There is an idea of a Patrick Bateman; some kind of abstraction. But there is no real me, only an entity, something illusory. And though I can hide my cold gaze, and you can shake my hand and feel flesh gripping yours and maybe you can even sense our lifestyles are probably comparable… I simply am not there.
This is a little fantasy collab series I’m doing with my friend Lauren @suhsexual. She drew the art version of this here and it’s super amazing so you should check it out!
So, its the 1900′s
You live in a rural area, up north where it snows heavily in the winter.
Still living with your parents on their estate, you have to do chores.
One of those chores is fetching things from the barn. You store food for the cattle there, and let berries freeze in the crates just outside with a cloth being their protection from the snow on top.
You mother asks if you can fetch another bale for the horses and goats, and you immediately sigh as you realize you need to tread through the thick snow.
You head out to the barn and unlock the chains over the door hastily, eager to finish.
Hissing as the cold iron handle touched your clothed palm, you quickly entered the snow-less safety of the barn. The whipping winds couldn’t reach you in there, the wooden siding protecting you from strong gusts that liked to dust you in ice.
You shook off the snow from your boots, tightened the straps of your gloves, and reached for your baling hook. You needed your hands to be firmly put in the cloth so that you could get a proper hold on the tool, or else the hook could slip and hurt your wrist. You pulled a wooden sleigh down from atop a bale and set it near your feet.
Taking said hook, you inserted it into the nearest bale and picked it up, setting it on the helpful contraption. There was no way you would’ve been able to pick it up and bring it to the horses by yourself.
You take the sleigh by its rope and drag it out the door, closing it behind you.
You forget to re-lock the chains.
A couple days from then, your mother asks you to fetch hay for the animals again.
You repeat the process, except this time, something is a bit off.
When you head into the barn, one of the bales is off the wooden platform that keeps them from touching the wet ground.
You frown and call out.
“Hello?” You ask tentatively, knowing it had most likely fallen by chance. You got no response, and pulled over the sleigh to pick up the bale that had fallen.
You needed two this time, so you hooked the one immediately behind it and lifted it, obscuring your vision. Dust fell off the bale and settled on your hands, and a draft sent it floating along with all the other dust soon after.
You dropped the bale in shock from the suddenly loud sound and nearly sprained your wrist. Someone had sneaked into the barn.
“Who’s there?” You yelled, brow furrowed. You heard another sneeze and this time could tell it was from the upper level of the barn.
You move towards the ladder immediately and climb up, baling hook in hand.
100% ready to stab a bitch, farm style.
The hook is raised over your head and you walk the upper levels, cautious because there are no railings.
Among the light yellow hay you catch an eyeful of brown hair, smooth and straight.
You push aside a bale, your hook still raised high and choke, not believing what you saw.
On the floor of the barn was a man, but not just any man…
“A goat-man?” you wheezed out, eyes wide in disbelief.
He had a normal human top-half (besides horns that curled back behind his ears) and was physically fit, but his bottom half was that of a goat. His legs were long and instead of feet he had hooves, along with coarse, wiry, brown-grey hair. The minimal clothing and a satchel with a mini pan-flute did almost nothing for him - He looked terribly frozen and afraid.
“I’m actually a Satyr, to be more precise,” He said, lips curling into a small smirk as he shivered. He sneezed again, “By chance could you spare a blanket for your local, friendly goat-man?”
You lowered the baling hook after grilling him for a minute, deciding that no one deserves to freeze. He seemed friendly enough and had a good sense of humor.
He told you he was sick after you gave him a blanket, and that his name is Johnny.
You offered to let him stay in the stables with the horses and two goats as long as your parents didn’t find out.
“Wonderful. I’ll have someone to talk to then?”
“You can talk to animals?”
“Yes, and let me tell you, they’re a very opinionated little bunch.”
You sneaked him food.
Apples were his favorite, but he mostly ate the hay from the other animals.
Spring rolled around and although it was still cold, the snow had stopped and melted.
