A/N: I watched Cruel Intentions III for the first time tonight. While the first one was the best, I found myself intrigued by Patrick's character. I felt they didn't delve into his past enough, give us enough reasons for why he was so messed up. So I thought I'd try.
People seem to think you're psychotic. That there must be several things horribly, terribly wrong with you - there has to be an extensive list of neurotic syndromes and a long history of frequent hospital visits. There has to be a mental disability of some kind, a line of pills you have to take every night to put on the facade of normalcy.
Your parents assumed you were autistic. They sent you to the best therapists and they made sure you always understood what a liability you were. You were a blemish in their perfect lifestyle.
People seem to think you're psychotic. But the only thing wrong with you is that they never took you seriously.
That's the problem. There's really nothing else.
You had an overactive imagination. You used to write stories about aliens and gallant heroes defeating the evil monsters; you used to dream about love and happiness and friendship, the three essentials of your life. They were vivid dreams. Thoughts of a best friend to be there for you, to save you from those evil aliens at the psychiatrist's office.
You had a best friend named Timothy, once. You were ten years old.
"Don't be such a little wimp," he teased, stepping out into the dark street. An orange light flickered on and off ominously - you sat with your hands curled around your knees as you watched.
"I don't like this." You whimpered low in your throat, a pleading sound. Don't do this, you seemed to be saying. It's not safe. It was a busy street late at night, and a car could come at any moment and claim your best friend's life, like it claimed your dog's several years ago.
"You're so stupid," he snickered. "Come on, Patty. What's going to happen?" To prove his point, he outstretched his arms and darted into the middle of the street. The silence unnerved you. There were no cars in sight.
"A lot of things!" you shouted back.
It wasn't your fault, because you didn't see the illuminating light casting through the darkness. You didn't see it because you were squeezing your eyes shut and willing away the entire thing.
You heard your best friend's scream and it was the last time you heard anything from him again.
Your parents decided that putting you through more therapy would help you get over dear Timothy's death. You had been helpless to the entire thing, they said sagely. You didn't know any better, they said wisely.
Dr. Peterson classified you as a schizophrenic, because sometimes you would mutter things under your breath that no one heard. You would echo the entire conversation you shared with your best friend before the drunk driver hit him. You would remember the screech of brakes, the terrified scream.
Some things were better left unsaid. For a while, you thought the memory haunted you and turned you insane. But really, it was only the tip of the iceberg. The explosion to a waiting time bomb.
You're not insane. It would be easier if you were.
You were put on sleeping pills when you were twelve, to stop the nightmares that captured your dreams. You used to wake up in cold sweats, screaming - nightmares of psychiatrist offices, flashing streetlights, and Dr. Peterson saying to your parents, "He's showing signs of a low-grade case of schizophrenia." You had night-terrors of their shocked faces, their hands coming to hide their expressions.
As if they were ashamed of you in every way possible. As if, "How dare my son have a mental illness? Do you know how much money we have? We could sue you."
Your little sister was born that year, and she was normal. It wasn't really fair, was it?
At thirteen, you were officially dubbed the psycho kid. Your parents insisted you were put in special education, because, "Dr. Peterson said he has a case of schizophrenia. You see, he's never really been normal. He's on medication. He needs to be put in with the special kids."
You were placed in classes with first-grade curriculums when you were reading on a high-school level, writing at a college level. You were calculating the circumference of Seth Anderson's helmet half-way into the year. The teachers saw this and decided you shouldn't be in with the special kids.
Your parents said, "How dare you assume you know more about Patrick than we do? He has a condition, I tell you!"
You stayed with the special kids.
The problem was that there was no problem.
Your parents put you in custody of your older cousin, who took you into his house and virtually ignored you for the better half of your teenage life. Really, it was just fine - you didn't need attention any more than you needed therapy sessions.
Dr. Peterson used to say things like, "Patrick, Timothy Matthews' death wasn't your fault."
Now he said things like, "Your time is up. See you next week."
There was a night when you took too many of your prescribed sleeping pills and you foamed at the mouth a little. Your cousin took one look at you and scheduled you for more visits to the therapist.
"You know, Patty, sometimes I think you're fucking psychotic."
Sex was about dominance. You discovered this after watching a couple of your cousin's X-rated movies you found hidden under the bed. Really, the entire thing was about dominance - the need to feel like you were better.
You'd never felt powerful before. It was a thrill, sex - it made you feel normal. Sex was a tool, a weapon, a devilish pleasure.
Connie Andrews was the first girl you touched, the girl you lost your virginity to. She went right back to her boyfriend after it. You sent dear Greg her dirty panties in the mail and she was the brokenhearted laughingstock of the entire school, and people didn't bother you anymore.
It felt good to be powerful.
Sex was easy. It was getting them to fall in love with you that was the hard part. Because no matter how many times you fucked them, no matter how many times you screwed them into oblivion and made them scream your name - "Yes, Patrick, oh, God, yes, right there," - they never fell in love with you.
You didn't understand this. You didn't understand how they could want your body, your tongue, your cock, but not want you. You didn't understand how something that meant so much to you meant so little to them.
Dr. Peterson asked you if you'd made love yet.
What the fuck was that supposed to mean?
The problem was, you really loved Allison. That was the problem. It wasn't because you were psychotic, or that you thought rape was the only option, or even that you wanted her body. The problem was that you wanted her. Everything about her, you wanted.
"Patrick? I care about him, b-but, I'm just not attracted to him."
No, but she wanted Brent, didn't she? She wanted him, when all you wanted was to be with her. That wasn't fair.
You took a couple of your sleeping pills before you did it - just a few, so that your vision was blurred a little, and you didn't have to see her face as you did this to her. You only took enough so that you wouldn't remember her pleading cries, her skin as you bruised it, her tear-streaked face as she begged, "Please, don't do this, Patrick. Please!"
You didn't remember any of the details, but you remembered what you did, and that alone caused you to have night-terrors even with those wretched sleeping pills.
The problem was, you really loved Allison.
That was it. But after what you'd done, she winced as she saw you in the hall - she fled down the narrow corridors when she glimpsed you, when she realized you were within her proximity. You sneaked desperate glances at her and you physically flinched at the welts on her skin.
You didn't remember making them, but you know that you did.
The problem was, you weren't psychotic. You weren't schizophrenic, you weren't mentally ill. You weren't the victim of parental abuse or neglect. You didn't have an extensive list of syndromes or pills.
The problem was that there was no problem. You just were never taken seriously.
In prison, you can't take sleeping pills. You have nightmares of flashing streetlights, psychiatrist offices, and Allison's screams.