I currently reside in hell. Or as most people call it, the Psychiatric Ward of Manchester State Penitentiary.
I live in a small room, with stone walls on all three sides, and cage-like bars on the fourth.
Tyler doesn't come into my cage, or into the dining area, or outside when I get my fifteen minutes of fresh air every day. He doesn't come into the showers or into the visiting area once every month when Marla Singer comes to see me.
But Tyler is not dead. I did not kill him. He's only dead to the outside world.
He only exists in my head.
He comes when I go to sleep. When I lay down on the squeaky metal spring mattress on my small cot in the corner of the room, Tyler comes. I don't like to sleep, but I do anyway. Every night I visit Tyler.
When my eyes crack open, I quickly shut them against the harsh bright light. Brilliant white, it makes its way through my closed eyelids, burning my sensitive pupils, not used to the brightness, wanting the dark. Wanting to wake up in my cage.
I am surrounded by white, like I stepped onto a piece of paper. I am lying on the ground... or is it the ceiling, or the walls? Here, everything blends together into nothing, into oblivion, into infinity.
Tyler stands in front of me.
But it's really me that standing in front of me. Because Tyler doesn't exist, that's what everyone tells me. The doctors, Marla, even I tell myself that Tyler doesn't exist.
But he's standing right in front of me.
Tyler smiles.
"We are the all-singing, all-dancing crap of the world," Tyler laughs as his boot comes down on my stomach. I grunt.
I Am Jack's Smirking Revenge.
"Why are you doing this?" I croak.
The first rule of Project Mayhem is you do not ask questions.
"I'm not," Tyler says calmly. "You are. We are."
I Am Jack's Broken Heart.
"You're not real," I say, blinking rapidly as I climb to my knees. "You're not fucking real."
The first rule of fight club is you don't talk about fight club.
"What is real?" Tyler asks.
"Real? Real is - real is me. Real is this shirt -," I grab the collar of my dark blue T-shirt.
"What about this?" Tyler kicks me in the head and my body snaps back as I feel the blood trickle from my nose into my mouth. "Was that real?"
I Am Jack's Cold Sweat.
"You're just imaginary," I press on weakly.
"Am I?" Tyler's voice rings in my ears and echoes through the nothingness. He pulls out a cigarette and lights one up. "Or is it you?"
"Me?"
Sixth rule - no shirts, no shoes.
"You are Tyler Durden. I am Tyler Durden. We are Tyler Durden. And we -"
"- are going insane," I interrupt, raising a hand to my head.
After fight club, everything else in your life gets the volume turned down.
Tyler snorts. "You could say that."
Raymond K. Hessel sits on his knees in front of me as I hold an unloaded gun to the back of his head.
Marla Singer cries out in pleasure as I push harder into her.
I cry into Bob's bitch tits.
"His name is Robert Paulson... His name is Robert Paulson... His name is Robert Paulson... His name is Robert Paulson..."
I Am Jack's Infinity and Tyler is laughing at me.
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Rating: T for slight language, brief sexuality
Disclaimer: I am in no way affiliated with Fight Club, or anything else for that matter. So please don't sue, I don't have much to give except for six tattered Harry Potter books and a fat rabbit.
Author's Notes: This might not have made sense to you; it was just something that came to my head as soon as I finished watching Fight Club last night. I typed it out, then more thoughts came to me after I had gone to bed, so this morning I went onto the computer and added more to it. This was intended to be a one-shot, but if you think I should continue it, tell me in a review and I'll consider it. And any reviews would really be nice, by the way insert not-so-subtle point to the review button.