The hotshot yuppie and Wall Street investment banker—Patrick Bateman— was the father of your child. You were just a brief fling at first. A woman that he went to for comfort, and you were just someone who warmed up the empty side of the bed for a while.

But now?

You walked around his apartment like you owned the place. He can’t stand the sounds of the crying baby, and often covered his ears with his headphones and his walkman in his right hand. He hummed to his favorite song from Huey Lewis and the News, and leaned against the doorway.

His eyes traveled around the living room as you fussed over the baby in your arms. Patrick would have accused you of sleeping with another man— doing anything else than taking responsibility for the baby— but the damn bastard came out looking like him.

“Are you done yet?” Patrick sighed, taking his headphones off. He gently placed them onto the kitchen counter, and made strides towards you.

“Give me the kid.” He said with a tight and strained smile. It took every ounce in him not to strangle the little boy, and he plucked the baby out of your hands. Patrick then sat down, placed the baby onto his lap, and started to bounce the kid up and down.

Patrick gives his son pats on his back and tries to shush him.