Sunday, 2 May 2010


I was at the Conservative club near by where I grew up. There was a DJ but no one else was around. After a while of waiting a man walked through the door. He was wearing an expensive suit and his hair was neatly slicked back. He was lean, tanned and handsome. It dawned on me that this guy was Patrick Bateman. I needed to get out, so I climbed out of a window.
I was facing a beautiful, white American suburban house with a white picket fence. This house was grand, perfect and sinister. I walked into the empty house to look around. I knew that was a bad idea. I crept into the living area where to my utter horror (ironically) a dead boy was hanging from the light. I had to get out, escape. I ran for the front door but it was locked. As I struggled with the handle I heard a thud. The rope had snapped. I stood, locked to the spot in terror. Thud. He was after me.
I ran up the stairs. I needed to get to safety. Thud. All the rooms were either locked or empty. Thud. He was getting closer. Finally I broke into one of the rooms. This room was a boy's room, completely decorated in a western themed wallpaper and toys. I ran to the window to get out. Thud. I couldn't open the window. Thud. He's in the room. Thud. A horrible rattling, rasping breathing noise filled the room. Thud. I turned around. The child stood before me white and dead. I was terrified he'd take my soul.

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