Patrick Bateman, My Teacher

Week 2, Day 10: Wednesday

{Hiya. Another French lesson incoming. As it's the second lesson, I thought I'd put the translator straight after the last French sentence is used so you won't have to keep scrolling to the end of the chapter and back up. It'll be in bold so, when you want to look at the translation for something, it shouldn't be too far down :)}

It was 5:00AM. I had a black hoodie draped over me, and my hair tied in a messy bun. No makeup.

I had just left the college doors, inhaling in the brisk icy chill from the outside air through my lungs. It was dark out, but morning was lurking just around the corner. I embraced the beautiful atmosphere of true isolation. Something about the assurity of everyone else in the building I was leaving behind being tucked away, unconscious and oblivious, comforted me deeply.

With my hands shoved in my pockets, I strolled out the gates. Contrary to what people might have thought about me, I treasured being alone. It gave me a sense of independence and control. Therefore, right now I was in my element. I was comfortable. I was myself. Until...

"Where do you think you're going?"

The low voice sent a wave of both adoration and dread through my flesh. Taking a deep breath and changing something within myself just on the surface, I turned around and smiled at Patrick with welcoming surprise.

To put it bluntly, he looked breathtaking in the shadows, his features dramatically accentuated by the subtle slashes of moonlight bouncing off his face like diamonds. In his jet black suit that was being swallowed whole by the darkness, he leant against a wall with a chunky cigar hanging from his mouth. One eyebrow cocked slightly, he narrowed his eyes at me.

"Hello", I breathed out, taking in his dark presence.

He puffed on his cigar, his chiseled face fleetingly fading into the ashen grey smoke.

"What are you doing out here, Chelsea?" he repeated with strict concern.

"I didn't know you smoked", I commented, unimpressed.

"I don't smoke", he blinked at me, bewildered, "This is a cigar. What are you doing out here?"

"Going on my morning walk", I replied indifferently, "Like always".

"Mind if I join you then?" Patrick pushed himself off the wall, advancing towards me.

"No, don't", I snapped far too quickly.

He gave me a calculated look and panicked excuses rushed around my head like wild flies. After a moment's contemplation, I decided it would be best to go with the truth.

"I've been feeding a stray dog every morning", I explained, "He'll be scared of anybody new. I'll see you late-"

As I began stomping away, his dagger-like fingers sinked into my upper arm and stopped me, dead in my tracks, from moving. He enclosed his thumb around the rest of my arm, his sizable hand wrapped almost fully around my flimsy arm.

He towered over me, his eyes scowling down hard.

"Do you trust me?" he asked, watching me closely.

My eyes flickered between him and his firm grip on me, which was tightening the longer I delayed a response.

"Yes", I replied simply.

"Then don't go", he warned, the tone in his voice protective yet threatening, "Just turn around, and go back to bed".

I began to object but stopped when he gave me a look so menacing that I thought it would be best to keep my mouth shut. Tentatively, I nodded and turned my back to him to start walking away.