You're probably thinking that's bullshit, that it all got too fashionable after American Psycho and became the diagnosis du jour. Truth is, you're surrounded by sociopaths, but you think most of them are just fucktards.
I have the intelligence to hide myself. Camouflage takes stealth and skill. Most average Joes aren't that clever, let alone most sociopaths; they're dumb shits like the rest of you, and they come off as exactly that. This doesn't make you any safer because a sociopath is still out for your blood—metaphorically or otherwise—and some would say a dumb shit going blindly after blood is the most dangerous thing of all.
Of course, they've never met me.
Then there's the Patrick Bateman complex; people look for sociopaths who are obsessed with detail, petty, meticulous. I'm not going to complain—if anything, that does me a favour. Good luck spotting my inner Bateman, sweetheart. He doesn't exist. No, let me explain the one thing that makes me different to you.
I have no conscience.
I have emotions, sure. I don't sit there like a designer sack of potatoes, numb to the rest of the world. On the contrary, I feel a lot of things; just not for other people. I'm self-serving. Impulsive. I like to please myself, and my desires quiver like dominoes all set up and waiting for the right stroke to make them fall.
Above all, this particular state of being demands that I be a people-watching genius because without it, I can't figure out how to fake caring. How to feign being a friend. If it sounds like hard work, that's because it is...but would I swap it for a conscience? Would I fuck.
***
At around nine p.m. each evening, I pull up outside my apartment building and let the valet take my car. I drive alone, no security staff. If I have to endure them whenever I go out in public, I sure as hell avoid them when I can.
In the lobby—which appears to be going for the beige abyss approach I use for my office, but without the mirror masterstroke—I greet the concierge by name and stop to chat for a moment. How's the shift going? And how is his wife after her stroke? If there's a neighbour around, I'll draw them into the conversation too; I make a point of knowing their names and faces (and their credit scores, or who their husbands are fucking, because I don't pay Tuija for nothing).
After that, I take the private elevator up to my penthouse apartment and step over three random heaps of Lego in the living area. I bought the place not long after Ash was born, mainly for its proximity to a reputable prep school and satisfying views across the city. When you're at the top of the food chain, there's something seductive about lounging on a top floor terrace while the city stretches out beneath you, a lover waiting to be had.
I walk past sleek modern sofas and rows of glass bookcases to the open-plan kitchen, where Ethan, my nanny, is still clearing up from dinner. Ethan is my favourite kind of produce: local, younger than me and hardworking. Has a sick mother with medical bills. Not hot enough to be distracted by girls, but not ugly enough to be embarrassing. He's been with me almost six years, since Ash was barely two; in it for the long game, which is always preferable. If I hadn't hired him, he'd probably spend his days playing Call of Duty and his nights simpering over what a failure he'd become. See what a nice guy I am?
"Ash went to bed early tonight," he comments as I dump my laptop bag on a Perspex chair. "I think he's coming down with something."
"Does he have a fever?"
"Not yet. But I'd can stick around tonight, if you like. Keep an eye on him until morning."
"I appreciate the offer, but it won't be necessary." I pat Ethan on the shoulder by way of gratitude. "I'll finish off the dishes. You go see your ma."
He frowns. "You sure?"
"Of course. Now get lost—I mean it."
"Can't argue with that, I guess." He pauses, folding the dish cloth carefully before laying it beside the sink. "Hey, did you have your big meeting today?"
"Yep. It's looking good." I have big meetings every day, but I like to feed Ethan just enough detail that he thinks he's privileged with insight. "You still good for that overnight on Friday?"
"It's already on my calendar." He peels his fleece jacket from the back of a chair and folds in a scrawny arm. "Sure you don't want me to stay?"
"For the love of God, Ethan."
He holds up his hands, a good-natured smile pulling at the corners of his thin lips. "Okay. But I'd feel bad if I didn't offer."
You see that? Ethan's conscience, if he let it, would get in the way of everything. What kind of jackass doormat offers to stay longer after a fourteen hour shift? Sure, it works for me—if you're hiring someone to look after a kid, you sure as hell want them to have a conscience—but what is it doing for him? Nothing. Nada. Zilch.