American Psycho: The Bridal Routine
- Sheridan Guerrette
- 2 days ago
- 4 min read
This piece was originally published on Sheridan’s Junk Drawer, my side channel for experimental writing and behind-the-scenes creative work.
FADE IN:
INT. BEDROOM – 5:59 A.M. – WINTER LIGHT
A clock ticks.
A WOMAN lies flat beneath a white duvet.
Arms straight. Wrists weighed down by silver bracelets.
The alarm never sounds.
Her eyes open at 6:00 exactly.
CLOSE ON: pupils — dilating, aware.
V.O. (measured, calm)
The body wakes when it’s trained to.
She blinks once. Flexes fingers.
The bracelets clink softly.
She rises without disturbing a fold.
Above her doorway, a tiny camera blinks red.
She checks her phone: last night’s footage of herself sleeping, still as stone.
V.O.
Stillness is the only proof of peace.
INT. BATHROOM – CONTINUOUS
Lights click on. White. Unflattering.
The mirror watches her.
She removes her bracelets and places them on a digital scale.
4.8 pounds. Correct.
She re-fastens them.
V.O.
To sleep still is to wake perfect.
She turns on the shower. Steam blooms against glass.
CLOSE ON: razor — silver, sanitized.She inspects the blade under light. No rust. No residue.
V.O.
Men like effort to look effortless.
She steps in. Water hits in clean, vertical lines.She shaves slowly, mechanically, exact.Knees. Calves. Stops precisely two inches above the knee.
V.O.
Just enough to imply, not offer.It’s also winter.
She rinses the blade.
A dot of blood forms. She watches it bead, then vanish under steam.
V.O.
The skin remembers who hesitated.
MIRROR – FOGGED
Her reflection is a blur. She stares at it like evidence.
V.O.
He should never see what I see first.
COUNTERTOP – WIDE
A silver tray.
Eight pills, perfectly spaced.
A tumbler of warm water with lemon.
A shot glass of celery juice.
Two squares of dried seaweed.
She begins:
Horse mane extract – for hair that implies youth.
Vitamin C – for glow mistaken for happiness.
Collagen – for promise.
Hyaluronic acid – for mercy on the surface.
Magnesium – for dreamless sleep.
Zinc – for immunity to rejection.
Ashwagandha – for calm in silence.
Omega-3 – for empathy that reads well on camera.
She swallows each without water until the last.
Then drinks. Then chews the seaweed. Twenty times exactly.
V.O.
The order matters. Ritual is what separates devotion from delusion.
COFFEE SCALE
Twelve ounces. Ninety-four degrees.
No cream. No sugar.
FACIAL MASK SEQUENCE
STEP ONE:
She opens a glass jar labeled MORNING TIGHTENING MASK.
Applies with a metal applicator. Upward strokes.
Jaw. Temple. Neck.
V.O.
A man must believe restraint comes naturally.
She sets the jar exactly at a right angle to the sink edge.
Sips coffee. Each sip a metronome.
STEP TWO:
The mask hardens, pale and porcelain.
She removes it with warm cloth, circular motions, never tugging.
The sink fills with cloudy residue.
V.O.
Renewal is only believable when no one saw the effort.
STEP THREE:
A second jar — HYDRATING RENEWAL GEL.
It glistens blue under light.
She applies slowly, massaging until her face shines.
V.O.
Hydrate for appearances.Manicure for control.
INSERT – UNNATURAL STILLNESS
Mid-application, she freezes.
Ten seconds. No blink. No breath.
Then resumes exactly where she stopped.
V.O.
Interruptions breed imperfection.
VANITY TABLE
A Mason Pearson brush beside a silver clock.
She begins brushing: one hundred strokes left, one hundred right.
Bracelets drag, making her arms tremble.
V.O.
Pain is proof of discipline.
Discipline is proof of love.
BEDROOM NIGHTSTAND - 7:15 A.M.
A leather notebook: COMPATIBILITY NOTES.
Inside: men’s names, professions, photos cut from LinkedIn.
Checkmarks: height, jawline, childhood trauma, income potential.
V.O.
Love isn’t found. It’s filtered.
She circles one name in red ink.
Smiles.
BREAKFAST TABLE – 7:30 A.M.
Two plates. Two glasses. Only one used.
She clears both. Polishes the second.
V.O.
He’ll appreciate that I never gave up the seat.
LIVING ROOM – 7:50 A.M.
Minimalist. White.
A Pilates reformer where a TV should be.
She moves through stretches, controlled, silent.
Bracelets rattle with every extension.
V.O.
He’ll want grace, not strength.
So you must practice pretending.
BATHROOM – 8:00 A.M.
The hydrating mask has set.
She rinses it off, water temperature first tested on the wrist.
Pat-dries with linen. Never rubs.
Applies moisturizer and SPF 50 with flat palms.
She wipes each bracelet with alcohol, polishes, then leaves them to rest.
She sprays perfume on both wrists —
then one into the empty air.
V.O.
If you do it right, no one sees the layers —
only the glow.
TOOTHBRUSH
Soft bristles. Mint paste.Upper, lower, tongue. Rinse. Repeat.
She wipes the sink clean.
V.O.
Discipline repairs what grace cannot.
VANITY DRAWER
Rows of labeled beauty tools —scissors, tweezers, nail clippers.
One slightly bent. She stares.
Bends it back until it snaps.
V.O.
A flaw is an invitation.
CLOSE ON: her reflection —symmetrical, calm, terrifying.
V.O.
Men say they want a partner.
What they mean is a performance.
She tilts her head.
Studies the reflection.
V.O.
If I were him, I’d fall in love too.
She smiles until the skin around her eyes trembles.
Her smile fades.
A tear forms — but never falls.
She smiles.
FADE OUT.
This piece was originally published on Sheridan’s Junk Drawer, my side channel for experimental writing and behind-the-scenes creative work.
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