I shouldn't be surprised to find him lounging in my doorway like he belongs there, but I, as always, am Jack's twinging neuron.
What, I say, not ask. What are you doing back.
He grins, a cigarette already at home in the corner of his mouth. His hair has grown back, I notice, but I don't tell him that. He knows this because I know this.
What a reversal.
"Thought I'd drop by, see what you're getting up to," he replies, glancing over my shoulder at my brand-new shitty apartment. Now with less concrete, and more thin, rotting walls! What a deal!
I try to block his view by coming closer to the doorframe, planting a hand on one side to prevent entry. This won't work on him, but I can try.
Listen, I say.
"I am."
I shake my head. Listen. You're supposed to be dead. You're not supposed to be back.
He shrugs. "Did the doctors tell you that, or are you just telling yourself that?"
I stare at him. I tell him to get the fuck out of my doorway.
The cigarette moves to the other side of his mouth. I notice it isn't lit.
"And what if I don't?" he asks.
I tell him exactly what I'll do. It might involve a gun still kept in my dresser drawer.
He snorts. "Really, now? So, what would you do, if, say, I did—"
That's when he lands a punch on my cheek, right where the hole was. I can feel the shallow crevice cave just a bit more, and before I know what I'm doing my fist is connecting with his smug grin, the cigarette dropping to the floor.
We move it inside. Can't disturb the neighbors with my hospital-grade insanity.
He lands blow after blow, and I can't get a hit in. His jacket disappeared at some point, as did my tie, which had been loosely dangling around my neck, anyway. Not like I needed it.
He stands up, giving me a kick to my ribs. I curl inwards, a half-question mark, and try to remind my lungs what their proper function is.
He says something, but I don't quite catch it over my rattled breathing. He leans closer to my bleeding face, revealing his own bloodied teeth.
"You need me," he says, leaning back to land another kick. I shrivel on the floor, gasping.
"You hear me?" he yells, kicking my stomach again and again until I'm sure more than a few bones are broken. I look up at him, trying to nod as I waver on the line between consciousness and black-out.
"You need me," he hisses, his face getting close to mine again.
I gather the blood in my mouth into one solid mass and spit, right into his furious glare.
He blinks, shaking his head sharply to one side to clear the blood.
I try to say how do you like that, but it comes out like a quickly-deflating tire.
He looks back at me, making eye contact, and I see his face struggle with something. I realize that he's trying not to grin, and for a moment I almost laugh at the absurdity of all this.
He stands there, his presence loud in this pit of apartment-living, and when I finally get my breath back, I bare my teeth at him.
Yeah? I say. I need you? Well, that's not news. But you—you need me.
That's when he laughs, that full-on cackle dragging me back to Paper Street.
Think that's funny, I yell. You wouldn't even be here if it wasn't for me.
The laughter reaches a peak, and he doubles over, hands on his knees.
"That's rich," he says, wiping his eyes. "You didn't even know I existed! For fuck's sake, you can't even recognize your own imaginary friend!"
I scoff. Is that what we are, Tyler? Friends?
He side-eyes me, lying there on the floor in a heap, and I wonder what that thing is in his gaze. He makes a soft noise, an almost-snort.
"Not anymore," he says, and before I can furrow my brow and ask him what the hell that's supposed to mean, he's on the floor with me again and there's a pair of lips being shoved at my own and teeth and hands roaming—
I struggle to get my hands on his chest, push him back until he's half-sitting next to me.
What, I say.
What, I say again.
I try to say what one more time, but he just looks at me and that effectively shuts me up.
"It's what you want," he says, his hand idling over to mine. I drag my hand to my chest.
I, I start.
You, I try again.
No, I end up. No, no, no, this is what you want. You and your fucking masochism, and then you go and pull a stunt like this. What the fuck do you want me to do?
He shrugs a shoulder. "It was never really about me."
Then he grins. "I 'need you,' right?"
I try to match his shit-eating grin with a glare. Fuck you, I say.
He raises an eyebrow. "Really? Well, don't mind if I do."
He starts to lean over again, and I stop him with another hand on his chest.
I, I try. I need to think about this.
"What for?" he asks.
You. You ruined my life. And now I'm supposed to be your fucking imaginary lover?
"This works both ways, you know," he replies, and I want to punch him again.
"And as for ruining your life… We discussed this before. It's what you wanted."
I didn't, I start, but he stops me with a wave of his hand.
"I know, I know. You told me, and then you killed me. Awfully rude, by the way."
I open my mouth to speak, but then he plants his mouth over mine again, and I forget what I was going to say.
Unfortunately, he's right. This is what I wanted.
Even if it isn't what I need.
The doctors told me I needed something steady, like a job, or a hobby, to keep me going and forget I ever wanted any of this "anarchy" or "mayhem" business.
Well, Doc. Here's what I think of your "advice."
I kiss him back.