Disclaimer: Don't own the movie or the book or the characters or the actors
(pity, isn't it)
A/N: Well it's 4:35 in the morning and I've gotten 3.5 hours of sleep in the past 20-some-odd-hours. Just finished watching Fight Club for the second time.it was better, I think. Anyway I suddenly got a random idea and just sat down and started typing.came up with the ending lines, and then added some stuff before that. viola, my fanfic. I doubt that I'm making much sense, so go ahead and read on..hopefully my story will make more sense than this.
Note: ~~~~~~~ flashback
-----------------------------------------------------
I have finally hit bottom.
Despite all of Tyler's efforts to get me there, I am all alone when I do. If he was still here, I couldn't have done it. Irony never fails to disappoint.
But being placated by a woman who turned a suicide attempt into a pickup line for an all night sex session . . . who is in all likeliness much more insane than I am . . . is hitting bottom. After all, I only had Tyler . . . Marla is fucked up in ways that you can't even begin to imagine. Yet she's the one wearing another one of her thrift store dresses, while I'm in the matching puke-green shirt and pants that all patients of the nuthouse have to wear.
She's blowing cigarette smoke in my face as her mouth opens and closes. She's telling me something.
"I'm sorry, what?"
A roll of the eye-liner-smudged eyes and a barely suppressed sigh of annoyance. Oh right, the doctor told me to work harder on listening to other people instead of myself.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Not that your thoughts aren't important," the middle-aged man hastens to add, leaning forward in his cushioned chair. Behind him is a wall decorated with certificates and his license in black and wooden frames.
"But be careful not to isolate yourself too much. Try to open up more, and speak about what's going on inside that head of yours."
"I'll try."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Where would we be without irony?"
"What?" Said in that tone of voice again; she's getting tired of having to put up with these interruptions. She wishes I would just shut up so she could hurry up and tell me . . . whatever she came here to tell me.
"Nothing. What were you saying?"
A pause as red lips hug a white cigarette, sucking in chemicals and blowing out grey smoke. Suddenly the scar on my hand begins to itch.
"The doctor thinks you're ready to be outta here soon . . . maybe by the end of the month."
"Oh."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Just remember what you're working towards. Keep your goal in mind."
"My goal?"
I am Jack's echo.
"To go back to a normal life! To go back to the way things were before you blew up your apartment and formed your alter ego."
Tyler would have broken the guy's nose in half the blink of an eye if he could have heard him. But he's gone. And I have no intention of bringing harm to the doctor's nose.
"Oh. Right." The patient nods, as if remembering something very important that had been drilled into his memory. "My . . . old life."
The doctor also nods- he's pleased with the huge amount of progress that the man before him has made.
"Exactly."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Well? Aren't you going to say anything? Or am I going to have to do this whole conversation by myself, like I usually do?"
Her voice it raspier than I remembered- I can just imagine the black and rotting mess that is her lungs. Struggling to get air in just so their owner can take another breath to inhale some more toxic chemicals.
"No . . . no, I'm glad to be getting out of here." I try my hardest to sound perfectly sincere. It works.
"Well good. Look, I gotta go but I'll be back next week. I'll see you then."
A quick smoky peck on my cheek and she's gone, just as abruptly as she'd come in. I reach up to touch my face; it's rough and bumpy. Must not haven shaven for a few days. I remember what a pain it was to shave right after fight club, when you had cuts and bruises on your face. Well at least that's one less thing to worry about.
Then all of a sudden I began to think about what life was like pre-Tyler.
It seems like he's the only thing I ever think about anymore . . . funny, even taking out a chunk of my face with a bullet isn't good enough to get rid of him. Not completely.
Anyway, my typical consumer lifestyle. My clever furniture and matching towel/bathroom mat sets . . . sitting on the toilet and flipping through a catalog. That was pathetic. The closest I ever came to hitting bottom, and I called it contentment. No wonder Tyler showed up.
He.I didn't want to destroy anything. We didn't want to create anything either. Fuck those pompous artists who vomit paint on a canvas and call it a masterpiece.
Tyler didn't hate people . . . he loved them! He wanted to save humanity not, wreck it. He couldn't stand seeing people waste their lives living in fear that someone's going to spill red wine on their new sparkling white designer suit.
Then I thought about what Marla had just told me. I would be leaving soon, going back to being a consumer. Going back to being the very thing that I hated so much that I couldn't even face it on my own. That is the reward for becoming normal again.
And roughly 30 days before I am released into the real world with a "cured" stamped on my forehead, I remember something Tyler said to me-
"Only when you lose everything are you free to do anything"
I am Jack's furniture. I am Jack's hope.
Without me, Jack is free.
"Working those inner monologues again, Ikea boy?"
