I wanted to keep looking. "I'll consider that a compliment," I replied, keeping my tone light and conversational. Acting as if I wasn’t affected. I wasn’t.

"You shouldn't."

She didn't elaborate. It was bait. No. She didn't care. She watched as I drowned. Waiting for it. It didn't matter whether I sank or swam.

"Why not?" I tilted my head slightly. I feigned curiosity. I was curious. I showed interest. Like a fish, I was watching the bait. I felt myself biting it instinctively.

Pathetic.

It was pathetic.

I was pathetic.

"Because those who I find interesting don't usually last long."

I blinked. Her delivery was flat. It was as if she was talking about the weather. A joke? A threat? I couldn't tell.

"What's your name?" I asked her. It was casual. I ignored her cryptic death threat. It didn't dig into me.

"Why?"

"So I can put it on your obituary."

Her expression made no sign of changing. There was no twitch at the corner of her mouth. No cracks in her facade. No tricks in the light.

"Wednesday," she said. "Wednesday Addams."

Of course it was. Wednesday Addams. That is her name. How could it be anything else? It was irreplaceable. Her name was intrinsically intertwined with her, it encapsulates who she is.

Nominal determinism. Name essentialism. Implicit association. Whatever bullshit academic theory it was, her name was right.

"You're interesting," I said, the words slipping out. It escaped. I didn't even mean to say it. But I did. And for the first time, I think I meant it.

Hearing that, her head tilted slightly. It mirrored my earlier gesture. A mimicry. An imitation. Something feigning.

No. Wait. That wasn't right. Either of those implied a pretense. I couldn't find anything inauthentic about her.

I couldn't tell whether she did that gesture on purpose or not.

I was drowning.

My lungs burned. I gasped for air that wasn't there. My arms flailed, my hands clawing towards an exit that wasn't there. My legs kicked, searching for a confession that held weight.

And then, there she was.

Drowning too.

She couldn't swim. Yet she did not struggle. She could not breathe. Yet she made no attempt to do so.

She simply was.

She was there.

Doing and being something I could never hope to achieve.

I hated it.

God, I hated it.

But I loved it too.

My internal clock dinged.

Too much time, I realized. I had spent too much time talking with her.

I needed to leave.

I had to leave.

I couldn't breathe.

“I have too…” I felt my voice falter, crack. My mind was racking for something. Anything to justify leaving. “I... have to get baked goods. For friends.” I managed to bite out.

It was a pathetic excuse, but true.

I reached for the napkin next to Wednesday’s coaster and coffee. My consciousness felt like the napkin. Thin, tearable, the edges unraveled.

I pulled out my pen—a Jericho High-issued one. A terrible pen. I received it during orientation. I hated the design. Whoever manufactured it had no taste. It was a combination of red, white, and yellow. The barrel was a basic red, the tip, and the cap stark white. The center band and clip? Get this. A jarring yellow.

I used the gaudy pen to write my number on the napkin, jotting it down neatly. Confidently. “If you ever want to talk more,” I said, I slid the napkin to her.

Her stare didn’t drop towards the napkin. She didn’t even look at it.

She stared at me.

I quickly pulled myself away from it, yanking my hand back as if I touched something on fire. I moved briskly to the front of the Weathervane Cafe’s counter. Briskly. I felt her stare, the hair on my neck standing. I forced myself to ignore it. Pretending I wasn't aware of it.

The line that was there previously? Gone.

Of course it was.

“Hey! How are you Patrick?”

I had forgotten that he had work today. Tyler Galpin. Standing behind the counter at the Weathervane. He was painfully earnest. Carrying a half-smile. As if desperate to please. Too cheerful. An underwhelming person with an underwhelming life.

Someone who was formerly part of the clique of losers, only to grow out of ‘pranking’ outcasts due to being sent to some boot camp—Fit something, I think. It, miraculously, changed him. For worse. Less of a jackass, more of a wimp. He no longer wishes to, as Jonah and Carter stated, "join in on the fun." So, they kept their distance, not involving each other, if only out of respect for Tyler’s father.