Johnny wasn’t sick anymore beyond a sniffle.
Sometimes, at night, you would go out into the stables to visit him.
“What is it like, having another animal’s legs?” You asked one day as he played his flute for you.
He trailed off on a trill and set the flute aside,”Well, for my entire life, these have been my legs. Imagining having human legs is as weird for me as you imagining having Satyr legs.”
“Oh…” you mused, “That makes a lot of sense, actually. You’re like a mermaid.”
“Except I’m part goat, not fish. Mermaids are a tricky lot.”
Johnny has a light control over nature and can make “spells” with his pan-flute. He couldn’t do any spells before because he was so sick.
You flip your shit (in a good way) and he tells you the goats are irritated that you’re yelling so loud.
They bleat in confirmation.
You just got reprimanded by a goat.
Suddenly, your father calls out to you. He’s outside. Johnny needed to go.
You try to get him to move, but he grabs his pan flute and begins to play a tune you hadn’t heard before.
He parts his lips from the instrument for a brief second in order to whisper, “trust me.”
“Y/N!” You father yells, wondering if you’re deaf. You stood in front of your friend and closed your eyes tight as he rounded the corner.
“Y/N?” He said, his eyes confused as he pointed behind you. “Who’s that boy with you? You didn’t tell us we’d be having company for dinner.”
You turned around and looked at your satyr friend only to see that they had legs…. human legs.
It must be a spell.
Johnny pulled the flute away from his mouth with a charming smile, “I apologize, sir, your child didn’t know that I was coming over. I was just passing by and thought I should pay them a visit.”
“Oh,” your father’s lip tucked slightly, “Well, if you would like to stay for dinner, that’d be fine. My wife doesn’t like having leftovers.”
“No, dad, he was just about to leave. It’s-”
“I’d love that. Thank you, sir.”
You thought about slapping Johnny but decided it would be way too odd.
Your dad would beat your ass for doing that too.
The two of you follow your father inside.
“How long does that spell last?”
“Long enough. I hope.”
He sits in the Extra Chair™
You look at what your mom made and feel bad for him because he can’t eat anything but the roasted carrots and salad and your father is practically a carnivore.
“You must really love vegetables, son.”
dinner was almost over when you felt Johnny’s leg against your, but it didn’t feel human.
Panicking for the second time that evening, you patted his (now goatish) leg, trying to get his attention. At any moment, his curled horns might appear.
“Hey, John. Why don’t you show my parents your skill with the pan flute?”
Johnny looked down with a knit brow at your hand before a look of realization washed over him, “Y-yes of course! One second!”
He pulled out his pan flute and began to play, charming your parents and you. The fur underneath your fingers slowly dissipated to cloth-covered skin, his leg now human in appearance. You let out a sigh in relief and Johnny smiled around the mouth of one of the instruments barrels.
“You really have a talent there…” your mother trailed off, forgetting his name.
“Johnny, but you may call me as you like, Miss.”
“Y/N called you John just a little while ago. How long have you been hiding this talented lad from us, Missy?”
“He’s just a friend, dad. I met him at the market a few weeks ago and helped his find the proper syrup for his cough.”
Your mom frowned in sympathy at the disguised satyr, who had stopped playing, “Is that right?”
“Very much so, Miss. Your daughter has proved to be an invaluable friend to me,” John nodded. “I am afraid I have to take an early leave, though. My mother is expecting me home before nightfall and I live quite a ways away. The dinner was delicious, Miss. I’ll have to get that roasted carrot recipe from you one day!”
Johnny tucked his flute into the hem of his trousers, “Now, if you may excuse us, please.”
He pulled you out of the house before you could argue.
It was theoretically rude of him to ditch dinner like that, but if you were him, you would’ve done the same.
You were happy it went well and that his satyr status wasn’t found out.
Who knew your now best friend would ever meet your parents?
You thought it would be impossible.
Turns out all he had to do was charm himself into some pants.