American Psycho

by Bret Easton Ellis

“No I’m not,” I whisper to myself. “I’m a fucking evil psychopath.”

Today’s guests are women with multiple personalities.

“That’s bone,” I point out. “And the lettering is something called Silian Rail.”

“They want a hardbody who can take them to Le Cirque twice a week, get them into Nell’s on a regular basis. Or maybe a close personal acquaintance of Donald Trump,” Price says flatly.

“Well, my theory’s always been,” I start, “men are only here to procreate, to carry on the species, you know?”

All it comes down to is: I feel like shit but look great.

“I don’t want you to get drunk,” I tell her. “But that’s a very fine chardonnay you’re not drinking.”

“Daisy, what in god’s name are you doing with a stud like Batman?”

This is true: the world is better off with some people gone. Our lives are not all interconnected. That theory is a crock. Some people truly do not need to be here.

“Because,” I say, staring directly at her, “I … want … to … fit … in.”

There wasn’t a clear, identifiable emotion within me, except for greed and, possibly, total disgust. I had all the characteristics of a human being—flesh, blood, skin, hair—but my depersonalization was so intense, had gone so deep, that the 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. Something horrible was happening and yet I couldn’t figure out why—I couldn’t put my finger on

“Listen,” she says. “The Young Republican bash at the Pla …” She stops herself as if remembering something, then continues, “at the Trump Plaza is next Thursday.”

King, I’m thinking. King, Evelyn. I want you to call me King.

And later my macabre joy sours and I’m weeping for myself, unable to find solace in any of this, crying out, sobbing “I just want to be loved,” cursing the earth and everything I have been taught: principles, distinctions, choices, morals, compromises, knowledge, unity, prayer—all of it was wrong, without any final purpose. All it came down to was: die or adapt.

How could she ever understand that there isn’t any way I could be disappointed since I no longer find anything worth looking forward to?