(A/N -Short, angsty, and all I have to offer to the glorious altar of Fight Club.
Disclaimer- Don't own, don't sue)
Three years into my sentence -three years after my hospitalization began, three years after the beginning of my stint in heaven, or hell, they set me free. They let me loose on the world, blanketed by the pronouncement that I was cured.
"Cured", they said. Like Tyler was a disease in my mind, eating away at all rational thought, and they had eradicated it. They thought they'd sliced away all the pieces of him that lingered, but Tyler wasn't a tumor. He wasn't just an unnatural growth which could by simply removed, leaving the main body intact.
Tyler was a part of me, his blood and my blood alike racing through my veins. They hadn't cured me because they sent me back into the world with Tyler's kiss still burned forever into my hand.
I was back behind bars in a month.
I begged them to take me back, you know. Swore I would kill again, swore I would kill myself. I said anything to get myself committed. I had to. Anything was better than wandering an empty world, haunting Paper Street like a ghost.
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