"You are not a beautiful and unique snowflake!"
Yeah!
"You are the same decaying organic matter as everything else!"
Yeah!
"We are the all-singing, all-dancing crap of the world!"
Near chaos. A chorus of 'yeah!'
We're gobbling up his words. Hungry little monkeys. We want Tyler inside us. Tyler's words, at least, for some. The whole package for others.
Tyler is our savior. Saint Tyler. In Tyler we trust. Tyler, Tyler. Faces upturned towards Our Father of Cheap Sunglasses, with his megaphone, at the top of the stairs, haloed by the chandelier behind him.
"We are all part of the same compost heap!"
Simultaneous nods, astonished open faces. Ricky, Rocket, Hero, Cooper, me. A collective murmur. "Yes, Tyler, yes."
Yes, Tyler, yes.
"We are the angels of chaos!"
Angel, Angel, I've always been the Angel. Angel of Lapdances, Angel of Southern Comfort, Angel of Nicotine and Cyanide. Angel Face. Angel Voice.
Yes, Tyler, yes!
"Mischief! Mayhem! Disinformation!"
Yes, oh, my God, Tyler, yes!
Oh, Tyler, yes, yes, harder, Tyler, oh!
Tyler, Tyler, Tyler, Tyler!
"Shhhh," Tyler says. His hand covers my mouth.
I pant under him, writhe. Oh God, oh God…
Tyler says "shh" and I shh. It's difficult.
He's still inside me. Not his words, either. I suppress a moan. Oh, God, am I bleeding? I'm bleeding. Oh, God…
I start to whimper. Pain replaces the last traces of pleasure. It hurts, my God, does it hurt. Tears start to stream down my cheeks and onto the back of Tyler's hand.
"Aw, kid," Tyler says, takes his hand away from my mouth. "C'mon, I wasn't that rough."
I can't do anything but whimper. Oh God, oh God, ohGodohGod…
Mister Durden, it hurts. This hurts so much.
"I know, kid," he says. He's distant, but still inside mye. If he withdrew, I know I'd bleed ghastly amounts. I pray that he doesn't.
Ohgodohgod make it stop make it stop sir makeitstop!
He withdraws from me. I feel the rush of blood and bite back a cry.
Tyler growls in distaste or disgust. I'm bleeding on his sheets
Oh
God
Please tell me it's not that much. Please.
"It's not a lot." He stands, picks up a dirty, dirty pink towel off the floor, tosses it to me. Ohgodohgod…
Stemming the bleeding is no easy task. Ten painful minutes of holding this filthy towel to myself and watching Tyler get dressed pass.
The bleeding does stop, though. I sit up.
Thank you, oh, thank you, Mister Durden. That was amazing.
"That wasn't for you," Tyler says. "That was for me."
I understand, sir. I understand perfectly.
Tyler says "Do you?" and looks down at me. "Really, do you?"
Yes, I understand. This isn't about caring as in love. This is about ownership as in property.
"You are my property."
I understand, yes, oh God, yes.
I don't say the 'I love you' that's hovering on the tip of my tongue. I'm just property.
As long as Tyler touches me. Just touch me, Tyler. I can imagine the love into his fingers. Just touch me, touch me…
"You can leave."
I groan. I don't want to leave, sir, I'm sore and exhausted.
Tyler says "Get dressed and leave. Go sleep in your own room."
This time it's an order, it's obvious. I crawl out of the bed and gather my clothes
(two black shirts two pair black pants two pair plain underwear one pair black boots)
from the floor. It takes me less than a minute to dress, even with my aching muscles. Tyler stands and watches. It's so hard to be steady under his gaze, behind those sunglasses that he even sometimes wears during sex.
I allow myself to sidle over to him, let him take me into his arms, uneasily solid and hot. Before he can protest I stand on tiptoes to kiss him. He doesn't kiss back. Ohgodohgod, ouch.
He doesn't move when I pull away, walk away.
God doesn't like me, never wanted me. In all probability, God hates me.
Tyler hates me.