The only moderately interesting, sole redeeming thing about Tyler was that his father, Donovan Galpin, a sheriff. A deputy turned sheriff. Now, that's an example of socioeconomic upward mobility. Someone who was connected to Noble Walker, having worked under him when Walker was sheriff.

However, Tyler’s father is a drunk. Not even the interesting, rage type of drunk.

A sappy sad drunk. The kind that cries.

Great.

"Hey, Tyler. How are you?" My earlier interaction with Wednesday had drained me. I need to end this conversation quickly.

"Good. Good." His voice was upbeat. A cheery personality while working in customer service? One that wasn’t fake? Impossible. "How is everyone?"

Fucking loner. What was he, starved for attention? And everyone? What was I, some middleman delivering updates?

"Jonah and Carter are the same," I replied, forcing my voice to act as if I cared. "I think Carter is going to get a raise?" I forced a smile. It didn't matter whether or not Carter got a raise. Scraping together what little cash and raises he could, he wasn't going to do shit about the utter dumpster fire of a home life he has.

Tyler nodded, looking and acting as if he was attentive. His brown eyes narrowed like he cared. Pathetic.

"Lucas was wondering when you are going to come over?" I added, only to steer the conversation. "Apparently he needs help with baking?" Probably trying to impress Smothers. No amount of cookies could fix that train wreck of a relationship. "Oh, and his father needs to talk with your father. Something official. Sheriff business."

Probably about those so-called "bear attacks." Idiotic fucks who went out camping, despite the news of people getting mauled.

Darwinism at its finest.

I reached into the pocket of my tailored navy-blue coat. Pulling out my wallet. "Can I get one cherry-filled powdered donut, one chocolate donut, and one cream cheese bagel?" If I came back empty-handed, those losers would kick a hissy fit.

"Sure." Tyler tapped the order into the digital kiosk. His fingers moved clumsily while interacting with the touch screen. Like a dog trying to work a touchscreen. Watching him was painful. "That'll be... $5.40," He said, while glancing up, with a dopey smile.

I handed him a crisp twenty. I didn't do it out of generosity. But to make me feel superior. Give me the upper hand.Bastard had the audacity to be an inch taller than me. His father was 5'9", his mother was barely 5'1". How the hell was he 5'10"? An injustice.

“Keep the change,” I said casually. Tyler gave a quick thank you. It made me feel a bit better.

“Here you go." Tyler handed me two paper bags. One contained the donuts, the other with the bagel.

"Have a good day." He added, his voice cheery.

Bastard. I hoped he tripped on his way out of the coffee shop, hopefully falling face-first into a pile of wet leaves.

I waved goodbye, ignoring Wednesday’s stare. I pushed open the green-painted door of the Weathervane and stepped outside.

──────◇──────

POV: Wednesday Addams

How interesting. Only moderately so.

I watched as he disappeared, my gaze fixated onto the door he had long since passed through. Recalling our twisted conversation.

It appears I have either encountered a budding cutthroat capitalist or a would-be serial killer.

In truth, I couldn't inform you which prospect is better.

My gaze moved from the door and back to what he had given me. I reached for the napkin, the one where he had inscribed down what I presume to be his number. A promise of some sort of amusement.

It was a pity, really. I, with the assistance of Tyler, plan to implement my strategy to leave Jericho. Timing really did have a cruel sense of humor, one I found both entertaining and displeasing.

I heard the door creak open once more, much like a sarcophagus and out came the Principal of Nevermore Academy. Larissa Weems. Our eyes met briefly. No words were spoken. However, I can infer that based on my actions of departing from my court-ordered therapy session, an action that she would interpret as defiance, would have her, in turn, seek some sort of retribution.

It appears that my plans for departure would have to wait– until further notice.

How inconvenient.