Welcome back, Tyler.
A/N: Well it's 4:35 in the morning and I've gotten 3.5 hours of sleep in the past 20-some-odd-hours. Just finished watching Fight Club for the second time.it was better, I think. Anyway I suddenly got a random idea and just sat down and started typing.came up with the ending lines, and then added some stuff before that. viola, my fanfic. I doubt that I'm making much sense, so go ahead and read on..hopefully my story will make more sense than this.
Note: ~~~~~~~ flashback
-----------------------------------------------------
I have finally hit bottom.
Despite all of Tyler's efforts to get me there, I am all alone when I do. If he was still here, I couldn't have done it. Irony never fails to disappoint.
But being placated by a woman who turned a suicide attempt into a pickup line for an all night sex session . . . who is in all likeliness much more insane than I am . . . is hitting bottom. After all, I only had Tyler . . . Marla is fucked up in ways that you can't even begin to imagine. Yet she's the one wearing another one of her thrift store dresses, while I'm in the matching puke-green shirt and pants that all patients of the nuthouse have to wear.
She's blowing cigarette smoke in my face as her mouth opens and closes. She's telling me something.
"I'm sorry, what?"
A roll of the eye-liner-smudged eyes and a barely suppressed sigh of annoyance. Oh right, the doctor told me to work harder on listening to other people instead of myself.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Not that your thoughts aren't important," the middle-aged man hastens to add, leaning forward in his cushioned chair. Behind him is a wall decorated with certificates and his license in black and wooden frames.
"But be careful not to isolate yourself too much. Try to open up more, and speak about what's going on inside that head of yours."
"I'll try."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Where would we be without irony?"
"What?" Said in that tone of voice again; she's getting tired of having to put up with these interruptions. She wishes I would just shut up so she could hurry up and tell me . . . whatever she came here to tell me.
"Nothing. What were you saying?"
A pause as red lips hug a white cigarette, sucking in chemicals and blowing out grey smoke. Suddenly the scar on my hand begins to itch.
"The doctor thinks you're ready to be outta here soon . . . maybe by the end of the month."
"Oh."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Just remember what you're working towards. Keep your goal in mind."
"My goal?"
I am Jack's echo.
"To go back to a normal life! To go back to the way things were before you blew up your apartment and formed your alter ego."
Tyler would have broken the guy's nose in half the blink of an eye if he could have heard him. But he's gone. And I have no intention of bringing harm to the doctor's nose.
"Oh. Right." The patient nods, as if remembering something very important that had been drilled into his memory. "My . . . old life."
The doctor also nods- he's pleased with the huge amount of progress that the man before him has made.
"Exactly."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Well? Aren't you going to say anything? Or am I going to have to do this whole conversation by myself, like I usually do?"
Her voice it raspier than I remembered- I can just imagine the black and rotting mess that is her lungs. Struggling to get air in just so their owner can take another breath to inhale some more toxic chemicals.
"No . . . no, I'm glad to be getting out of here." I try my hardest to sound perfectly sincere. It works.
"Well good. Look, I gotta go but I'll be back next week. I'll see you then."
A quick smoky peck on my cheek and she's gone, just as abruptly as she'd come in. I reach up to touch my face; it's rough and bumpy. Must not haven shaven for a few days. I remember what a pain it was to shave right after fight club, when you had cuts and bruises on your face. Well at least that's one less thing to worry about.
Then all of a sudden I began to think about what life was like pre-Tyler.
It seems like he's the only thing I ever think about anymore . . . funny, even taking out a chunk of my face with a bullet isn't good enough to get rid of him. Not completely.
Anyway, my typical consumer lifestyle. My clever furniture and matching towel/bathroom mat sets . . . sitting on the toilet and flipping through a catalog. That was pathetic. The closest I ever came to hitting bottom, and I called it contentment. No wonder Tyler showed up.
He.I didn't want to destroy anything. We didn't want to create anything either. Fuck those pompous artists who vomit paint on a canvas and call it a masterpiece.
Tyler didn't hate people . . . he loved them! He wanted to save humanity not, wreck it. He couldn't stand seeing people waste their lives living in fear that someone's going to spill red wine on their new sparkling white designer suit.
Then I thought about what Marla had just told me. I would be leaving soon, going back to being a consumer. Going back to being the very thing that I hated so much that I couldn't even face it on my own. That is the reward for becoming normal again.
And roughly 30 days before I am released into the real world with a "cured" stamped on my forehead, I remember something Tyler said to me-
"Only when you lose everything are you free to do anything"
I am Jack's furniture. I am Jack's hope.
Without me, Jack is free.
"Working those inner monologues again, Ikea boy?"
Welcome back, Tyler.